Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The moment Dazai waltzed his spindly form into the ADA’s office, Kunikida knew that today would be different. Of course, he was accustomed to Dazai’s daily antics and provocations – but he had a sinking feeling that today would not be that. Dazai shut the door behind him silently, whirling around with inhuman speed to lock eyes with his partner. A disturbing aura radiated from him as he slithered toward Kunikida’s desk, sending an involuntary shiver down the man’s spine.

Kunikida, realizing the oncoming derailment of his carefully crafted schedule, nearly broke his neck from the sheer speed with which he looked down at his watch. Disturbingly, Dazai had arrived earlier than Kunikida had ever witnessed. For someone who had never clocked in to work before one o’clock in the afternoon, arriving at eight in the morning was a miraculous anomaly. 

Dazai was dressed in his usual clothes—his signature tan coat over an ill-fitting vest, pale blue button-down, a bolo tie loosely fastened around his collar, bandages enveloping his wrist and neck. But his right arm, normally wrapped with obsessive precision, was left bare, the omission jarring enough to make Kunikida glance twice. 

As if that weren’t off-putting enough, he came armed with accessories. A large black backpack looped over his shoulders, an absurd number of fanny packs fastened around his torso and hips, and a comically large headlamp strapped around his head. 

“KUUUUU-NIIIII-KIIIIIII-DAAAAA-KUUN,” he screeched in a sickening, sing-songy lilt. 

Kunikida rose slowly from his desk chair, unsure if he was prepared to wring Dazai’s neck this early in the day.

“Shut up, you waste of bandages. We just managed to get Ranpo-san to sleep. He broke into the emergency sugar reserves—the ones we set aside after the last incident. He’s been wired for 52 hours. I had to play Monopoly with him just to keep him from leaving the office—six hours of calculated financial ruin at the hands of a sugar-crazed genius—”

“—Do you know what that does to a man?” 

He sputtered, dropping a hand against the solid oak of his desk. “Have you ever played Monopoly with him? Thirty-five minutes in, and I’d lost every property. Somehow, I gambled away my car, and the game still dragged on for six hours,” he spat, bordering on maniacal.

Dazai stood before the rulebook-on-legs, seemingly weighing his next action. He flicked the headlamp on, sending a seventy-watt beam of concentrated light straight into Kunikida’s retinas. He groaned, throwing up both hands to shield himself.

“My good man, your commoner’s plight is of no concern to me. Notice my elegant and abundant adornments—” he posed dramatically, wrist draped lazily over his forehead. 

Suddenly, his tone shifted, sing-song giving way to something sharp, cold, and deliberate. 

“Kunikida-kun, what day is today?”

Still reeling from the attack on his vision, Kunikida slowly sank back into his chair, wary of making any sudden movements. He begrudgingly turned to face his imbecile of a partner. 

“Obviously, it’s Tuesday. Go bother someone else, Dazai. It’s too damn early for you to be putting me behind schedule.”

“I’m going to scream and wake Ranpo if you don’t answer correctly this time, Kuuuniiikiidaaa-kuuun!” His voice turned smooth and lilted as quickly as it flattened a moment before.

“Don’t you DARE,” Kunikida started, feigning composure by leaning back in his seat, ankles loosely crossed. “I swear, I’m going to punch your—Why are you even here right now? Shouldn’t you be finding an oil drum to die in or something?” The blond sighed, breath hitching in his throat once he took a closer look at Dazai. 

Eyes bloodshot and blinking wildly, darting between Kunikida and the wall behind him. Chestnut hair ruffled in a way only Atsushi’s barber could achieve. His entire body vibrated with…excitement? Frustration? Cocaine-induced mania? Kunikida couldn’t be sure—he clutched his notebook, fingernails leaving dents in the worn leather. He had to be prepared to defend himself the second Dazai twitched in his direction. 

He sighed, doing his best to sound disinterested, definitely not as if he was about to leap from the nearest window to escape that incessant gaze. “Fine; what day is it, Dazai?”

The older detective froze, commanding Kunikida’s full attention. Resting a rigid, lifeless hand on the desk, he bent slowly at the waist, measured and deliberate. His eyeline leveled with Kunikida’s.

“Doppo. He’s been calling out to me. I can’t resist it any longer.” Hollow eyes rooted into Kunikida, quickening his pulse. “Yosano-sensei doesn’t seem to be here.”

No one else even looked up. 

The only thing anyone had noticed was Dazai arriving early, which was unsettling enough. After that, they paid no mind. Chairs flying, shouting obscenities, Kunikida’s sanity unraveling—it was all just the regular background noise of working with Dazai. Only Kunikida seemed to grasp the true horror of what was unfolding, and his comrades’ indifference left him lost at sea.

Of course, the use of his first name also snagged in Kunikida’s mind, strange and wrong—but not half as chilling as the implication of Dazai’s words. At least now he knew what must be done.

He immediately shot out of his chair, the force sending it flying backward into Atsushi’s. His notebook clattered onto the glossy tile floor. The boy yelped, toppling forward onto his desk. Kyouka, who had pulled a chair to Atsushi’s desk to work next to him, let out the faintest laugh—soft but unmistakable. Kunikida, barely noticing the assault just inflicted on Atsushi, snatched up his fallen notebook with shaking hands.

Kunikida froze. “Don’t start. I can’t do this crab…thing again.”

“Start what?” Dazai asked, too lightly.

“That tone,” Kunikida said. “The same one you had during the last incident.”

Atsushi blinked. “What incident?”

“Don’t,” Kunikida warned. “We don’t talk about it.”

Dazai smiled thinly, already reaching for his coat. “Good policy.”

“You need to wait here. I’ll inform the president and call Yosano-sensei in.”

The ponytail-bearing detective turned on his heel and began booking it down the hall to Fukuzawa’s office, leaving Dazai and his black hole eyes behind.

His hands trembled, joints creaked, heart hammered with each frenzied step. The normally pleasant breeze of the air conditioning felt hostile against his skin. Every muscle went rigid, and he found himself fighting the urge to hyperventilate. Once at the door, he swung it open, unable to muster the dignity to pull himself together before entering.

Fukuzawa sat peacefully at his desk, carefully placing small plastic leaves into a LEGO bonsai tree, as if the world beyond his desk were not collapsing.

“Shachou,” he stammered, gritting his teeth until they creaked. “Shachou, it’s Crab Day. Please, help me locate Yosano-sensei. We’ll all suffer if she’s not found and brought to Dazai-san soon.”

Usually the epitome of tranquility, Fukuzawa’s reaction only motivated the growing weakness in Kunikida’s knees. 

The president audibly gasped, color draining from his face. He swept the LEGOs off his desk with a smooth, measured swing of his arm. A shower of pieces clattered to the floor. Eyes widened with concern, he nodded curtly and reached for his Nokia, which lay nestled in a woven, sunflower-shaped bowl (crocheted—albeit poorly—by Kyouka) at the end of the desk. 

Kunikida, now filling the seat opposite the desk, watched as Fukuzawa fervently punched Yosano’s number into the phone. Neither man dared to breathe as the dial tone rang out, echoing into the deafening silence between them.

The line clicked.

“You have reached the voicemail box of [Yosano Akiko]. No one is available to take your call. At the tone, please record your message.”

Naturally, Kunikida had endured countless threats during his time at the agency. Robberies, murders, the constant, looming threat of Yokohama’s destruction, assassination attempts from the Port Mafia—nothing had shaken him like this. He slowly lifted viridian eyes to meet the steely blue of Fukuzawa’s, fighting back the sting of tears welling in them. The agency president appeared listless, with eyes glazed over and hair that had somehow turned greyer.

“Shachou—” Kunikida tested, his voice a quivering whisper. “Where could Yosano-sensei possibly be right now?”

“We must summon Ranpo.”

Chapter Text

Ninety-six hours had passed since Dazai last knew sleep, let alone the walls of the Detective Agency office. He rarely used the cramped dorm now, most nights finding himself tangled in Chuuya’s lavish, overpriced bedsheets. The warm night air drifted in, wasted on him. 

He also could not, to save his life, get the damn window to close—so it stayed open out of spite.

Empty bottles of sake and crumpled tabloid magazines littered the dingy floor of the humble domicile. The moon trailed behind wisps of cloud, casting a soft glow over the room. His phone, long dead and abandoned on the bathroom tile, guaranteed his solitude. 

Sprawled on his futon, he stared at a worn photo, its edges frayed and softened by age; Oda, Ango, and Dazai, seated at Lupin’s counter. Their expressions held a fragile peace, delicate but unsteady. At night, the silence was palpable. The soft hum of the fridge he’d recently plugged back in, its motor stirring to life again after long months of disuse, carried on its purpose, obvious to him if to no one else.

Unfortunately for Dazai, he had been unable to enjoy the tranquility that nighttime afforded him, not since it started. A memory, his voice—needling at the edges of his mind. He tried to shake it off, drown it in drink, but the thought always circled its way back. 

He peeled himself from the futon, head hanging heavily as if loaded with wet sand. Stumbling his way toward the open window, the room tilted in slow motion; edges a little too sharp, air a little too thin. He hadn’t been this wasted since Odasaku was killed.

A rogue sake bottle dripped into the cracks of the old floorboards, its betrayal sudden and sharp as it tripped him. Lanky limbs flailed as his back met the unforgiving floor. He debated vomiting, but the logistics felt exhausting. Lying still was easier. If he stayed down long enough, the floor might claim him for good, a fittingly efficient end.

Finally, he hauled himself up again, this time allowing his palm to skim the wall for stability. He blinked hard, lids heavy and raw from exhaustion. 

Relief washed over him as the breeze caressed his face, easing the nausea bubbling in his throat. He leaned heavily on the sill, head sagging out to better drink in the air. A fall from this height wouldn’t be glamorous, but it promised peace that sleep could never match.

Chuuya would absolutely not approve, which proved reason enough to hesitate. He could picture the scowl, the hands on his hips—half-splattering onto the pavement paled in comparison to a tirade from Yokohama’s smallest, loudest headache. He felt it was decidedly safer to let his thoughts wander to the cityscape instead. 

Gaze settling on the city port, he remembered the sting of cold as he lay in his futon inside the shipping container. His fingers traced over the faded matchbox he always pocketed, the motion mindless. Oda’s laugh came to mind—the warmth in his voice, the way he carried himself. His thoughts turned to Ango, and Dazai wondered if he was sitting at Lupin alone, as he so often had on nights like this.

Lupin. The thought of it alone tumbled into the memory of meeting him there.

The small bar sat in its usual quiet reserve. Rain beat a steady rhythm into the roof, leaking in through the ceiling to drip onto the mahogany counter. The warm, low lights buzzed faintly, enveloping the room in comfortable shadow. Dazai sat alone at the counter, long returned from a day of investigating the Mimic case with Oda. A finger circled the smooth rim of the glass–the round ball of ice inside began to melt, leaving water where whiskey had once been. His eyes lingered on the water-stained wood. 

As much as he longed for the return of Oda’s company, Dazai couldn’t find a reason compelling enough to call him. He toyed with excuses to coax Oda from his orphans, but conceded as each sounded more pathetic than the last. Besides, Oda would see straight through him, and Dazai wasn’t sure he could stand being read that easily.

He hardly stirred when a man appeared in the doorway, dripping so heavily it looked like he’d swum there, then shuffled toward the bar.

“Terrible fucking weather we’re havin’, isn’t it?” the man barked in a brash, hearty voice. A lopsided grin spread across his face as he wiped droplets from his forehead. 

Dazai hummed a quiet, indifferent reply. The man’s damp frame loomed too close, carrying with him the faint aroma of seafood.

Joe shrugged off his raincoat and draped it over the empty stool beside him. Now, having shed a layer, his bulk became obvious—broad, rounded shoulders and chest like a barrel. His balding head glistened under the tungsten lighting, which accentuated the deep laugh lines worn into his face. Everything about him spoke of years dedicated to grunt work, the skin over his knuckles thick with calluses and pale tan lines peeking from under his stained sleeve.

“What’s a kid like you doin’ holed up in a lonesome dive like this?”

The mafioso cocked his head toward Joe, eyebrow twitching slightly. Drawing on years of Mori’s tutelage, he stifled the annoyance flickering in his chest and met Joe’s eyes with a stony, inscrutable glare. He discreetly slid a hand into the leather of his coat pocket, brushing over the familiar grip of the pistol inside. The lot of it—pistol, leather, and habit alike—a bittersweet inheritance from Mori. 

Joe narrowed his gaze, deepening the creases at their edges, determined to spark conversation.

“Come on, humor an old man, would ya? Just got off shift, and damn, what a day. First month at my brand-new spot right outside Yokohama, and this storm rolls in outta nowhere, lights flickerin’, half the place floodin’, customers shouting at me like I control the weather. Thought I was gonna lose my head tryin’ to keep it all together. I’ve never seen so many—”

“If you intend to keep prattling on like this, kindly let me know now,” Dazai muttered in a low, gravelly tone. 

“Prattling, huh? If this is prattling, wait ‘til I’ve had a couple beers. Speaking of drinks—what’s yours?” Joe waved a hand, summoning the barkeep.  

“Not drinking,” he said curtly, though the flush in his gaunt face and the drained glass still slack in his hand spoke otherwise. 

“Not drinking, my ass. Kid, I’ve seen fish lie more convincingly.” He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly before asking, “Barkeep—a Sapporo for me and the same again for him, please.”

His unbandaged eye now fixed on the man, Dazai's hand tightened around the grip of his gun as he shifted, tense in his seat. He had no reason to linger, to subject himself to the stranger’s droning. For all he knew, the man could have been a spy—an enemy of the Port Mafia that Dazai would be better off luring outside and vanquishing in an alley.

Unfortunately, Mori had drilled into him the value of diplomacy, a harsh lesson delivered in ways only Mori could devise. He’d been taught that efficiency mattered above all else—every action deliberate and purposeful, every cruelty economical. Anyway, the Port Mafia’s reach touched every part of Yokohama; he didn’t need to waste his time. Mori would call it strategy. Dazai called it not caring, which, in practice, was close enough.

Setting his glass on the counter, Dazai began to rise from his seat. Joe gently laid a textured, sun-reddened hand on the brunet’s shoulder.

“Hold on there—ya still got another drink comin’.”

He flashed a crooked smirk in earnest.

“I’m Joe. ​And you? Or do ya prefer sittin’ there lookin’ mysterious?”

As his senses trickled back, Dazai told himself it was nothing—just a scrap of memory refusing to burn away. Even so, each night it pressed harder than the last, whispering, insisting. 

By morning, he knew it wasn’t a matter of if he gave in, but when. 

Wisps of morning light crept further into the room, an indicator of time’s unrelenting forward march that mocked his pathetic dissociation. The ceiling, no more interesting than it had been for hours, finally drove him to rub the bleariness from his eyes. Every muscle in his body shivered—courtesy of a sinister cocktail of borderline malnutrition, incessant hangover, and lack of sleep.

Finally having reached a passable degree of sobriety, Dazai lifted gracelessly from his futon. Darkness bled into the edges of his vision as he stood, skull throbbing viciously while the room spun around him. His stomach lurched, prompting his legs to carry him toward the bathroom before he’d had any say in the matter.

After a miserable ten minutes, the dry heaving subsided. Drained—but finally able to breathe—he eased back from the toilet to rest against the cool ceramic of the shower’s edge. Once able to force his head upright, the glimmer of fluorescent light bouncing off his phone’s fractured screen caught his eye, slumped on the tile like it had given up too.

Reluctant to move from his post by the shower, Dazai sluggishly raised a gangly leg over the phone, dragging it toward him with his heel. Once in his grasp, he tested the power button, letting his head thud back against the slab behind him when it refused to wake. Mustering the little strength left in his body, he staggered upright, stamping the floor to chase the pins and needles from his feet.

He shuffled to his desk and pawed the top drawer open, sweeping blindly until they bumped the small tin he kept there—less out of habit and more for emergencies, he told himself. One bitter tablet under the tongue and the fog in his skull would sharpen just enough to push on. Not clarity. Just leverage. Plugging the phone in, he dropped it onto the marred wood—discarded like one of Chuuya’s cigarette butts. Unwilling to be confronted with the certainty of missed messages, he turned to seek refuge in a hot shower.

The shower handle squeaked as he turned it, sputtering before settling into a steady stream. He shed his sleepclothes and went to work unraveling the bandages that bound him, more out of ritual than necessity. As the weak stream trickled over him, Dazai hoped the—unfortunately lukewarm—spray would wash away the stink of sake, maybe even smother the craving Joe had left festering in him.

Just as it began, the water sputtered to a stop—once again leaving Dazai at the mercy of silence, broken only by the swishing of his toothbrush. What a shame to be alive, as he stood there nude, dismal, only his head and chest wetted by the sorry stream. He stepped out, running a towel across his head as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes blinked too quickly, hair sticking in half-damp tufts, his face bearing a sickly pallor. He tilted his head—left, then right—studying the stranger in the glass, before smirking faintly as if the joke were on him.

The muted buzz of his revived phone saved him from finishing the thought. As expected, several missed calls and texts clamored for attention, most from Chuuya.

Sunday, 9:04 AM

~ Morning. U done sleeping at the dorms?

Sunday, 12:19 PM

~ Ane-san brought me a silk scarf from Kyoto. Don’t laugh but it actually suits me

Sunday, 1:36 PM

~ Missed Call

Sunday, 6:19 PM

 Staying here again tonight. Agency obligations. Don’t cry about it too much chibi—

Sunday, 6:34 PM

~ Missed Call

Sunday, 6:36 PM

~ Asshole. Call if u can

Monday, 9:04 AM

~ Morning

Monday, 11:42 AM

~ Ur not gonna believe what your little scourge Akutagawa said to me just now. I’ll tell u about it at home

Monday, 3:26 PM 

~ Did u know Hirostu has a pet turtle?? 

~ Its name is Kiko

Monday, 6:47 PM

~ Missed Call

Monday, 8:03 PM

~ Missed Call

Monday, 8:49 PM

~ Where the hell are u? Leaving the window unlocked but make sure no one sees.

~ Don’t break ur neck climbing the fire escape

Monday, 10:39 PM

~ Missed Call

Monday, 10:41 AM

~ Answer ur damn phone

Tuesday, 12:37 AM

~ It’s late. If ur dead in a ditch somewhere I’m not dragging u out

Reading as he sat down in the desk chair, he rewrapped himself with new bandages, lacking his usual meticulous intent. As fond as he was of Chuuya—and of provoking his temper— it was never satisfying to be seen in such a state if it could be avoided.

Tuesday, 7:33 AM

 I answered. See? Alive and well. Buuuut a tongue-lashing from you might still kill meeeee, fingers crossed—

Tuesday, 7:38 AM

~ Stupid Mackerel 

~ I called u five times and I haven’t actually seen u since Friday. You’ve been dodging me since then and now you’re texting me back at 7:30 when I usually can’t get a response until AT LEAST 10

Tuesday, 7:39 AM

 And each one made my little heart flutter—

 Consider me wooed— 

Tuesday, 7:40 AM

~ Cut the crap jackass where are u?

Tuesday, 7:40 AM

 Here, irritating you, as is my solemn duty—

Tuesday, 7:42 AM

~ Think you’re cute huh? Seriously where are you so I can go work with a clear head

Tuesday, 7:43 AM

 Omw to the office— 

I’ve turned over a new leaf to become the most dedicated, strikingly handsome, hardworking detective the— 

agency has ever known

Tuesday, 7:45 AM

~ Bullshit. Yosano told me you haven’t shown up to work for days now

Tuesday, 7:46 AM

 Exactly. It’s a difficult job keeping Kunikida and company on their toes—

 Thankfully shock and awe is my specialty. I would hate to deprive them of my shining presence—

Suddenly reinvigorated by the reminder of his mission, Dazai quickly finished rebandaging and clothed himself in his everyday attire. Pocketing his beloved matchbox, he rifled through his small closet for anything that might suit his exploit. He settled on a large black backpack, several fanny packs—unflattering, but useful gifts from one of Kenji’s ill-fated bulk purchases—and a headlamp, one of Chuuya’s measures to keep him from ending up crumpled beneath the fire escape. 

Mind suspended, clouded in the wilderness of thought, Dazai flinched as the spry chime of his phone pinged.

Tuesday, 7:50 AM

~ U sound really off

~ Just come over I have some time before Mori needs me anywhere. I’ll make breakfast 

Tuesday, 7:51 AM

 Tempting, but no. Later—

 After—

Tuesday, 7:53 AM

~ Tf does that mean?

Tuesday, 7:58 AM

~ Missed Call

…

Tuesday, 8:02 AM

~ Osamu?

Dazai thought it wiser to leave things there—leaving Chuuya confused was preferable over lighting his fuse and walking away, at the very least sparing himself the damage control he would inevitably have to perform. Slipping the still battery-depleted phone into his pocket, the detective looped the empty backpack over his shoulders. The plastic clasps of the fanny packs dug into his ribs as he clumsily strapped them over his frame. 

He swept one last glance over the modest dormitory, checking for latched windows, shadows in their proper place, nothing left unsecured—old stains of Mori’s tact seeping out against his will. The photo, now laid facedown on his desk, trapped his gaze longer than he noticed. 

He pulled the door shut, imagining his time in that room would permit him to leave his ills behind inside it, futile as it was. Something inside him ached, reminded of Mori’s disdain for childish ideals.

Halfway down the creaking, narrow steps to ground level, he noticed the foreign brush of air on his right arm. Slowing his pace, he ogled at the pale, unbandaged skin for a beat, then let the omission stand. It hardly mattered now.

Overcast skies loomed above, rainclouds making good on their threat to spill over the city. Echoes of Joe’s promise swathed him in a trance. Yokohama could have fallen to ruin around him, and he would not have stirred. He tried to anchor himself in the faint sting of petrichor in his nostrils, the tack of damp clothing on his skin— but still, the craving gnawed at him like a second pulse with each step toward the agency.

By the time he reached the outer door, the tremor in his hands returned. He forced them still against the frame before slipping inside, footsteps quiet against the mossy green tile. The headlamp nestled in his backpack seemed to beckon him. Dazai obliged, strapping it on.

Instead of heading straight for the main office, he turned down the hall toward Yosano’s room, finding it devastatingly empty. 

Her absence rang inside him, and, for a moment, the air felt too thin.

He shut the door, wide-eyed and twitching with frustration. Realizing the solution to his dilemma, a strange calm settled in place of aggravation. 

He spun back into the hall, darting toward the main office. Kunikida would have answers.

Mad dash melting into a gentle waltz, he entered.

Chapter Text

Kunikida’s abandoned desk chair spun lazily in the wake of his hasty departure. Silence clung in the air, each detective left to their own interpretation of what just unfolded before them. Junichirō, unwilling to involve himself, swiveled toward the window and feigned interest in the passersby outside. Kenji, assuming the panic was born of Dazai’s usual antics, beamed blissfully, untouched by the tension gripping the room. The young farmer stood, traipsing out of the office in search of a snack. 

Atsushi and Kyouka stood frozen, wide-eyed, exchanging frantic glances—a wordless exchange of shock and disbelief. 

Dazai registered the unnatural quiet first, then two pairs of eyes boring holes into the back of his head. The unease emanating from his young peers was enough to remind him—yes, best to smile now. So he forced a practiced grin into bloom, hoping it was enough to settle them. Pivoting on his heel theatrically, he spread his arms in a showman’s flourish.

“At-suuu-shi! You’ll have to excuse Kunikida’s rude behavior; clearly, he was rattled by my new fashion choices. Tragic, really, how one man’s headlamp can invoke such distress. I wasn’t aware that flinging chairs at his fellow detectives was on today’s plann—”

“Dazai-san…I’m not sure what you did, but it was enough to make Kunikida-san run from his work,” Atsushi mumbled nervously, one hand fidgeting with the ends of his bangs.

Kyouka rose—still stifling a giggle—discreetly pushing her chair into the side of the desk, now unobtrusive. 

She glided to Atsushi, raising a small hand to pat the top of his head. “It wasn’t the work that he was running from…right, Dazai-san?”

He allowed his arms to drop to his sides, forcing his expression into something approaching ordinary. Getting to a phone was his main priority—placating the kids was a secondary concern at best. The nauseating spin of the room only bolstered his urgency.

“Of course not, Kyouka-chan! How could I be so blind—who could stand in the presence of my radiance for long? Any mortal would simply wilt at a glance.”

“Strange. I don’t feel wilty at all.”

Atsushi’s lips shaping into a subtle little ‘o’, he clasped a hand over his mouth and turned in his chair to conceal a giggle.

Uncharacteristic as it was, Dazai was distracted. His eyes tracked Kunikida and Fukuzawa as they slipped into the conference room where the self-proclaimed office oracle slumbered.

Ranpo did not wish to be summoned.

Remnants of a calamitous Monopoly game littered the stretch of the conference room table: dice, toppled hotels, and a scatter of mauled snack wrappers. Sunlight bled in through the edges of the tightly drawn window shades, casting an eerie shadow over Ranpo. Several chairs stood in a row, lined with throw pillows from the agency’s lobby couch—a makeshift bed of his own devious creation.

He did not take kindly to being roused—even by Fukuzawa’s inoffensive hand at his shoulder. Jade-colored eyes snapped open as his head lifted from its rest on the cushioned chair. He turned instinctively and bit the swordsman’s hand, never breaking eye contact.

Lids fluttering closed, Fukuzawa sighed deeply, barely tolerating the gesture. This, he reminded himself, was a mild reaction compared to Ranpo’s earlier years.

Out in the main office, Dazai strained to hear the muffled sounds from behind the conference room door over ceaseless, nervous rambling. Atsushi, ever the supportive (and oblivious) comrade, was insistent that he just had to see Kyouka’s amazing drawings of her favorite places in Yokohama. Truth be told, the girl’s slight fidgeting and the hue of her cheeks made it clear she was more mortified than proud of her work.

Better to keep the children pacified, he thought as his pupil laid the papers on his desk. 

Nod here. Say “mhm.” Blink. Nod again, slower this time.

The rhythm was easy enough to carry on as he rifled through a mental list of at least ten different schemes forming behind that goddamn door. Each possibility ended with more trouble than he was willing to address civilly. Nod. Say “ah,” this time. Blink. They were obviously talking about him. With Kunikida prophesying the end of days and the president pressing the point, Ranpo must have pieced it all together by now. Blink. Nod again. Calling her would be useless now; they must have tried that already. Where would Yosano be right now? Holiday. No—Tuesday. She hates Tuesdays. She’d never choose today. A damp sleeve brushing against his unbandaged wrist made him shiver. He should have left after Kunikida bolted. Would she be at her apartment? Or the market? Or— 

“…zai-san? Maybe you should have a seat. You’ve been nodding at Kyouka-chan's sketch of the Ferris wheel for a little while now…and you haven’t blinked the whole time.” 

Fuck. 

His thoughts jammed to a stop, leaving him face-to-face with reality again. 

Before Dazai’s next play came to mind, Atsushi’s face suddenly loosened, shifting from uncertainty to near-joy. 

“I know! We could all take a break to visit the café! They just started serving seasonal parfaits—”

“I want hot cocoa. Good idea, Atsushi-kun,” Kyouka blurted. 

“Oh…uh…okay! The parfaits can always wai—”

“My star pupil blossoms into a sapling before my eyes! Light us the way forward!” He chimed impatiently, laying both hands on Atsushi’s shoulders from behind to steer him toward the door. Humming cheerfully as he wheeled the boy out, Dazai plotted his departure.

Once the opportunity presented itself, Kyouka seized it, quickly gathering and hiding the drawings out of sight.

After an uncomfortably long stretch, Ranpo relented, releasing the man from both murderous scowl and maw. 

Fukuzawa drifted away, settling at his usual place at the head of the table—hands folded with his intrinsic poise. Kunikida, still tottering on restless legs, was unable to hide his agitation despite his best effort to appear calm. He paced the room, searching for anything to occupy himself with; restoring the scattered chairs to their rightful posts at the table kept him busy enough.

“Ranpo, we need your assessment on a…sensitive matter concerning Dazai. He urgently wants to see Yosano-sensei—unfortunately, she is out of the office and has chosen to decline phone calls. Kunikida believes that you can reach his old partner. Is that true?”

“You guys woke me up because Dazai-san's being Dazai-san? Uh-uh. That’s your problem—” he swirled a finger in a lazy circle, “—not mine. Akiko-chan told me not to be a snitch—and I’m not crossing her for free. Just slip him one of her mystery pills; she keeps them in her leftmost cabinet. And don’t ask me to do it, after I got him last time, he’ll see me coming from a kilometer away.”

Fluffing his pillow, he flopped back onto the not-bed, dramatically flying his legs in the air.

“With that, the great and powerful Ranpo has earned another nap! Wake me when Dazai-san finally combusts.” 

Kunikida felt an ache bloom in his jaw from gritting his teeth. That last jab was enough to make him bubble over. His eye twitched. He stomped toward the brat, snatching pillows out from under him. 

“Hey! Bad dog! NO! Does destroying my nest make you feel good after I destroyed you in Monopoly?” 

“I don’t have time for your ridiculous blabbering, Ranpo-san. If we can’t get a hold of Yosano-sensei, we need you to call Nakahara-san. And give me that pillow—I’ll bring it back to where it belongs in the lobby.”

“You lost Boardwalk in ten minutes flat,” Ranpo deadpanned. “The pillow is much safer with me.”

Kunikida leaped into action. The pillow never stood a chance. The pair yanked from both ends, neither willing to let go. Losing his grip as it tore open, Kunikida flew backward with a yelp, stumbling into the whiteboard. 

“Honestly, your little notebook has more backbone than you!”

He sprang up from the floor, ready to strangle Ranpo, when an idea struck. Without a moment’s notice, he pitched toward the windows, triumphantly throwing the shades open. 

Golden light incessantly washed over the room—Ranpo shrieked, recoiling like a vampire in the daylight. Just as his luck would have it, the rain had stopped, replaced with azure skies.

Cutting the chaos short, Fukuzawa stepped between Ranpo and the offending sunlight. One piercing look froze the room.

Once sure he was recovered from the solar assault, the president studied the boy, noting the scrunch of his nose and hand massaging the back of his neck—both born of a sugar-induced headache. With a small, almost imperceptible motion, he produced two small painkiller pills from his silky sleeve and placed them within Ranpo’s reach. 

Ranpo squinted at them for a moment, assessing. His mind was still shedding the rust of oversleep. 

“...Aleve…from the sleeve. …indeed,” he muttered, then popped them into his mouth, swallowing dry and stealing a glance at Fukuzawa. The faint twitch of the man’s brow and slight downturn of his lips spoke for themselves.

“You’re worried?”

“Take a look for yourself,” Fukuzawa motioned a steady hand toward the window that lent a view of the main office.

Now fully awake, Ranpo sighed, long and loud, as though billing them for every second of inconvenience. By some miracle, Kunikida managed to refrain from hurling a chair.

“Fiiiiine,” he groaned, “but if it’s something stupid, you’re not gonna hear the end of it from me for a whole week.”

The green-eyed nuisance dragged himself up from his ravaged table-bed, taking care to appear as bothered as possible to his fellow detectives. Lethargically shambling to the window, he plucked open a space in the blinds, his focus falling onto the rigid, worn creature dressed as Dazai as it trailed Atsushi and Kyouka.

“...Fuuuck,” he groaned. “Crab Day. How inconvenient.” 

“Language, please, Ranpo,” Fukuzawa chided.

Letting the blinds snap shut, he turned to face the room once again. “They’re leaving. Odds are fifty-fifty that Dazai-san shoves them down the stairs to get away. Should we start a bet? My money is on—”

“That’s why we need you to contact Nakahara-san, you little fre—” the rest caught in Kunikida’s throat under the president’s watchful eye. 

Drawing in a long, centering breath, he revised.

“Ranpo-san, please reach out to Nakahara-san on our behalf.”

“Only if you admit I bankrupted you in under an hour—right here, in front of our fearless leader.” He rocked on his heels like a child waiting for applause. “And, you must proclaim me the world’s greatest detective, unparalleled and eternal, the likes of which you could never, ever touch.”

“Ranpo!” Fukuzawa snapped, but quickly faltered after seeing his problem child startle. 

”You know this behavior is unworthy of the trust I place in both of you.” 

The two shrank under the weight of their superior’s oppressive gaze, Ranpo crossing his arms in a feeble act of defiance. Fukuzawa flicked his eyes back toward the blond—sharp, urgent. 

“Kunikida-san, please follow them downstairs and do your best to keep Dazai-san in the building. At the very least, don’t let him get too far in case Nakahara-san agrees to assist us.”

Kunikida bowed reverently, hesitating a beat too long before leaving Ranpo’s conference room circus.

Returning to Ranpo, Fukuzawa hung his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I must, I will give you something in return if you help us now.”

Interest piqued, Ranpo cocked his head, inquiring.

“I will accompany you to Tokyo to get konpeitō from that shop you like.”

“You could…Or I could just drag one of the kids along to navigate the trains for me.”

“I will fund the excursion. And provide private transportation, snacks included.”

“Not interested, old man.”

“I find it interesting how time has failed to erode your petulance…you leave me no choice.”

The president eased into the nearest chair, its cushion sighing with him. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning his forehead heavily into steepled hands. After a brief meditation, he stirred. 

“I will give you…praise, Ranpo—” he lamented, “—but you will hold up your end of the bargain.” 

For the second time that day, verdigris eyes flew open, locking with the man’s grey stare. Any trace of his capriciousness vanished along with his thoughts. 

Neglecting to blink or breathe, he thrust a hand into his pocket, producing a small cellphone. The tiny raccoon charm hanging from the case spun wildly as he jabbed at the screen with manic focus.

The soft clink of mugs and the familiar aroma of freshly ground coffee greeted the blond detective as he stepped into the café. Dazai’s antics just couldn’t wait until after the first coffee of the day.

Atsushi and Kyouka sat at the sleek counter, flanking the fanny pack effigy as the waitress took their orders. Unsurprisingly, he asked for nothing. Instead, headlamp buzzing faintly above a jumble of fanny packs and an oversized backpack slumped on the stool beside him, Dazai reached for the waitress’s hand and loudly proposed yet another double-suicide. 

She froze—not at the idea, but at the sight of him. His getup pushed the whole stunt from “troubling” to “troubling and ridiculous.” His cheeks crimson, Atsushi pretended to study the espresso machine. Kyouka watched intently as if it were a TV drama. 

No time to waste; Kunikida sped straight to the counter. Knowing that gremlin, an escape plan was already underway. 

As he approached, the waitress lifted a hand to Dazai. 

“I love the enthusiasm, but your…um…costume? I don’t serve double-suicides to men dressed for…spelunking?”

“Clothes can be shed, my elegant flower! Just give it a chance—we could leave this world so beautifully, together!”

“I also don’t spend time with pretty men who refuse to pay their tabs.”

Pausing a beat too long, Dazai squinted, then swooned with exaggerated gravitas. “My pride is wounded, but fair. I’ll just have to settle my debt—one of these days.”

He swiveled to face Kunikida in his seat, the whiskey of his irises too dark and clouded to be harmless.

“Ahh, Kunikida-kun. What a joy,” he crooned, each word drenched in sarcasm.

“Don’t act too excited, now. Listen up—I spoke with Ranpo-san and Shachou. Yosano-sensei is unreachable, so we’ll need to come up with a solution to your…dilemma, without her.”

Hands clasped to his chest, voice syrupy sweet, “It’s SO wonderful to see you—especially after you abandoned me mid-conversation for that dramatic bathroom dash! All is well in the land of Kunikida-kun’s tummy now, I presume?”

The younger detectives turned, both gripping the back of their seats and ogling, their stares holding all the curiosity their small bodies could muster. Kunikida stiffened, heat creeping up his neck. He shoved his hands into his pockets, failing to convince himself or his audience that it stemmed from frustration rather than embarrassment.

“That’s not the reason I left, and you know it, you bandage-wasting machine. Though you do seem better now, well enough to drag the kids down here.” 

Better was far from the right word—it was controlled chaos, at best.

“Oh, yes. Atsushi-kun and Kyouka-chan have been so kind as to entertain me.” His bottom lip protruded from a caricature frown, tar-pool eyes drilling into his partner’s, “But sadly, there’s no room left for you. Soooo sad! You’ll just have to frolic back to the office—your paperwork awaits!”

Kunikida’s voice burst into a shout. “Maybe it wouldn’t if you would do some of yours for once!”

“I wish I could, but alas—I’m indispensable!” He clasped a hand over the back of his fledgling’s neck, “Who else would guide these lost, young souls?”

Shuddering, Atsushi recoiled, peeling away from his mentor’s clammy hand. He slid closer to Kyouka, who was still laser-focused on their growing sugar packet tower. 

Before his partner could retort, Dazai stood too fast, knocking his empty backpack from the stool. The bag met the floor with a hollow thud. 

The accessorized flight risk stooped, not to pick it up, but to bow emphatically toward his beloved server. 

“Forgive me. Gravity is a cruel mistress.”

Leaning across the counter, she interlaced delicate fingers beneath her chin. 

“Speaking of cruel mistresses—you still owe me, dead or alive,” her smile radiant, voice saccharine. 

He staggered back, clutching his chest as though wounded. “Belladonna! To bind a man to this world with such debt—it’s heinous!”

Between Ranpo and the menace before him, Kunikida’s nerves were shot. Every second wasted here brought that jackass closer to his great escape. 

Trading glares, both sensed the other’s trepidation. Lunging forward, the taller man grabbed a fistful of fanny pack, yanking the brunet back into his seat. 

“Not too rough, please—I haven’t confirmed that he’s got a good life insurance policy yet,” the waitress lilted. She slid a decadent parfait toward a very delighted Atsushi, then busied herself behind the counter.

The kids barely flinched, calmly continuing their joint effort at building a sugar packet tower. Oblivious to the stakes, they relaxed—nothing was more comforting than Dazai and Kunikida screaming at each other like normal.

Dazai batted his lashes, suggestively tilting his head back in mock invitation. 

“Ohhh, now I see! Poor Kunikida-kun is jealous—always the best man, never the bride!”

Kunikida dragged a hand down his face, long and soothing. At least, he intended for it to be soothing. 

“Enough with the theatrics, idiot Dazai. We both know you’re plotting an escape as we speak.” 

“Am I? I’m actually quite relaxed where I am now.” Dazai’s tone was too casual, the kind of calm that came before a city-wide incident report.

Kunikida’s expression curdled. “We’re not doing this again. Last time you incurred four separate insurance claims and a small fire.”

“That was one time,” Dazai protested. “And technically, the fire was arson-adjacent.”

“You are arson-adjacent! Absolutely not. We are not doing this again.”

Grip tightening on Dazai (as diverting any attention from holding him captive required the extra measure), he turned, fixing stony green eyes on Atsushi. “Go upstairs. Get an update from Ranpo-san. Now.”

The boy hesitated, glancing at the blond, then at his seatmate, then at his parfait glass— a silent lament of their impending separation. Kyouka offered him a solemn, sympathetic nod. “Go ahead. I’ll help down here. I’ll protect Castle Sugar-Packet and your parfait. With my life.” 

He smiled softly, shaken by her intensity but equally as grateful for her intuition. Feeling Kunikida’s glower on him, he turned and half-jogged toward the stairs. 

Once Atsushi was out of sight, Dazai sighed, his face as flat as his voice as he stared at Kyouka. “Ah, my little executioner-in-training. Betrayed by my own ward. How cruel.” 

“Sorry, Dazai-san. I promised. So I’ll have to cut you down if you try to escape now.”

He lolled his head back, now eyeing Kunikida upside-down. “I see now. The boss got Ranpo-san to make the call, hm? I was sure he’d resist longer.”

“You left us no choice. If Yosano-sensei is unavailable, someone needs to keep you in check.” 

Unable to resist the opening, Dazai flickered back to life, the corners of his mouth upturned in mischief. “And you believe that Chuuya is the man for the job? Then I should warn you—tragic news, really. He’s recently contracted a dreadful, disfiguring ailment. Very contagious. What terrible timing!”

“Just keep quiet for once in your miserable life, or so help me—”

“Or so help you what, Kuuu-niii-kidaaa-kuuun?” the pest cut in, fidgeting under Kunikida’s vise grip. “You’ll strangle me here? In front of our youngest and most impressionable member?” 

Kunikida gritted his teeth, thumping the back of his partner’s head. Just before he moved to strangle Dazai, the waitress returned with a large mug, piled high with whipped cream. She set it in front of a glittery-eyed Kyouka, who wrapped careful hands around the long-awaited treat.

“Kunikida-san, if you’re going to throttle anyone, I’ll need you to take it outside—I would hate to be forced into adding more damage costs onto Dazai-san’s tab,” the woman sang. 

It was now or never.

With Kyouka’s attention diverted, Dazai took advantage. His lanky body crumpled to the ground as he went completely limp, dead weight taking his stool down with him and forcing Kunikida to stumble. Kyouka turned to watch, heart dropping as she witnessed the result of her brief inattention.

Once the man’s grip loosened, Dazai sprang up and kicked the stool at him, then darted to the door. 

“Bye-bye!"

“Wha—DAMN IT DAZAI!” he growled. Too late—the ingrate had already slipped outside.

“Ow,” Kyouka said blankly, sticking the tip of her cocoa-burnt tongue out. She locked eyes with Kunikida. “He’s going east.”

Kunikida blinked incredulously. 

“As soon as he gets here, I’m formally requesting that Nakahara-san return you to the Port Mafia.”

When Atsushi arrived, Ranpo was pacing the main office as he spoke into his phone, obviously exasperated. A sleeping Junichirō snored softly, head resting on folded arms at his desk. 

The weretiger slunk further into the room, hoping to catch the caped detective’s attention. A moment later, Fukuzawa emerged from the hall, just returning from his solemn gathering of the LEGO bonsai’s remains. 

“Atsushi, good morning. How are things downstairs?”

“Morning, Shachou!” he squeaked, wiping sweaty palms against his trousers. “It’s tense. Really tense. Kunikida-san asked me to come check in with you here, but I think we should all go back down there. At this rate, those two will never get started on their mission for today.”

“Thank you, Atsushi.” The man nodded graciously, then approached Ranpo, placing a hand on his shoulder and gesturing toward the door.

“I do NOT owe you any favors! You’re that guy’s emergency contact, not me.” Ranpo paused, pressing a palm to his forehead. “Drinks are on me this week...thanks, Chuuya.”

Ranpo hung up and turned to face the two, slightly taken aback by their puzzled expressions.

“What? Akiko-chan occasionally drags me out to get drinks with him.”

…

Silence.

…

 “Okay—once a month. It’s fine.”

Hoping to escape their unspoken inquisition, he marched toward the door. The president followed behind, concealing a small smile. He couldn’t deny the relief he felt learning of Ranpo’s growing social circle. 

Still slightly bewildered, Atsushi followed, already wishing to go home for the day. 

As the three reached the cafe, the door chime jingled patronizingly in Dazai’s wake.

“Shachou!” Kunikida startled, a lump forming in his throat as he fell into an instinctive bow. “I deeply apologize—he just left.” 

Deadpanning, Ranpo crossed his arms. “I’d have bet on that.”

Fukuzawa shot a stern glare at Ranpo, then held up a forgiving hand to his future successor. “I trust that you gave your best, Kunikida. Fortunately, Nakahara-san has agreed to assist us. I’d like for everyone to get back to work until he arrives—but please, stay in the office for now.” 

He bowed slightly, then turned, drifting back up to his office. 

Silence blanketed the room. The group exchanged defeated looks before trickling out of the cafe, each uttering a soundless prayer for a normal Tuesday.

Atsushi found himself alone, standing oafishly in the aisle. Kyouka’s soft hum of cocoa-bliss returned him to his senses—taking up his spoon, he began poking at his lopsided parfait, the once pristine yogurt now swirled with berry-colored secretion. They sat contentedly, quietly enjoying each other’s company as much as their desserts.

Chapter Text

The engine of Chuuya’s motorcycle crackled as it cooled. Raindrops jeweled its ruby finish, twinkling in the sunlight. Exhaust still floated from the pipes. From the harbor, sea salt tangled with tobacco in the morning air. Yokohama’s streets hummed with the vitality of morning traffic. 

The pair ambled casually toward the sprawling staircase of Port Mafia headquarters. Gin wobbled beside him—her first ride, obviously. Chuuya bit the end of a cigarette, shielding the lighter’s flame with a practiced hand. 

“Thanks again, Chuuya-san…but you don’t need to walk me all the way in. It was kind enough of you to drive me here.”

“Don’t worry about it, I was on my way here anyway.” A wry smile tugged at his mouth. “And I’m not walking you in, I’m walking me into my office—my inbox has been rotting for days.” 

Gin nodded, raking fingers over her wind-snapped hair—another side effect of the not-so-glamorous motorbike excursion with the Port Mafia’s most reckless chauffeur.

“Okay, well, since you’re here—?” She gestured at her slightly-lopsided spiked bun: “Does it look alright?”

“Yeah. I think? How many spikes is it supposed to have?”

The shy smile beneath her face mask spread to her now-rolling eyes. They strolled a few more meters, pausing at the crosswalk for a passing car.

“So, you told me about Black Lizard unit’s mission, but where’s your brother? Figured maybe he’s too busy sulking about the jinko to get you a ride here.”

“Boss sent him to Kyoto in the middle of the night—something about an informant disposal.”

“Ah. That’s a less amusing explanation than I was hoping for,” Smoke drifted past his lips. 

As they neared the sprawling entrance staircase, conversation ebbed. Replaced only by shoes brushing pavement, the drone of traffic, a car alarm. Silence between them had always been pleasant, the kind that didn’t need filling. Common ground was always found easily, somehow, considering the mere acquaintanceship they shared. 

Gin’s gaze snagged on the glass windows of the Port Mafia high-rise, each catching the morning light in a hundred fractured shards.

“Chuuya-san?”

“Hm?”

 “...do you think headquarters kind of looks like a disco ball?” 

“Uh..I guess…” he trailed, cocking his head to the side. He spent a few moments eyeing the thing, considering. “Yeah, actually. It does. But shouldn’t it be a little more...I dunno…sparkly?”

“I think that Boss would rather burn Elise-chan's entire dress collection than bedazzle his beloved high-rise,” she giggled. After a moment, she turned to him. “I really should go in now. I hope your inbox-cleaning isn’t too terrible.”

“I promise you, it’ll be soul-sucking.” He grumbled, flicking his cigarette butt into a nearby gutter. “Like I said, don’t worry about it, kid. Go on.”

Bowing subtly, she flitted through the heavy doors of the entrance. 

One more, then go inside. Chuuya sparked another cigarette, savoring the wash of nicotine over his nerves. He’d need it before texting that idiot.

~ Not joking. Stop being cryptic. What does ‘after’ mean?? 

He slid the phone back into his pocket, the silk lining cool on his skin. Leaning on a half-wall, head tilted back, another long drag. 

Brrt-brrt. Chuuya’s ringtone shattered the quiet like glass under a hammer.

Of course. Can’t even enjoy a smoke without someone demanding blood or paperwork.

Already cursing whoever it was, he froze at the sight of the name.

“Ranpo? What do you need? Is the ADA in the shit again?” Chuuya inquired, voice nearly a whisper to repel any potential eavesdroppers.

“Great to hear from you, too, Fancy Hat,” Ranpo answered brusquely.

Chuuya pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, what’s up?” Already bracing for whatever Ranpo was about to drag him into, he flicked his unfinished cigarette in the nearby gutter. 

“Dazai-san’s acting extra strange today, and we can’t deal with him. So we’re returning him to sender—that just happens to be you.”

“Who the hell said I was his keeper? You idiots hired him, deal with it.” As if he hadn’t shackled himself to that mackerel since they were fifteen.

“I’m neglecting to mention that we tried that—now he’s roaming the city covered in belt bags and a headlamp, hunting down Yosano.”

The mafioso switched the phone to his other ear, eyes following a beetle crawling in front of his shoe. Ranpo—naturally—continued rambling.

“Kunikida-san’s freaking out. You should have seen how badly I whipped him in Monopoly. He almost threw a crying tantrum and swore at me in front of Shacho—”

“Ranpo—slow down—what the fuck?” he cut in, a dull ache already taking root in his temple. “I don’t even know where to start—do you know where he went?”

“My guess is anywhere Akiko-chan might be. Between you and me, she told me she’s seeing a ‘friend’ and won’t be in until Thursday. I’m supposed to keep quiet about it, or she’s going to, quote, ‘relieve me of any limbs that she deems extraneous.’”

“Huh. That’s it?” 

“Definitely not. So my lips remain sealed.”

“Gross…so, what do you want me to do? Traipse around the city looking for him?”

“No use. If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. Come over to our office—you can game plan from here.”

“What the hell? No!” Chuuya protested loudly enough that a nearby smoke-circle of mafia grunts sneaked glances at him. He turned, taking extra care to appear casual, and began the trek back to his bike. 

“Your choice, Chuuya—I don’t really care if he’s acting like a lunatic so long as he turns up alive and still employed with us.” 

“You’re an asshole.”

“You can call me whatever you want, but Dazai-san’s still on the loose. If you’re fine with that, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Chuuya sensed a smug smile in Ranpo’s voice. Great. Spending a day at the ADA. Just what his blood pressure needed.

“You owe me big for this. If I’m seen working with the agency, I’m selling you—and only you—out to the Boss.”

“I do NOT owe you any favors! You’re that guy’s emergency contact, not me.” A heavy pause. “Drinks are on me this week...thanks, Chuuya.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Click.

The day ahead would not be merciful, and there was no chance of tending to his forsaken inbox. 

He stuffed the phone back into his pocket. A fourth cup of coffee and, maybe, divine intervention would barely be enough to survive this shitshow. 

Dragging both hands down his face, he contemplated what horrid twist of fate could have led him here—not only stuck chasing down the Demon Prodigy gone avant-garde, but willingly sharing a bed with him. 

A sculpted leg swung over the bike’s molded leather seat, its engine purring to life with a turn of the key. Chuuya prayed the ride ahead wouldn’t be the most peaceful part of the day.

Warm sunlight replaced cool mist, the scent of old rain clinging to his coat. Cafe Uzumaki’s sign shrank to a speck in the distance. Ears ringing, head still throbbing, he pressed on. 

No one in Yokohama was prepared for the raging tempest that was Osamu Dazai. 

Light jog morphed into a manic power-walk. Pigeons exploded into flight. The clatter of his fanny packs, the bounce of the headlamp, beat a frantic rhythm; an unintentional war drum echoing down the street. Puddles splashed over his plodding shoes. Salarymen parted like reeds around him. Mothers held their children closer, avoiding eye contact with the strange, grumbling hiker. 

Dazai, a landfill of incoherent thought, ignored it all. Tunneled vision made the world little more than a sea of bleeding colors. His body ached. His bare wrist itched. He hated it.

Yosano must be at her apartment. Where else would she be on a Tuesday at nine in the morning? What’s her unit number? Would entering through a window be the most optimal method of contact? Mochi—she likes mochi, right? Perhaps it would be advantageous to stop and buy some. No. Standing in line for a blushy pink treat would eat up precious time. She’ll understand. 

Somehow, Dazai found his legs walking him up the apartment building stairs. Anything between the trip here and this exact moment was a mystery to him. 

Reaching Yosano was the only thing that should have been on Dazai’s mind. Still, thoughts of Joe needled him. 

That night had a way of seeping into every day that followed.

He flashed a crooked smirk in earnest.

“I’m Joe. ​And you? Or do you prefer sittin’ there lookin’ mysterious?” 

Frozen, the young mafioso paused. Joe’s warm hand on his shoulder set his mind ablaze, sentiments lying somewhere between murderous and uncomfortable. Another sadistic, familiar hand had laid itself on him that same way before—enticing, gentle, deceivingly sharp. A memory Dazai much preferred to crush underfoot.

Joe, sensing the boy’s unease, let his hand fall to the counter, resting innocuously. 

The barkeep appeared opposite the pair, wielding the two drinks Joe ordered. Sliding them across the counter, his head dipped humbly.

With a small nod, Joe lifted his glass, foam kissing its rim. 

“To nothing in particular, eh?”

Dazai ignored him. Mori’s placid lilt slithered through his thoughts: 

Pry for information. Keep moving, Osamu. Kill him later. 

Standing there, head still light and buzzy from the last three drinks, a truth split through the haze: No Longer Human hadn’t stirred at the man’s touch.

Poison. Leverage. Ploy. Or, simply, whiskey with a stranger. He let his eyes slide past Joe’s—to the halo of condensation circling the glass. Maybe the answer waited there, trembling just out of reach. 

“I won’t bite if ya decide to stay, kid. I just think a drink tastes better paired with a little company.”

The words splintered through his mind—plain, genuine. Rain ticked against the fogged windows. Ice clinked, impatient, in his would-be glass. 

Dazai sank back onto his stool, his eyes never leaving Joe’s hands.

“So, you got a name? Or should I tell the hospital their walking bandage supply escaped?”

A long swallow of whiskey smoldered in his throat. “Doesn’t matter.”

Joe shook his head, patience and disbelief bundled into one motion. “Alright…whatever ya say. How long ya been in Yokohama?”

“As long as I can remember.”

“Not much of a conversationalist, are ya?” Dazai said nothing. The silence weighed heavily enough to draw another sip. “Well, I’ll tell you a bit about this old man.”

He wished the floor would grant him the kindness of swallowing him whole. A drop of whiskey slid down his wrist, seeping into his bandages. Still, he remained—straight-faced, stolid.

“Ya ever worked in a restaurant? 

“No.”

“Ah, it’s just that ya look like the busboy type. Lemme tell ya, kid, it's a riot.” Another hearty quaff. “Owning one is even more grueling. Nights like this really take it out of ya—sink or swim, it’s all still covered in grease.”

Whiskey loosening his tongue, Dazai turned to face him.

“Is that why you smell like old carp?”

Joe’s head dropped. Laughter rolled through him, rough and unrestrained. His shoulders shook, cheeks pinking as his stool tottered and groaned beneath him. A few lungfuls later, he managed another swig of beer.

“Looks like ya do have some humor floatin’ around in that head of yours—’cause you’re probably right!” 

Dazai barely twitched. Instead, he spun the glass in his hand, bemused by what little liquid remained.

“Well, restaurant life does a number on ya—but there’s nothin’ better than a room full of smiling seafood lovers. Music to my ears!”

“Sounds like a waste of time. Canned crab is six hundred yen at any convenience store.” The jab slipped out before he realized. 

 Joe polished off the last of his beer, raising a silent, two-finger request for refills. The barkeep nodded, obliging.

“That’s where you’re wrong, kid. Fresh seafood cooked with care…there’s just nothin’ like it.” He gestured with his fresh glass, foam spilling over its edge. “Ya like crab?” 

Muddled thoughts drifted—whiskey-greased and fleeting—gone as quickly as they came: 

Is he prying for personal information? 

It’s hard to tell if it’s rain or sweat clinging to him.

Leave after this drink. 

Odasaku’s not around this late. Chuuya wouldn’t be back for another four days. 

Of course, Mori would be awake—though any time voluntarily spent with him bordered on masochism.

Another empty glass. When did that happen?

“I don’t find it offensive.” 

Lips curling into a satisfied smile, Joe’s eyes gleamed. “You’re in luck—crab just happens to be my specialty.”

A faint chime rang from the entrance, triggered by the door sweeping open. In walked long limbs, maroon hair, pale blue eyes, worn thin from lack of sleep. 

Instinctively, Dazai scanned the room, his gaze landing on Oda. 

The man started toward the counter; bathed in low, golden light, his features looked soft, youthful. 

“Dazai, you’re still here?”

“Are you finally bored with your orphans, Odasaku?” The retort landed more slurred than he would’ve liked.

“Yeah, sure. Who’s this?” he asked, gesturing toward Joe.

“I’m Joe—pleasure to meet ya Mister Odasaku.” The man extended a friendly hand.

“Right…” Oda returned the greeting, eyes inquisitively flicking to Dazai. “Dazai, I have something you’ll want to hear about.”

The hum of the lights deepened. Oda’s words bled together; his mind was too dull to parse them. The weight of Joe’s hand on his shoulder cut through the haze.

“You’d better get goin’, kid. But first—” he pulled a small leather wallet from his pocket, brandishing a card from its folds. “—take my card. If ya ever get sick of six-hundred-yen crab, you’ll know where to find me.”

The card was damp at the edges, the ink bleeding faintly into the paper. ‘Joe’s Crab Shack,’ it read in a crooked scrawl, a phone number and address barely legible beneath it. 

“Just outside Yokohama,” Joe added with a wink.

Dazai dropped the card into his coat, rising on unsteady legs. His head swam as he shuffled toward Oda—then the door—leaving Joe behind in the amber light. 

The rain had thinned to a drizzle when he finally stepped out, his reflection warping in the puddles below. He walked, Oda at his side, until Lupin’s lights blurred behind them. 

“So…mind telling me who that was?”

“Crab man, or something…not an ability user. I dunno.”

Oda eyed the boy, his concern growing by the second. “I have a lead on Mimic—are you too wasted for that?”

Dazai shook his head, too slowly. He halted, ducking into an alley to empty his stomach. 

Joe’s laughter still snagged in his ears—warm, heavy, impossible to shake.

He told himself it was nothing.

Unfortunately, lying had always come easily.

Chapter Text

Knuckles met faded wood— two knocks, then one more. His lungs burned for air. 

No response. 

He tried again, harder, until ache pulsed through the heel of his hand. 

Only disappointment moved to greet him. 

A hand burrowed into the backpack until it found a warped lockpick. Metal clattered in the keyhole, each tick a step closer to trespass. 

A minute later, he was in her narrow vestibule.

House shoes waited by the threshold, patient and empty. Opposite, the coat rack stood bare, stripped of her coat and purse. 

“Yosano-sensei?” His voice sounded foreign, misplaced. Of course. Breaking in wouldn’t change anything, idiot.

Dazai whipped around, turning the lock and shutting the door behind him. Each footstep echoed in the breezeway, startling as it pierced the sterile air.

Beads of sweat clung to his brow as he crouched, unbuckling each fanny pack and shoving them into the backpack. The headlamp snagged in his tangled hair as he tore it away, flickering in protest as it was exiled to the bag. A familiar ringtone sounded from his pocket. If he were lucid enough to have foreseen Chuuya’s call, it would’ve been right on cue. He ignored it—though more out of spite for Kunikida than to avoid Chuuya.

Where else? The bar was unlikely, but close by. Close was enough.

By the time he reached the street, the quiet of Yosano’s apartment already felt like a distant blessing. Clouds regathered—swirling blue and wispy grey, thickening the air.

The bar wasn’t far—half a kilometer, maybe—but each step stretched longer than the last. The city greeted him like a migraine: too bright, too loud, too alive. His body felt weightless; a ghost drifting by. 

Lemon polish and old whiskey breathed through the cracked door before he pushed through. A small golden bell hanging above trumpeted his arrival. 

Inside, low-hanging bulbs burned too bright. Mellow music bled between liquor bottles, soft enough to blur with faint echoes of last night’s laughter. A lonely drunk nursed an empty glass, willing it full. 

Above all, no Yosano.

He barely cleared the doormat. The bartender waved; Dazai didn’t. Blue eyes flashed—vibrant cerulean, almost the same distracting shade as Chuuya’s. 

Stop. Keep moving.

A blink, a turn, and he was gone before the bell finished ringing. Schools of pedestrian fish split and curved around him. Traffic whirred by; snippets of conversations drifted in and out of earshot. 

The pharmacy. More likely than a bar on a Tuesday morning. 

A young-looking pharmacist busied himself behind the counter, stealing an occasional glance at a glassy-eyed Dazai. An old woman stepped inside, prompting a soft electronic door chime.

“Good morning, sir. Can I help you?”

“Have you seen a woman today?” Words tumbled out—today seemed to reward brevity, anyway.

“...Could you describe her?” 

“Short, dark hair. A big gold butterfly clip. Doctor. Radiates authority with a hint of malintent.”

The chemist hesitated, thrown. “...No, sir, no one like that has come in today. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but…are you alright?”

Dazai blinked, momentarily affronted. “Fantastic. Thank you for noticing.”

“Sorry, sir—” He fumbled, pulling a few wellness leaflets from a small display and sliding them across the counter. “—um…here you go.”

An Atsushi type. No—Atsushi would eat him alive. 

“Useless,” Dazai decided, nudging them back. Without another word, he collided with the door. 

Raindrops stippled the pavement, dark circles blooming like ink on canvas. He wasn’t sure what kept him moving—habit, mania, or just momentum—but his next move was clear. 

His nose twitched at the bite of nail varnish and cheap vanilla lotion. A woman from the front desk hurried after him, bewildered by his sudden intrusion. 

“Hello? Hello?! Sir—you can’t just walk back here! Please, stop!”

Eyes sweeping every station and pedicure chair, Dazai pressed on—half-drenched, entirely unwelcome. Yosano was due for her bi-weekly manicure; as she liked to say, being the best doctor in Yokohama didn’t mean her cuticles should suffer under the tyranny of latex gloves. 

“Sir, you need to wait at the front if you’d like to book a service!”

“Are you the owner? I’m looking for a doctor.”

“I—yes! This is a nail salon!”

“Obviously. Could you stop following me?”

She sputtered, unable to find words sharp enough to convey her frustration.

He halted at the back, staring at a woman mid-pedicure. “Not her,” he muttered, then faced his pursuer. “Since you’re here—have you seen her?”

Head dropping into her hand, she relented. “I’m not sure who you’re talking about, sir. Maybe you’d like to have this conversation at the front desk?”

“No, thanks—” Dazai pointed a finger toward a wall-mounted TV behind her. “—The newscast is getting interesting. So you haven’t seen her?”

“How should I know who you’re looking for?! If you would so kindly come to the front, I could search her name in our online system.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”

Confused patrons and staff alike gawked as they strode toward the front of the salon. Dazai arrived first, planting himself at the counter. Ting-ting-ting. The service bell rang under his impatient tapping until she sat down. Scowling, she snatched it from him. 

“Ah, how kind of you to join me.” He leaned on the wood, head cradled on the backs of interlaced fingers. “You can search Yosano Akiko.”

“If I do this, you have to leave right after. I’ll call the police if you refuse.”

“It would be my honor.”

An eye roll, a flurry of keystrokes. “She was here on Saturday for a deluxe manicure. Please, have a nice day—far away from here.” 

 “I’ll miss you terribly!” he called out, already halfway out the door.  

Useless. Where else? Haunted by his failure to check her apartment for missing travel essentials, Dazai couldn’t shake the growing certainty that she’d left town, that he had only been chasing a shadow. He trudged on, aimless and exhausted, but unwilling to stop.

Neon bled through the grey at Cosmoworld’s gate, its letters rippling across puddles as he crossed beneath. They’d come here together, once—Chuuya, Yosano, and himself. The longest hour of Dazai’s life was spent trapped at the top of that wheel. 

Yosano had never ridden the Cosmo wheel—a travesty that, for some reason, Chuuya took upon himself to rectify. She’d been enamored with the view from on high, and Chuuya—ever too kind for his own good—had quietly stalled the ride with his ability, just to give her the city a little longer. Admittedly, their smiles were the highlight of the memory.

The wind swelled, muffling the crash of distant waves, carrying a salty mist that stung his lips. He studied the wheel, tracing every detail; It was the same wheel now, motionless under the weather, light flickering like a dying pulse. 

Kyouka’s drawing really did capture its likeness. Talented girl.

Wet cloth and defeat clung to his skin, both biting cold. Water ran down his forearms in thin rivulets, threatening to unlace sloppy bandagework. 

Exhaustion burrowed through his marrow, burning for relief. Thankfully, Oda rested nearby—safe, too deep for the sky to touch him. Just two kilometers away, give or take.

The rain had dulled to a whisper by the time the iron fence came into view. Dazai eased the creaking gate behind him, quieting any noise that might disturb the slumbering dead. Stray flowers crumpled beneath his shoes as he drifted through neat rows of headstones. At last, he reached the concrete steps that lay before Oda’s hill. 

He paused. “Hi, Odasaku—I’m coming in now.” Each step carried him deeper into the calm, every wave of it folding into the next.

The old shade tree that watched over Oda’s headstone rustled, water trickling from countless wooden limbs. Dazai slipped the backpack from his shoulders, setting it gently at the roots. He sank to the grass, back resting against the cool stone.

“Not the most comfortable seat,” he muttered. “Must be cozy in there.” A pause. “Up here it’s just mud and disappointment.”

Only the wind replied, whispering through leaves. 

“You’d laugh at the week I’m having.” His voice landed flat, a touch slurred by lack of sleep. “It’s not even noon…I’m already dodging Chuuya and the agency. All Kunikida’s fault, obviously.” 

He tipped his head back against the stone, tracking the gray light threading through the branches. Droplets traced slow paths over his face.

“Yosano-sensei’s gone,” he wavered, like the word weighed too heavily. She’d always been the one to humor his nonsense long enough to see the shape of it. The only one who looked and saw something besides a cry for help—or worse, attention. “Not gone, gone. Just…gone. I looked everywhere. I wanted her to—” a hitch, the thought collapsing, “—she came with me last time.” 

He waited for the wind. For the branches to reach down and draw him in. For Oda to claw through wet earth and surface by its gangly roots. For anything. When nothing came, he spoke anyway. 

“I still think you’d like her. Chuuya does—enough to name her his favorite drinking partner.” A half-smile flickered. “I called her an altruistic sadist; she called me dramatic. A fair trade.”

“Sometimes…I see Mori just…bleed out of her. Her hair, her precision, her eyes…it’s—” his mouth twitched, considering, “—it’s uncanny.”

Silence. Graveyard silence.

His hand drifted through the grass, tracing circles in the softened dirt. “I told her about my first visit to the Shack. She barely flinched, just said ‘sounds like Joe-san.’ Like she’d already—” A pause. “—turns out she had met him the same year I did. Neither of us knew until then.”

A frayed laugh escaped him, humorless and bitter. He could almost smell the Shack’s fryer oil and salt again—Joe’s laugh rolling out of the kitchen like it had been waiting for him.

“I keep ending up there—at his ridiculous Shack. That stupid, grinning cartoon-crab-sign—it’s like—like it knows something I don’t. I swore I’d go once, just to get it out of my system. I was just curious, it’s—and now it’s…”

He worried a blade of grass until it split. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Odasaku.”

Massaging his temples failed to dull the pulse of hangover still buzzing beneath his skin. “Chuuya will throttle me over all this when I see him—with any luck. He’s put it together, most of it. He always does.” 

“Still perceptive as ever—like you, only smaller and louder.”

A familiar voice pierced through the drizzle, sarcastic and rough in all the right places. Irritatingly well-timed.

“You’re comparing me to Oda? I must be doing something right.”

Dazai froze mid-spiral. Unusual, he thought, to be at a loss for words. Chuuya wasn’t supposed to find him for at least another hour—and certainly not here.

Drops pattered louder against his umbrella as shoes sank into softened earth. “Relax.” His tone dropped, velvet draped over gravel. “I announced myself to Oda at the steps.”

“And I haven’t told Ranpo you’re here yet,” he added.

Dazai snorted, gaze trained on his shoes. “He should’ve told you visiting hours are over.”

“Good thing I’m not visiting,” Chuuya shot back. “ I’m here to figure out what the hell’s going on with you.” Before Dazai could stand: “No, stay there. I’ll sit.” 

The umbrella tilted, shadow widening over both of them. Chestnut eyes followed, only dropping once the redhead settled at the base of the tree. No hat or gloves—likely stowed in his bike’s storage compartment.

“No bandages?”  Chuuya asked. Warmth brushed over his bare wrist—a lick of flame thawing ice. Dazai twitched, instantly regretting it when the touch withdrew.

“Forgot them,” he shrugged. “Your fault, actually, I was texting you.”

Copper tufts shifted as Chuuya shook his head. “So that covers scaring the shit out of the Agency, ditching them, and marching around the city looking for Akiko?”

“Oh, that’s their story? I show up early for once, and they panic. You’d think occasional punctuality was a crime.”

Chuuya huffed, the sound caught somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Your tongue-in-cheek routine doesn’t work when you look like a kicked dog.”

Quiet pooled, the only sound the rustling of leaves.

“Ranpo called before I even stepped into headquarters,” Chuuya said at last. “I was heading to the ADA before I thought to stop here.”

Dazai stayed fixed on the grass.“I’m flattered to be the highlight of your morning errands.”

“Don’t be, I didn’t say I wanted the job. I could be waist-deep in my inbox right now, but here I am—on a missing-persons call.”

“Hardly missing. I’m right here.”

“Yeah,” Chuuya muttered, “in a cemetery. Soaked. On a Tuesday morning. Being technically alive is the only thing you have going for you today.”

Dazai tilted his head, rain and cynicism dripping from his lips. “Chuuya thinks so highly of me.”

He looked away, settling somewhere distant under the weight of a long pause. “You think I like finding out about your shit from Ranpo first?”

Dazai’s voice sharpened, a chronic defense. “And you think I enjoy him overstating my ‘condition’ to justify a wellness check?” 

“Osamu.”

“Is Chuuya frustrated? Maybe sorting through your inbox would be a better use of your time.”

For the Tainted burned under his skin—another breath, slow, measured. “You’re not cornering me into a fight today.”

“That implies I’m trying.”

“I think it’s just your default setting.”

“Old habits…” Dazai murmured—then, smaller: “...Sorry.”

Chuuya pushed the umbrella over him, leaving himself bare. Water traced down the curve of his neck, catching on the collar of a suit too fine for such foul weather.

 “Looks like we’re both soaked now,” he said, voice low, almost even. Rising, he scooped the backpack into one hand and offered Dazai the other. “Come on. We’re going home.” He wavered a moment, then added: “I’m sure Oda will understand.”

For a moment, Dazai fell adrift in cyanic orbs—ones that seemed to hold all the color missing from the sky. He lingered a beat too long before allowing himself to be pulled up. Chuuya’s hand pulsed warmth into his, command and comfort in one touch. 

He imagined Odasaku approved, smiling in that slight way of his as he saw them off. The ground squelched as they jogged toward the gate—two kismet silhouettes, miraculously tethered, dissolving into the rain.

Riding passenger on Chuuya’s beloved motorcycle was an acquired taste—one Dazai had never developed. Seventeen minutes of high-speed turns and biting wind chill did little to change his mind. Steadied by Chuuya’s body and half-shielded beneath his helmet, Dazai let his eyes fall shut—his makeshift respite broken only by the engine’s low snarl.

Eventually, Chuuya’s building came into view. The mafioso cut the engine, letting silence fill its place—thick, wet, and ringing in Dazai’s ears. He peeled from the seat, graceless but making a point to appear steady when Chuuya glanced back. 

“Still hate this thing,” he grumbled.

Chuuya swung off with a practiced motion, heel catching the stand. “I thought you were asleep back there for a minute,” he jested, smirking.

“Interesting interpretation. Maybe I was just using my ability to temper your gravity-drunk steering.”

“Sure, whatever you say, shitty Dazai,” Chuuya snorted, flipping open the storage box and plucking out his hat and gloves. “No sense in using the fire escape now. Let’s go.”

Overlapping footsteps rang against the lobby’s tile. A pair of security guards glanced up, exchanging puzzled looks as the drenched men crossed toward the elevator—confusion that crumbled under the pressure of Chuuya’s glower. While he jabbed the call button, Dazai—governed, as ever, by base instinct—pivoted on his heel to stick his tongue out at the guards. The silver doors slid closed, sealing them in quiet once more. 

“You should try to sleep when we get in.” Chuuya pressed the top-floor button. “You look terrible.”

“No worse than your frizzy hair.”

Color rose across his cheeks. “Shut up!” He fumbled for his hat, cramming it onto his head.

Dazai leaned lazily against the wall, a soft chuckle slipping out. 

Chuuya swung the door open, the electronic lock chiming as it unlatched. He twisted just enough to catch Dazai’s eye. “Don’t you dare drip on my floor.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Chuuu-yaaa,” Dazai drawled, immediately dropping his soaked trench coat in the entryway. 

Before it hit the ground, For the Tainted lifted the offending garment toward the washing machine. Chuuya’s scowl could’ve stripped paint. He caught Dazai by the wrist and marched him down the hall. 

“Strip here, you goddamn menace. I’ll start the shower.” 

Without another word, he peeled off his own rain-heavy clothes and tossed them into the machine before disappearing into the bathroom.

Left to his own devices, Dazai peered into the yawning mouth of the washer, as if it might issue further instructions. When it didn’t, he dropped his clothes in, then started the rinse cycle. 

By now, the apartment was hardly foreign. Still, something felt sharper. Chuuya’s scent hung thicker, vetiver and citrus threading through the kitchen, caught in the expensive cushions, tangled in their bedsheets. It trailed him to the bathroom, peaking as steam grazed clammy skin.

Soapy orange curls poked over the frosted glass of the shower wall. “...you coming in?” 

Dazai didn’t answer. A bead of condensation slid down the mirror. His focus followed it halfway—then wandered.

“Is it the tile? I can turn off the heat,” Chuuya tried, voice half-tease, half-test.

Nothing.

“Osamu.”

His shoulders jerked, small, but enough. 

Chuuya sighed, slipped out of the shower, and crossed the warm tile. Without a word, he began unraveling Dazai’s bandages, breath dancing over sensitive skin. With a thin wrist in hand, he guided them both under the rain head. 

Heat hit first—then sound. Water drummed against glass and marble, the rhythm swallowing the rest of the room. 

“That’s hot.”

“You awake now? Chuuya’s arm brushed past, reaching for the temperature knob. “I’ll turn it down.”

Dazai didn’t respond—instead, he turned, letting the spray pound at his back. 

“So, you’re not talking to me now?” Chuuya asked.

A pause; then, in a murmur: “I just don’t appreciate your attempt to boil me alive.” 

Suds slid down Chuuya’s shoulders as he ducked from the stream. “Wouldn’t have to scald you if you’d just use real shampoo—I threw out the 2-in-1 bullshit you keep using.”

“It’s efficient!”

“It’s tragic,” Chuuya grumbled. “Just sit. I’ll do it.”

Dazai relented, groaning as he shambled to slump below the marble ledge. A moment later, Chuuya perched on the bench behind him, drawing a small arsenal of curated soaps and combs from the storage below. Gentle hands tipped Dazai’s head back between his knees, sinking into soaked hair with practiced irritation.

“You want to tell me what’s got you zoning out on me every three seconds?” A touch of weariness crackled in Chuuya’s voice.

“You’re misinterpreting my silence for—”

A sharp tug cut him off. “Try again.”

Dazai yelped, more affronted than pained. Deft fingers resumed their work—unknotting viny overgrowths of umber, scrubbing away the grime of days spent wallowing in sake and woe. Minutes stretched as Dazai searched the ceiling, waiting for the answer to tumble down from its slats.

“Crab,” he said at last.

The scrubbing slowed. “Crab?”

“I need to find Yosano-sensei so I can go to the Crab Shack.” 

“You caused enough trouble to get Ranpo—of all people—calling me up for help, and it’s over crab!?”

“Not crab,” Dazai corrected. “The Crab Shack. The one that started all this.”

Chuuya blinked. “What the hell is the Shack?”

“It’s a long story—not about the crab,” Dazai said, though his tone betrayed him. “It’s about the principle of the crab.”

“Shorten it.”

 “It all started years ago, way back in the winter of—”

“You’re an ass.” Chuuya cut in, thumping the back of his head with the comb.

“Fine, if you don’t want to know, I won’t tell you.”

A hand left mahogany curls to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Tell me what the Shack is, Osamu.”

“Once upon a time, I met a man with a restaurant. He had crab. I had some. Then Oda died.”

Chuuya pressed a palm to his forehead. “You’re impossible.”

Every inch of Dazai’s face gleamed with satisfaction, blinding as he gazed up at Chuuya.

“Why can’t you just go visit like a normal fucking person? Why does Akiko have to go?”

“It’s not like I want to go—the Shack just has a way of calling you back in. Yosano-sensei just…gets it.”

“There’s no way that’s the whole story.”

“I get a little restless when the craving goes unmet—that’s all. Things will stabilize once I find her and make it there.”

Chuuya stilled his hands, considering him. “You actually believe that?”

“I believe in pattern recognition. The crab just happens to be a part of the data.”

Chuuya exhaled, the sound sitting somewhere between disbelief and reluctant affection. “Yet here you are.”

“Don’t remind me.” Dazai’s next words landed softer, almost sheepish: “Though here isn’t the worst place to be.”

Chuuya leaned forward, one hand still buried in Dazai’s hair, the other tracing over his cheek. Their lips met—perfectly fitted, slow, inevitable. A tiny gasp escaped Dazai, melting the tension from Chuuya’s limbs in an instant. 

“Finish up now,” Chuuya whispered, leaning further to graze kisses over his jaw, down his neck. “We’re getting dressed.”

“Bossy,” Dazai sang back, half-lidded. 

“Efficient,” Chuuya corrected, reaching for the shower wand. “I’ll take you to her.”

Chapter Text

Yosano woke slowly, limbs stiff with sleep. Rain pattered against glass as her eyes adjusted to the soft glow behind silk curtains. She swept a drowsy hand across Kouyou’s side of the bed, finding only cool sheets. 

The faint sizzle of eggs drifting in from the kitchen pulled her gently toward the morning Kouyou was making. She propped herself against the bed frame, stretching leisurely and catlike before sliding free of the comforter.

She let her legs spill over the side of the bed, one after the other. Her phone buzzed somewhere in the sheets, persistent, pleading. She let it starve—whatever fresh problem it held for her could wait. Slipping a silky robe over her shoulders, Yosano made for the kitchen. 

Kouyou worked at the stove, loose and unhurried; the sight of her tugged Yosano fully awake. Rose-colored locks hung loosely, pinned with effortless grace at the nape of her neck. Steam curled from the pan as she slid the eggs onto plates, the soft scrape of metal on ceramic whispering through the quiet.

“Good morning,” Kouyou said, a knowing smile threading through her voice. “I thought you might wake hungry.”

“Mhm,” Yosano hummed, pleased. She padded over to wrap her arms around Kouyou’s waist, taking in the familiar notes of citrus and soft florals. “Have you been awake long?”

“Only for an hour.” Turning to face Yosano, Kouyou gently tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “Chuuya called—he sounded concerned. Dazai-san seems to be searching for you, so they’re on the way here.”

“Unless someone’s bleeding, they can wait.”

“Unfortunately, Chuuya doesn’t agree,” Kouyou concluded. “Would you like tea or coffee?”

“Coffee.” She sighed and rested her head against Kouyou’s collarbone. “I’ll need a kick in the ass before that pair of walking disasters gets here.”

Amusement twitched in the corners of Kouyou’s mouth. Her hand traced slow circles at the small of Yosano’s back, steady and reassuring. “Surely Dazai-san is leagues ahead in terms of… disaster potential. Chuuya had the decency to call with a warning—he even managed an apology for the trouble.”

Lifting her gaze to meet Kouyou’s, Yosano frowned. “He’s such an asshole—he knows I’m here and still decided to interrupt us.”

“Perhaps you should speak with your president about loaning Dazai-san back to the Port Mafia on days like this,” Kouyou offered, perfectly straight-faced. “For your health. He’s infamous not only for his nullification ability—his talent for irritation matches no other.”

A groan escaped Yosano. “You’re not wrong. That jackass outdoes Ranpo and Chuuya combined, on a good day. He’s lucky my bone saw is still at the office.” She paused, musing. “What were you going to do if I was still asleep when they showed up?”

Kouyou traced a thumb over her cheek, the smallest invitation to meet her eyes. “I do have some unfinished business with Dazai-san, of course. Sorting that out would have bought some time for you to wake in peace.“

Yosano chuckled as she leaned into Kouyou’s delicate touch. “I can’t think of anyone else more deserving of your wrath.”

“Well, the damage is done—let’s have our breakfast before the shorter one delivers his long-limbed nuisance to our doorstep. Then, you can dress for the day.” Pressing a kiss to Yosano’s tousled hair, she broke away, making for the coffee pot.

Yosano curled a hand around the mug Kouyou offered, taking in the rich aroma before sipping. No sooner had it left her lips, Kouyou set their plates opposite each other on the wooden table. A moment later, she eased into her seat, absently brushing along Yosano’s free hand. Idle conversation ebbed and flowed as rain kept time against the windows.

Mornings like this—familiar as they’d become—never failed to ground her. After a grueling week of investigations at the ADA, nothing was more welcome than unkempt sheets, light streaking through blush-colored sheers over the windows, the smell of Kouyou’s robe seeping into her skin.

Yosano finished the last of her coffee and rose from the table, collecting their dishes to place in the sink. “I’ll have a bath and get ready. Please make sure they don’t destroy anything—I was hoping to spend another night with you.” Pausing as she passed by, Yosano brushed a kiss over Kouyou’s lips.

“I’ll guard the furniture with my life,” Kouyou chirped, giving Yosano’s hip a light squeeze as she trailed off. 

Water hissed to life down the hall, steam already beginning to feather beneath the door. The soft rhythm of their morning—running water, ceramic clinks, the distant hum of the city through rain-streaked windows—settled back into place. Kouyou smiled to herself, savoring Yosano’s warmth still dancing over her.

A chime echoed through the apartment—the front buzzer, sharp against the quiet. 

Kouyou exhaled once, patient, resigned. She set her mug down with precise elegance and crossed to the door. The unfortunate sight in the peephole confirmed her prediction.

Chuuya stood politely beneath the frame, backpack tucked under one arm, drops still beading on the brim of his hat. Behind him, Dazai lingered a half-step back—gaunt, jittery, eyes settling on anything but Kouyou.

“Good morning, Ane-san.” Chuuya removed his hat with grace that only appeared when Kouyou was watching. “Sorry for this.”

Kouyou stepped aside to let him in. “You’re forgiven, of course. He—” she tipped her chin toward Dazai “—is on thin ice.”

Dazai jolted like a startled animal. “Ane-san,” he bowed, too deeply, too quickly, wobbling. “Lovely home. Charming. Very…pink. Did you renovate? Chuuya must have—”

“I did not,” she replied flatly. “Come inside, boy—and do not act so familiar.”

His mouth opened like a thought was forming—but nothing came out. Instead, he stiffened, slinking through the doorway with unsettling obedience.

Chuuya slipped off his shoes with practiced neatness, setting the backpack beside them. Dazai, naturally, struggled with his for an unnecessarily long time, nearly falling over them as he followed. Poised as ever, Kouyou pretended not to notice.

Kouyou’s sitting room was, of course, immaculate—soft lighting, carefully arranged cushions, a faint perfume of sandalwood lingering in the air. An elegant tea set sat on the chabudai, patiently awaiting its next brew.

“Akiko is washing up. You’ll wait until she’s ready,” she said, scooping up the tea tray.

“Of course,” Chuuya nodded, taking the seat nearest the window. Dazai—who had been trailing behind like a man approaching his execution—did not. 

Kouyou disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the pair in silence.

“Sit down,” Chuuya hissed. “You’re being weird.”

Dazai continued pacing the edge of the rug—left, then right—silent and unspooling. 

“Osamu. Stop.”

The brunet turned on his heel. “This is taking entirely too long.”

“We’ve been here for less than five minutes!” he snapped. 

“I am not here for tea time with that nightmare of a woman, Chuuya.”

Chuuya dug into his coat pocket, producing a small packet. He snatched Dazai’s wrist mid-stride, pressing it into his hand.

Dazai inspected the pills, then Chuuya. 

“You’re drugging me.”

“Yes. Nicely.”

“You’re too dedicated to life and your wine to risk mixing pills into it.” A pause. “Where did you even get this?” Dazai already knew the answer before it came.

“It’s not for me, asshole—Boss had me carry these around whenever I have to work with you. Said they’re for preventing one of your suicidal escapades during business hours.”

Dazai huffed a laugh, the sound drained of its usual contrived color. “Of course he did.” 

He tore open the packet with his teeth and swallowed the pills dry. “This won’t work, you know,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, I figured. Humor me—I’m just trying to get you calm for twenty minutes.”

A retort burned in Dazai’s throat, instantly doused by Chuuya’s crossed arms.

He raked a hand through fiery curls. “Just sit down, drink the tea she pours you, and don’t piss her off.”

He lowered onto the cushion. Chuuya almost regretted asking him to. Dazai sat with impeccable posture—knees together, hands folded neatly in his lap. Perfectly still. Perfectly wrong. Every few seconds, a tiny, involuntary twitch pulsed through his shoulder. Chuuya watched him from the window seat, arms crossed tight, waiting for the next spiral like it was a storm rolling in.

“You weren’t this keyed up back at my apartment.”

Dazai tipped his head, voice dropping a shade. “That was different…I was occupied.”

Chuuya leaned in, breath tickling in Dazai’s ear. “Try that tone again when Kouyou isn’t eight feet away.”

Kouyou returned an instant later with the tea tray in hand. She paused at the threshold—just long enough to skim over Dazai with unwavering skepticism. Porcelain clicked softly as she set the teacups down, the rhythm nudging Dazai to sit even straighter. 

She served Chuuya first. Tea splashed into the china, sharp against the hush. 

“Thank you, Ane-san,” Chuuya managed, voice pitched a shade too bright.

“No need, my Chuuya,” she said, placing a hand over his. ”You look well. I trust the scarf I sent agrees with you?” 

Chuuya loosened under the familiar warmth of her voice—always irritatingly good at disarming him. “That’s gracious of you,” he snorted. “Yeah, you’ve got good taste, Ane-san.”

Dazai twitched again, annoyance thrumming in his veins. Of course, he didn’t actually want tea—but his cup sat neglected, a token of Kouyou’s contempt. He cleared his throat with unnecessary force.

Kouyou suppressed a sigh, filling his cup like it was a punishment. 

“How kind of you,” Dazai cooed. He made a point of staring into it, as if checking for poison—unfair, because Kouyou wasn’t that sloppy.

Her expression changed, cold and smooth as glass. “I would like to know why you’re here, Dazai-san.”

“Ane-san—if I wanted a cross-examination, I’d have paid Mori-san a visit.”

Chuuya fired a warning look from behind his cup, seconds away from incurring another charge on his rap sheet.

Kouyou blinked once, her expression unchanged, but the temperature in the room dropped three degrees. The teacup she recentered in its saucer seemed the only thing keeping her anchored. “Perhaps I should call him in, then. I’m sure he would be pleased to see you.”

His retort was disrupted by the soft patter of footsteps drifting down the hall. Yosano emerged in a pale robe, towel draped around her neck, a damp strand of hair clinging to her face. 

“Kouuu-chan, did you move the—” She caught sight of the unfortunate trio. “Oh. They’re here.” 

Dazai’s attention skittered across the room like a loose marble, ricocheting from her to Kouyou to Chuuya with alarming speed. He lurched upright. “You weren’t kidding…” he croaked.

Chuuya dropped his face into his hand. “I told you three times on the way here.”

“I thought you were lying to distract me.”

Yosano approached, eyes narrowing with clinical precision. “Distract him from what? Chuuya…why the hell does he look like that? Where are his bandages?”

Before Chuuya could speak, Dazai cut in. “Yosano-sensei, I am trying out a new look. I am also in excellent condition,” he said, saccharine and strained. “We need to go. Now.” He swayed—barely, but enough for Chuuya to spring into action.

“Wait.” He pulled Dazai back onto the cushion. “Tell her what’s going on.”

Impatient fingers plucked at loosely fitted bandages. “Chuuya. Please. I don’t have time for foreplay.” 

Kouyou’s teacup hit its saucer with a seismic clink. 

Exasperated, the doctor pinched the bridge of her nose—not at the implication, but the timing. “Someone explain. Clearly. Before I throw you both through a wall.”

Chuuya exhaled through his teeth. “He’s been out since dawn, looking for you. Breaking into your apartment, harassing local businesses, pacing circles in my living room. And—” he threw Dazai a baleful look “—he’s on whatever cocktail of uppers he found in the back of his medicine cabinet.”

“Supplements, Chuuya,” Dazai insisted. He kept losing track of where he’d put his hands—on the table, clutching the cushion, digging crescents into his knees. “Enrichment for the soul.”

Patience wearing thinner than he would’ve liked Kouyou to see, Chuuya sat back down, smoothing his hands over his trousers. “Somehow, I can still smell the sake on you. Want to explain that?”

Dazai blinked slowly, the motion too deliberate to be natural.

“I gave him what I’m guessing is some kind of sedative a few minutes ago. He should calm down, Akiko.”

“You don’t even know what you gave him!?” Yosano crossed the distance between them, thumping Chuuya on the back of the head before turning to Dazai.

A vision of stoicism, Yosano knelt slightly, looking Dazai dead-on. Something troubling swirled behind her eyes—magenta and serrated—familiar in a way that didn’t belong to her, turning words to dust in his mouth. For a moment, some ancient flight response ached beneath his ribs.

A cool hand clasped around his wrist, fingers pressed to his pulse. “Dazai-san.” Her voice leveled him immediately. “Why, exactly, were you looking for me?”

His mouth opened, then closed again before the next lie tumbled from his lips. “The Shack.” His throat bobbed like the word scraped on its way out.

Yosano went rigid. Tiny droplets slid from her hair onto the floor. She inhaled slowly. “...Are you saying this is about that stupid restaurant again?”

“It’s not stupid, and you know that,” he asserted. Traffic whirred by, a dull rhythm beneath the tension.  “It’s a harrowing spiritual trial that requires—”

“You’re craving crab,” she deadpanned.

“...Intensely.” He stared back, all but a sinner seeking solace. 

Nails clicking gently against the lacquered table, Kouyou raised a hand, silencing the room. “Akiko—what is he on about?”

She reached for a penlight in a nearby drawer, promptly flashing it into Dazai’s pupils, checking their reflexivity. A tiny twinge of guilt pawed at him for his earlier assault on Kunikida’s eyes.

 “...The Crab Shack.” Her attention landed on Chuuya. “You didn’t think to mention that’s what this is about?”

“Why is this my fault?! He’s the one who’s going apeshit over crab,” he said, flinging a hand in Dazai’s direction.

“Apeshit is an understatement.” She rubbed her temples, looking one bad answer away from another bout of malpractice. “His eyes are blown, and his pulse is racing. When was the last time he slept? Or drank water?”

Chuuya threw his hands up. “You think I tracked his self-care schedule between him terrorizing random people and skipping around the cemetery?”

“I told you,” Dazai murmured, voice stretched thin. “I am fine—and I’ll be even better once we get there.”

“I can actually see you vibrating from here,” Yosano said, matter-of-fact.

“That’s unrelated.”

Kouyou stole a long, scrutinizing look at Dazai from behind her cup. “Akiko, if he vomits on my floor, he will clean it.”

“I have never—” Dazai said, visibly bristling.

“You have,” Chuuya cut in.

“Just stay there.” Yosano slipped into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a water bottle and a protein bar. Shoving both into Dazai’s hands, she lowered to the cushion beside him. “Eat. If you drop dead, I’ll leave you where you fall.”

He eyed the bar, weighing its crimes. “This feels punitive, Yosano-sensei. You wouldn’t let me die on Ane-san’s rug.”

“It is,” she replied, settling. “I’d drag you into the hallway first. Eat.”

Chuuya’s pills had begun to soften his edges; his knee bounced less violently now, jittering in smaller, uneven bursts. Against every defiant impulse, he begrudgingly tore the wrapper open. Something in his shoulders sagged, just barely.

Beside the window, Chuuya settled back into the cushion with a sigh, arms folded, watching for signs of another spiral. Kouyou, however, rose without a word. 

“I have some business calls to make,” she said, apathy thinly veiled as her excuse. “Call if you need me, Akiko, Chuuya.” The quiet fall of her footsteps disappeared down the hallway, leaving them in silence.

Once Dazai swallowed a third bite, Yosano leaned back a fraction. “Good, he’s finally starting to shut up.”

Dazai attempted a glare, only managing a weighted squint. “I’m conserving energy.”

“For what?” Chuuya shot back. “Ruining someone else’s day?”

Another blink, longer this time. “If necessary.”

Yosano held up a commanding hand. “Enough—since he can’t string together a coherent explanation, I’ll do it.”

Chuuya shifted, dropping one knee over the other. “Well?” 

“The last time this happened, he didn’t stop at ‘craving.’ The week before was quiet—boring, even. Dazai-san was showing up to meetings on time, doing paperwork without whining—”

“That’s how you knew something was wrong?” Chuuya interrupted.

“First red flag. The second came when he walked out of a mission briefing with no warning, no reason. Just got up and left, then skipped out on work for a week.”

Chuuya frowned. “And none of you followed him?”

She shrugged. “It was normal Dazai behavior at first. Four days in, we started worrying he’d finally done himself in, so we tried calling, texting, checking every bridge in the prefecture. Nothing. By then, Kunikida-san started sleeping at the office—he thought he’d miss something if he went home. Ranpo kept telling him it wasn’t a kidnapping, but that just made it worse.”

A thin noise escaped Dazai—half laugh, half wince.

“Then, Kunikida-san gets a call at one in the morning. Turns out the police picked Dazai-san up for trespassing.”

Chuuya tried and failed to stifle a laugh. “You got arrested?”

“Detained,” Dazai rasped. He sank further into the cushion, head resting against the wall behind him.

“There’s no way you would get picked up for a break-in, Demon Prodigy,” he sniggered.

Dazai only hummed; an answer seemed to dance just out of his reach.

Yosano cleared her throat. “He could barely stand—feverish, shaking, dehydrated, and refusing to explain anything. Kunikida-san picked him up and dragged him back to the ADA—kicking and screaming. That’s when things got…bad.”

Wind scraped harder against the balcony railing.

Her voice dropped, low and secretive, as if Dazai might pounce at the mere mention. “Kunikida-san got him inside, but not without being clawed half to death. He thought Dazai-san was having a psychotic break—he was wired, shaking, muttering about ‘finding him.’ When Kunikida-san tried to stop him from tearing up the office, Dazai-san grabbed the nearest stapler.”

Chuuya stopped stirring his tea. “He didn’t.”

Yosano nodded once, grim. “Two staples into the back of Kunikida-san’s hand, then two more straight through his sleeve into a desk. Pinned him clean. Dazai-san took off the second he was stuck—Kunikida-san had to tase him just to get him to stop long enough to pull free. He went down hard, and Kunikida-san dragged him into the conference room, locked the door, and called Shachou for backup.”

A few seconds passed before Chuuya managed. “He’s gotten soft since joining the Agency. Your walking rulebook got off easy.” He flicked a glance at Dazai—unnerved when he didn’t fire back—only to find closed eyes and shallow, dozing breaths. 

“Well, here’s the really eerie part. Dazai-san woke up in the conference room while Shachou was on the way. He tried getting out every way he could—checking the vents and windows, picking the lock, lighting reports on fire to set off the sprinkler system…until he just stopped. He calmly sat on the floor and started unwrapping his arm. When he reached the end, he rewound it. Then did it again, and again, and again. Perfectly neat each time. Kunikida-san said it was like watching someone stuck in a loop.” 

She smoothed her hands over the cushion beneath her. “He didn’t stop until Kunikida-san went inside, doused the fire, and grabbed him. He kept asking to be let out, but never struggled. Kunikida-san said it was a side of him he’d never seen before: calm, empty, fixated. Every word he said sounded like he was repeating lines someone else had written.”

“That tracks…” He poured another cup of tea to hide the chill running through him.

“Kunikida-san told me afterward that something was wrong with Dazai-san’s ability. Every time he touched him that night, No Longer Human felt like someone had wiped the inside of his head clean. No thoughts, no emotion, just…blank.”

“When Shachou got there, he tried talking him down,” Yosano continued. “Dazai-san walked up to him, put a hand on his collar, and pinned him against the wall. Not to hurt him. Just to…look at him. Like he was checking whether he was real.”

“Yeah…I never got used to that either.” A beat followed while his jaw worked, teeth catching the inside of his cheek. He could’ve said more—years’ worth—but not with Dazai barely unconscious beside him.

“Shachou described the same feeling Kunikida-san did. When Dazai-san touched him, it wasn’t the usual nullification. He could still see Dazai-san, but for a few seconds, he couldn’t feel himself. No intent, grounding—nothing.” She exhaled slowly. “Like standing next to a hole in the world. It shook him more than he wanted to admit.”

A pit took hold in Chuuya’s stomach.

“It didn’t take long before they called Ranpo and me in. I had to sedate him before Ranpo could get a read on the situation. Once he finally stopped fighting that, he told me what little he could.” 

She hesitated—the slightest crack in composure. “That’s when I had to tell him I knew Joe-san. And the second I did, everything clicked. We went to the Shack the next morning.”

The room breathed around them—the gentle spin of the ceiling fan, quiet tea cooling on the chabudai, the steady rise and fall of Dazai’s chest.

“Akiko…how many times has this happened before?”

“I’m not sure. I only had the misfortune of being involved last time—prying about anything further back still feels like a step too far with him.”

“Okay…okay—so, who the hell is Joe-san?”

She rested her elbows on her knees, weighing how much to say. Of course, she knew that Chuuya could be trusted—but Joe was someone she only spoke about with Dazai. “He runs the Crab Shack. I treated him years ago, before the Agency. He was a grease-burn magnet who cooked for Mori’s men in the war. He’s…odd, but kind. And he’s been under Dazai-san’s skin since he was eighteen.”

Dazai made a tiny noise in his half-sleep—unreadable, with a tinge of annoyance.

“I think it’s the connection,” she went on, voice dropping to a whisper. “Joe seems to be one of the only people to have approached him like Dazai-san wasn’t a threat or a tragedy—just a person. No tiptoeing.” She glanced over at him, softened despite herself. “Dazai-san didn’t know what to do with that. So it stuck with him.”

Chuuya leaned in closer. “So you’re telling me that—this whole week—he’s been losing his mind over some chef?”

“Not the chef,” she corrected. “The connection. The Shack is where Dazai-san goes when he can’t bear to deal with what’s actually wrong.”

Chuuya stared at Dazai a beat too long—clearly piecing together more than he’d admit out loud.

Before he could speak, Dazai startled awake, though it looked more like malfunction than fear. “We’re leaving,” he declared, instantly trying to stand. 

He got exactly halfway up before Yosano shoved him back down with two fingers on his chest. “You’re not going anywhere until I’m dressed. If you bolt, Chuuya has permission to drag you by the ankles.”

“That’s excessive,” Dazai muttered.

“That’s mercy,” she replied. Rising to her feet, she ruffled his hair before disappearing down the hall.

A softer quiet settled in. Street traffic. Air conditioning. The occasional, faint voice from the end of the hall.

Dazai rubbed at his eyes, groggy irritation giving him a momentary illusion of normalcy. “She always does this.”

Chuuya stretched, cracking his knuckles. “You mean ‘makes sure you don’t shrivel and die’?”

“That’s the worst part,” Dazai grumbled.

Chuuya snorted—short, unwillingly fond. “If you weren’t half-sedated right now, I’d smack you for that.”

Dazai slouched sideways until his arm pressed against Chuuya’s leg. “Your apartment was quieter.”

“Only because I kept you from getting creative.”

For a moment, Dazai almost smiled—thin, unsteady, but real enough to soften the line of his shoulders. “...I didn’t hear a lot of the end. Let’s keep it that way—I’m sure she saved the real dramatics for then.”

They sat for a beat, the words settling between them. 

Moments later, Yosano reappeared—hair pinned, coat fastened, the sharp edges of professionalism set back into place—with Kouyou a half-step behind. Without a word, she turned to Kouyou, hand settling behind her neck with quiet familiarity.

“Please, Akiko—be safe,” Kouyou said softly.

Hand dropping to grasp Kouyou’s, Yosano let her fondness pull a smile to her mouth. “We’ll be fine. It’s just a restaurant.”

Kouyou’s gaze snapped to Dazai. “I trust that you will be no more of a nuisance than you usually are.”

“Ane-san, you can trust that I will be at least twice that.”

Yosano grabbed him by the elbow, tugging him up. He wobbled until Chuuya wordlessly caught his other side. 

“Let’s go before he decides the balcony is a shortcut,” Yosano jabbed.

Morning had slipped into early afternoon, glimmers of sunshine breaking through clouds. The trio stepped out, Kouyou lingering in the threshold, arms folded, a sliver of fondness buried under all her composure.

“Bring him back in one piece. I do not want…complications from Ougai-dono.”

“No guarantees,” Yosano joked. 

“And Chuuya—do visit soon, without your pet.”

He dropped to a polite bow, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. “Of course, Ane-san.”

The door clicked shut as they stepped into the drizzle, finally beginning the pilgrimage to the Shack.