Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Ahh…gahhh…cack,” Atsushi choked through another cough, nearly gagging as he felt something climb up his esophagus. He covered his mouth with his hand and spat the wet, crumpled thing into his hand. He blinked through tears, squinting at the sight of what looked like a saliva-sodden white flower. It was thoroughly desecrated, missing petals and well… slimy. Atsushi gave the white thing a concerned look before tossing it in the toilet. 

It was spring now, so maybe he’d inhaled a drifting flower on the way home from work. He grumbled, feeling another cough press against his throat and he coughed weakly into his hand, expelling another petal. He gave it a disgusted sneer and wiped it off on a towel. Yeah, I probably just swallowed some sakura petals. That's not unusual or anything, especially since they're so prolific.

“Oni-chan,” Kyouka called, her voice trembling with concern. “Is everything alright? You sound like you're dying. Are you sick? Should I prepare some tea?” The young woman didn’t bother knocking as she entered the bathroom; four years of being roommates had made boundaries practically non-existent. Meaning if she felt something was wrong, she’d barge right in.

“I’m fine, Kyouka, just had something go down the wrong pipe,” he lied, though guilt immediately settled into place. He hated to deceive her, but it wasn’t exactly normal for people to cough up flowers. Plus, it was a minor thing, and he didn’t want to deal with the embarrassment of admitting he’d been unknowingly swallowing flowers.

“Are you sure Oni-chan? It didn’t sound very healthy.” The 18-year-old crept forward, pushing onto her tiptoes to press the back of her hand to his forehead. Even after four years, Kyouka hadn’t grown much, a couple of inches at most. Which did little to help her diminutive stature, especially considering Atsushi had been growing in his own right; he was almost as tall as Dazai now and much broader than when he’d been 18. Amazing what proper nutrition and a good gym routine can do for a guy. “Well, you're not running hot?” She pondered. “I think I’ll make you some tea; it should help soothe your cough.”

“Thanks, Kyouka-chan.” Tea would probably help. At the very least it’d sooth his throbbing throat. He gave the younger woman an obliging look as she walked off towards their kitchen. 

He was grateful for her, more than she’d ever known. As much as she believed he’d saved her, he knew the feeling was reciprocated. Kyouka had taught him what it was to be a family and to be responsible for another's well being. 

He sighed, brushing two fingers over his adam's apple and fighting back another cough. He gave the flower in the toilet a disgusted look before flushing it and walking back towards the kitchen.

The walk to work went smoothly. Thanks to the tea his cough had seemingly disappeared, though he was still unnerved from the novelty of it all. As he walked through the Sakura blooms, he made sure to keep his mouth pressed firmly shut. There was no way he’d go through coughing up any more bothersome flowers.  Kyouka simply gave him an odd look, but didn’t question his silence, nor the serious look that had pressed into every line on his face.

Soon enough, they were climbing the stairs to the office. Kyouka went in first, stopping to take off her street shoes before entering the main workspace. It had been relatively calm in the four years following Dostoevsky's defeat. And life had maintained a pleasant cycle: go to work, get assigned a mission or fill out reports, leave work, get drinks or dinner with friends, and go home and yearn longingly for the attention of a certain brunette. 

Atsushi clenched his fists, heart beating frantically as his mind filled with unwarranted images of his handsome senior. He needed to stop thinking about Dazai, the last thing he needed was to spend the rest of his shift fantasizing about impossible scenarios. Or worse letting his daydreams get a little too real, which only ever resulted in awkward escapes to the bathroom. 

He opened the door with a smile, ready to start the day. Kunikida and Tanizaki were already in the office chatting idly about something or other while Naomi and Haruno carried in stacks of freshly printed paperwork. Dazai, as usual, was nowhere to be seen. He was a late riser and wouldn’t wander into the office until he was good and ready. 

“Good morning, everyone,” he called out fondly while making his way to his seat. A cacophony of good mornings filled the office, and Atsushi sat down, turning on his computer to respond to some day-old emails. The lull of busy work passed the time quickly and soon enough Dazai was making his grand entrance.

“Oh Atsushi-kun! I missed you soooo much~” The brunette cooed excitedly and Atsushi chuckled softly.

“It’s only been a couple days.”

“2 days too many!” The older man threw himself over his back, eagerly rubbing their cheeks together and Atsushi felt his face burn. Dazai pressed a big wet kiss to his cheek, with an over-annunciated “muah” and Atsushi’s soul nearly left his body. It drove him crazy when Dazai acted like this. Treated him like the center of the universe when he knew none of it was real. Dazai had a boyfriend, and Atsushi was just a fun bit of entertainment. Something to mess with to get a reaction.

Firm hands dug into his shoulders, and Atsushi shuddered, but melted into the touch. “Oh Atsushi, you’re far too tense, you need to relax more, my dear.” The older man began to massage his shoulders, long fingers rolling over his knots, loosening the tightly bound muscles. “You’re soooo muscular now Atsushi, like a body builder, I’m so jealous.” As Dazai fawned over him and Atsushi felt his mood sink. Why are you doing this Dazai-san? It’s too cruel to lead me on like this. Every touch, every time you say my name, I fall in love a little more. It’s just plain sadistic.

Maybe that was the point? Maybe Atsushi was too obvious and Dazai had caught on to his crush. He wasn’t exactly trying to hide it. And the older detective was a master of reading people. In the past 3 years he must have caught on and realized Atsushi’s star eyes were more than just naive admiration. “Hmmm Atsushi?”

“Huh what… sorry Dazai, could you say that again.” The brunette's fingers paused, arms wrapping around Atsushi’s shoulders so his hands were intertwined beneath his chin.

“I said you could use a nice deep massage.” Atsushi blushed, thoughts trailing to more sensual massages. 

“Ah yeah probably.”

“Ooo we could do a couples massage.” Atsushi swallowed hard and frowned deeper. Dazai was just too cruel, as if they could ever be a couple. His behavior was getting way too personal for Atsushi’s tastes. Especially considering that Dazai’s boyfriend was one of Atsushi’s best friends. It wasn’t fair to Chuuya that his boyfriend was rubbing all over another man. Even if Dazai was just being ‘friendly’ or at worst, playing a very mean joke.

If Atsushi was brave he’d call Dazai out. Ask him what he was thinking. But he wasn’t brave, and calling Dazai out for his cruelty, intentional or not, would open a conversation Atsushi very much did not want to have.

He was happy to have a one-sided love with Dazai and for it to stay that way. What was so wrong with loving from afar. Dazai found his soulmate and Atsushi had found the love of his life. It was just unfortunate that they weren't meant to be. 

“How… um. How are things with Chuuya-san?” He deflected, desperate to change the subject and hopefully get Dazai’s attention away from teasing him.

The taller man hugged him tighter, resting his chin on his shoulder, as his voice quavered with unrestrained joy, “Chuuya and I? Oh, wonderful! In fact…” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “...we’re getting married soon.”

“M-married?” Atsushi blinked, eyes blurring as his breath caught. 

“Well, not legally of course,” Dazai huffed with a laugh, digging his chin deeper into his shoulder bones, “That’s not exactly an option here now is it. But we figured with a little bit of the Mafia’s bureaucratic prowess we could make things work.”

Dazai hummed to himself, and Atsushi’s ears rang. Knowing Dazai was dating Chuuya was one thing, them getting married was an entirely different animal. When they got married, where would Atsushi fit into the picture? Sure he and Chuuya were friends but he hardly imagined the gravity user would be fine with Atsushi third wheeling their marriage. “You should see Chibi. He’s already stressing about planning it. Set a date for next summer and everything.”

Something in Atsushi’s chest cracked. But his smile didn’t falter, even as his eyes began to water and his nose flared with sniffles.

“That’s… that’s amazing,” he said softly, forcing his voice to stay steady. “I’m happy for you. Both of you.” Dazai stood back up and patted his head affectionately. Oblivious to the stabbing pain in Atsushi’s chest as he struggled to fight off tears. 

“I’m actually a bit nervous, if you can believe it. But I know you’ll be there to keep me in line, right, Atsushi.” The white-haired man opened his mouth and choked on a hard breath. “You're gonna be my best man…” Atsushi’s vision blurred and he gasped, clutching his chest as a stabbing pain shot through his lungs. He exhaled sharply with a loud cough and jerked forward violently, hand clamped over his mouth. He coughed and coughed, throat raw from pain and hand wet with velvety soft…petals?

“Atsushi-kun… are you–” Choking, the were-tiger rushed to his feet, meet Dazai’s concerned gaze and blinking back tears. More flowers fluttered up his esophagus as he frantically wobbled to the bathroom. He threw open a stall and collapsed to his knees. Clutching the porcelain bowl he hovered above it, hacking violently and coughing out more flowers. He spit them out as they came, the cough steadily growing drier with every wheeze. 

Finally the fit subsided, leaving the man sobbing over the bowl, taking pained labored inhales. He tried his best to count his breaths and steady his heart. But he couldn’t, not when everything was falling apart.

How could Dazai ask him to stand at his side as his best-man when he yearned so deeply for him. It’d be torture watching him stand there, eyes blazing with love as he said his vows. To watch Chuuya with barely contained jealousy, wishing he was in the ginger’s place. 

He let out a wheeze and sneered, wiping at his spit-sodden mouth. 

I’m so fucking pathetic, I’m useless, Dazai will never love me. 

He pulled at the roots of his hair, choking out ugly sobs, head sinking further until he was resting his forehead on the edge of the lid. He was being so childish, thinking so selfishly. He’d put aside his feelings and be there for Dazai just like he’d always been. 

He gripped the bowl, using all his strength to sit up and shut the toilet seat lid, then he sat back leaning into the cold porcelain as he clutched his mouth. His chest cracked and he hacked up another flower into his hand. This one was perfectly intact, pure petals mocking him. He growled and crushed it in his hand.

“Fuck!” He’d been so in his head about the whole Dazai-Nakahara wedding situation the puking flowers thing hadn’t even phased him. He flicked the flower into the trash with a look of anguish.

Clearly, not just a fluke case of swallowing flowers. What the hell had caused it?

Creak

Atsushi felt his heart stop as the bathroom door opened and he shut a hand over his mouth to quiet his frenzied panting. 

“Atsushi-kun?” Dazai’s voice warbled and the were-tiger’s eyes blurred. Please no. He was already struggling to control his emotions. “Sounded like you were coughing up glass. Don’t tell me you caught a cold?” Atsushi bit his lip trying to decide if it was worth responding. Maybe if he minded his mouth, Dazai would get bored and leave him alone. “Atsushi-kun?” Dazai asked his voice louder, so close it rang in his ears. 

Blood pounded in his head, dulling his senses and his lungs refused to expand in his terror. “I know you’re in here, dear.” The white-haired man finally managed to exhale, sucking in sweet, relieving oxygen. 

“Ahhhh…yeah…” he rasped, shocked at the strain on his vocal cords. “I’m fine Dazai. Guess I caught… ahhh a bug… or something.”

Feet shuffled closer and Atsushi preemptively leaned back on the toilet. 

“Oh no! That’s no good. Do you want any medicine? I’m sure Kunikda won’t mind me borrowing his wallet to get you some cough syrup.” Atsushi wheezed softly, another bunch of petals brushing over his lips. Would cough medicine even do anything for this? He still had no idea what was wrong. But if it would distract Dazai he’d gladly send the older man on a side-quest.

“That’d… cough… be great… cough,” he managed, relieved when Dazai’s shadow lengthened as he stepped away from the stall door. 

“Hang in there, Atsushi,” he called and Atsushi’s tense shoulders dropped as the other man’s footsteps grew quieter. 

Alone at least. 

He massaged his throat using his free hand to pull out his phone. Leaning forward, the white-haired man braced his elbows on his knees as he began to research.

‘Why am I coughing up flowers?’ he searched, waiting for a moment for the results to come up. 

Hanahaki: an exceedingly rare disease, contracted by those afflicted with unrequited love. Also known as the most dangerous symptom of love sickness.

Atsushi felt his pulse drop, spine tingling as he continued to read.

Though there are few recorded cases, it is reasonably believed that there is only one cure. The plagued must find their love requited or the flower will continue to fester in their respiratory system until, inevitably, their lungs collapse and they suffocate in a slow and painful death.

Atsushi flushed, his heart pounding painfully in his ribs. 

I’m going to die… die… die for loving…Dazai?

A tear dripped onto his phone screen, the liquid refracting from the screen’s light and Atsushi blinked. He rubbed thoughtlessly at his leaking eyes trying his best to keep the waterworks under control.

Dying of love…

The absurdity of the statement alone made him laugh, though it came out shaky and wet, followed by a desperate hiccup. More tears streaked hotly against his dry skin, and he slammed a hand against his chest, as if he could knock some sense into his treacherous heart.

“No. No!” he he demanded, through sobs, as though that would make his tragic situation any better. He forced himself to inhale deeply, hold it, then exhale through his mouth. His ribs still ached, and his throat burned raw. He sniffled hard, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “This is stupid,” he muttered. “I’m not going to die. That’s ridiculous. I’ve survived worse than this. I have Byakko; nothing can hurt me permanently. It’s just flowers.” He trailed off, trying to convince himself, though the words rang empty. 

But the alternative, facing that truth, was so much worse. “It’ll go away,” he decided firmly, voice steadier now, as if saying it aloud would manifest it into reality. “It’ll pass. Just a cold. A weird, freak… flowery cold. I’ll be fine.”

He pushed himself up with a shaky groan and wrenched open the stall door, managing to huddle over the sink and splash some cold water on his face. He rubbed at his red, puffy eyes before managing to open them and take in the whole picture. He looked hollow; his cheeks were too pale, skin too clammy, like a corpse playing at being alive.  Still, he straightened his tie and forced a smile anyway.

By the time he emerged from the bathroom, Dazai was thankfully still out. The white-haired man sighed a pained breath of relief and slunk back to his desk, struggling to slide into position without upsetting his tender respiratory system. He focused on the stack of paperwork Kunikida had left for him, tapping his pen rhythmically, desperate for something to occupy his mind.

The door banged open a few minutes later, and Dazai strode in cheerfully, waving a plastic bag. 

“I come bearing gifts~!” He tossed the cough syrup onto Atsushi’s desk with a flourish. “Here, Atsushi-kun, hopefully this helps suppress your nasty cough.” The younger man managed a grateful expression, though his lips wobbled as he met Dazai’s molten chocolate gaze. 

“T-thanks, Dazai-san.” He unscrewed the bottle, and took a lidful of medicine, only gaging slightly at the rancid flavor and the burn as it went down his throat. He tried to refocus on his work, but his eyes betrayed him. Every time Dazai laughed, Atsushi’s gaze snapped up. When the older man leaned against Kunikida’s desk, spinning a story with that easy charm, Atsushi’s chest squeezed a little tighter. His pen hovered uselessly over the same sentence for ten straight minutes as he gazed forlornly at the picture-perfect image of Dazai perched atop his own desk, swinging his legs whilst humming some tune under his breath. Light spilled across him from the window, catching in his hair, turning him into something untouchable and bright.

Why is he so beautiful? Atsushi pondered hopelessly. Why is my life so damn unfair…suddenly he was stooping forward, as a stabbing pain bloomed like thorns pricking his lungs. 

He sucked in a breath, hand fisting in his shirt as he doubled over, coughing violently into his hand. A cluster of crushed petals spilled against his fingers, and he slammed his hand firmly over his mouth to muffle the sound and hide the innocent white flowers.

“Atsushi?” Dazai glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowing. 

“I’m… cough… gah…achh…fine,” Atsushi wheezed, straightening too quickly, chest burning like someone had raked it with a hot iron. He shoved the flowers into his pocket, praying Dazai wouldn’t notice. The older man gazed at him in genuine concern before inclining his head and returning to staring off into space. 

The were-tiger slumped in his chair, heart pounding, as he stared down at a lone petal, drifting lazily to the floor. “It’ll go away,” he whispered again, voice shaking. “It has to.”

Weeks passed.

The coughing didn’t go away.

He learned to hide it: a neatly folded handkerchief tucked into his pocket, excuses about the flu, sinus infections. But as the days bled into weeks, things only got worse. The flowers were changing, no longer soft, delicate white petals. Now they were full blossoms, sometimes coming up with brittle branches, slowly darkening into a bitter pink tinged at the edges with crimson. They dragged out of his lungs with wrenching, body-breaking coughs, accompanied by splatters of inky blood. Each fit left him weaker; his chest felt heavy and full as if something inside him was taking root and tearing him apart from within.

He kept his head down, coughing into the handkerchief, forcing bright smiles when anyone asked if he was okay. But his trembling hands and the red-stained cloth told another story. He could see their pity, their whispers, and yet when confronted, he’d deflect. He started to avoid Dazai like the plague the taller man had seemingly brought upon him. If the older detective was in the room, Atsushi made it a point to be elsewhere, begging for any reason to leave the office; missions, snack runs, Ranpo babysitting. Anything to avoid Dazai’s lingering pity.

“Atsushi,” Yosano’s voice was frigid in its sharpness, sending a shiver down his spine as she cornered him on his way into the office. Her eyes narrowed in on his poorly hidden blood-flecked handkerchief, and her lips squirmed in a semblance of a frown. “Come with me. Now.” Before he could protest, she grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into the infirmary, before shutting the door behind them with a definitive click. 

Sterile air burned his throat as he took a small breath, and he fought down the urge to cough. He failed miserably, and soon his raw throat was seized with another fit, flowers fluttering up his esophagus, like butterflies on migration. When the fit subsided, he rubbed at his swollen limp nodes.

“I’m fine…” he tried, voice hoarse. Even just talking wreaked flashes of pain through his torn-up throat.

“Don’t,” Yosano cut him off flatly. Her gaze was unwavering, flecked with a tenderness he wasn’t used to. She crossed her arms. “You have Hanahaki.” It wasn’t a question, she knew. Even still, Atsushi froze, sputtering as he tried to scramble for an excuse, another empty lie, but for once, he couldn’t find the will to deny it. His head dropped, gaze sweeping low with shame as he nodded, in a pathetic show of defeat. Yosano sighed, leaning against the counter.

“It’s Dazai, isn’t it?” She tilted her head at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  His heart stuttered. 

“H-how…”

“Atsushi.” She gave him a look that was somehow both exasperated and fond. “It’s painfully obvious. You look at him like he hung the moon. Not to mention you're the only one here who humors his bullshit. And it’s been that way for years. Don’t treat us like we’re stupid; we are detectives after all. God knows how Dazai hasn’t figured it out.” I’m not sure he’s as oblivious as you think, Atsushi wanted to add before thinking better. At the very least, he wanted to give Dazai the benefit of the doubt. 

Atsushi frowned slightly, throat achingly dry, fist squeezing the blood-stained handkerchief in his lap until his knuckles whitened. He cautiously lifted his gaze, wincing as he saw Yosano's stern expression. 

“You need to tell him,” Yosano said firmly. “Hanahaki doesn’t just,” she sighed, eyes shimmering slightly, “fade away. If you want to live, either your love is returned or–”

“No!” Atsushi interjected, the abruptness of the response making his chest seize. He doubled over in a hacking fit, a spray of petals and flecks of blood hitting the floor like an artist's medium to canvas. As the cough subsided, he wiped at his slick mouth with a trembling hand. “No,” he rasped again. “I can’t. If I tell him, Dazai will… he’ll do anything to save me. Even if that means…” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, voice breaking. “Even if that means destroying his own happiness,” Atsushi’s thoughts drifted to his mentor; to his more genuine smiles, to the joking, somewhat antagonistic way he acted with his long-term partner. Chuuya made Dazai happy; they were soulmates, made for each other. “I can’t do that. I won’t. He finally found a reason to live. I won’t take that from him.”

“Atsushi,” The doctor’s expression softened, purple eyes dark and soulful. “You have to tell him,” she urged and Atsushi felt a stabbing pang in his chest. Maybe it was the flowers propagating, expanding through the cavities, snagging on his flesh, hooking deeper and deeper. So overgrown, the damn weed would never come free.

 Or maybe it was his heart. The hopeless organ that clung to the idea of love. A love that was never meant to be. A love that would kill.  “This disease doesn’t care how noble you’re trying to be,” Yosano’s expression softened slightly, but her voice stayed firm. 

“I won’t!” he snapped, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I don’t want him to love me out of obligation. I don’t want him to pity me. If I tell him, I’ll lose him either way. I’d rather—” He didn’t finish the sentence. His lungs seized mid-breath. 

A violent, wrenching cough ripped through him, each cough rolled into the next until he was gasping for breath, only to expel a torrent of petals in place of air. His vision tunneled, pulse dropping, and he lost all motor control. The world spun, colors blurring and bleeding into each other as he toppled sideways off the chair. 

“Atsushi!” Yosano shouted, but the sound was distant and fading more with every passing millisecond.

When Atsushi woke, the world was fuzzy, glaring fluorescents burned his eyes, and his chest ached like someone had dug their fingers between his ribs. He could barely make out the form of Yosano standing over him, arms crossed, expression tight with worry. 

“You passed out,” she said bluntly. “Scared me half to death you damn dumbass. If you had just come to me sooner, it wouldn’t have gotten this bad.” She let out a low groan and combed her hair back. “The flowers are proliferating throughout your respiratory system. You’re running out of time.” He swallowed, the feeling bringing an excruciating pain; like pouring lava down his ragged throat.

 “I… know.” The Dr. shook her head and pulled up a stool, so close she was nearly leaning over him.

“There is another option…” She paused, face sunken in guilt. “Surgery.” Atsushi's ears perked up at the word. And he blinked slowly in confusion. “I can remove the flowers,” she explained. “But the procedure is risky. It’ll cost you… your memories of–” she hesitated, looking away. “Dazai. You’ll forget he ever existed. And on top of that you’ll lose the ability to feel love at all. You’ll be effectively heartless.”

Atsushi stared at her, breath caught in his chest.

Forget Dazai?

Forget his voice, his warmth, the teasing lilt that came into his voice when he cooed Atsushi-kun. Forget everything? He gripped the sheets, heart pounding unevenly. Forgetting Dazai meant forgetting the one who gave him a chance at life. Dazai was his everything.

I don’t want to die, a small voice echoed in the chamber of his mind. Yosano was right, the flowers were growing faster now; thicker plumes, painful thorns, greenery clogging his lungs. But the idea of erasing Dazai from his heart, from his life… could he even survive that? Would a life without him even be worth living?

“I…” he whispered, tears welling again. “I don’t know what to do.” Yosano didn’t push him this time. She just placed a hand gently on his shoulder.

“I wish you weren’t forced to make this choice. But life’s not fair and you don’t have much time. So think carefully.” She gave him a slight smile before sitting up and heading to the doorframe. “Atsushi,” she began, “I’d be sad to see you go.”

The walk home was miserable, every breath brought stabbing pain through his inflamed esophagus. There was a nice spring chill in the air that only made the pain worse. The Sakura trees were almost barren of flowers, the blossoms staining the streets in wet trampled piles. Each bloom he saw was browning and bruised. 

He trudged through the street, stomping on every flower he could find. There was a time he’d found them beautiful. He’d even mourned the end of Sakura Season. Now he could only muster a weak glare at the evil little blossoms, knowing that he had his own tree festering in his chest, strangling the very life from him. 

And he’d just let that damn plant grow. Grow and grow until he did nothing but puke flowers. His steps grew heavier as he forced himself to keep walking, head low and mind wandering. Before he even realized he was hesitating outside the door of his and Kyoka’s apartment.

Mindlessly, he pulled out his key before pausing again. What was he going to tell Kyoka? Should he even say anything? He’d have to tell her eventually, but he doubted she’d approve of his decision to go out with his murder flowers. 

The door opened and he startled, taking a step back. Kyoka was standing in front of him, hand on her hip and looking rather disgruntled. His chest throbbed at the sight and he looked away completely ashamed. 

How selfish was he? To think that Dazai was the center of his universe that no one else was to be considered in his decision. How could he possibly think to die and leave his little sister all alone. 

I’m a heartless monster.

“Oh Onii-chan,” she bemoaned before grabbing his hand and dragging him into the apartment. He followed numbly, letting the younger girl dump him on the couch and pile a blanket onto his lap. Then she sidled up beside him resting her dainty head on his shoulder.

At her touch he broke, tears began to slide down his cheeks, heavy as a downpour and his chest ached. He coughed lightly, not even bothering to hide the bloody flowers, and collapsed onto her. The sobs only grew harsher as she began to stroke his back and hair.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, voice like glass in a garbage disposal. She just hummed and pressed him into her shoulder. He felt guilty for acting so childish, to be using his own sister like a hanky and wetting her neck with his tears. But she was safe and he was terrified.

When the bulk of his tears had subsided he pulled away, letting out a little cough in his hand. 

“Onii-Chan?” The girl began still holding his shoulders to center him. “The world would be a much darker place without you,” she whispered so soft and heartfilled he nearly broke back into heavy sobs.

How could he even think about leaving her? His own damn sister. The girl he’d fought to bring into the light. And he was just going to leave her. Over what?! Feeling sorry for himself. Elevating Dazai to a station the man really didn’t deserve.

“I don’t know what to do.” he admitted, blinking out a few stray tears. “I love him so much it hurts,” quite literally. “I don’t want to lose him.” His feelings for Dazai had become a crutch. Something to draw on when he was down, when everything felt helpless. 

In his mind and heart Dazai was all his, and he clung to his feelings idolizing the man, uncaring if Dazai felt the same. Because at the very least Atsushi had his fantasies.

But life wasn’t a fantasy. It was miserable, and cold, and painful.

“It’s okay to be lost. It's okay to stumble, because I know you’ll find a way,” she paused her own huge dark blue eyes shimmering with the beginnings of tears and his heart sank. He really was a jerk making her cry. “You're a hero, Atsushi.” She assured. “You're my hero. You taught me how to love, gave me a home, a family. You mean the world to me, Onii-Chan.” She paused, hugging him tightly and pressing against his chest. “You're just so stupid sometimes. You get so caught up in your head that you miss what’s right in front of you.” 

The white-haired man brought his hands up to pull Kyoka closer. “You’ve saved so many. Done so much for Yokohama, for the world. I don’t think I’d be alive if you hadn’t saved me,” she confessed. “Please don’t leave me.”

That was the last straw. Atsushi nodded helplessly and more tears slid down his reddened skin. 

“I won’t leave you imouto.” He promised and squeezed her closer. 

“Tell him!” The Dr. demanded and Atsushi shook his head stubbornly. “You tell him or I’m not doing the surgery,” Yosano demanded.

“That’s not fair.” He didn’t want to be forced to tell the other man. He was hoping to avoid placing more guilt on his mentor. Luckily, Dazai had been busy with a case the last few days and Atsushi hadn’t needed to worry much about hiding his ailment, everyone else in the office had figured it out.

“I don’t care if you think it’s fair. You are going to tell him.”

He sighed, “Fine.”

“Good, I want it done when Dazai gets back. And don’t stall. You don’t have much time left.” Atsushi nodded and sat back up, going to his desk to wait. A few hours passed and finally Dazai came rampaging back into the office. Looking eerily gleeful. 

Atsushi’s chest throbbed at the sight of the man. It’d been so long since he’d really looked at the object of his infatuation. Dazai turned to look at him, eyes warm with affection before looking away with a slightly mad look.

What was that? 

Deciding to grow a pair and be brave, Atsushi stood up and walked towards the older man.

“Dazai-san…?” He started only to squeak as Dazai violently flipped around.

“Oh… so you’ve finally decided I’m worth your attention again.” Dazai snarked with a sneer though his somber eyes betrayed his hurt.

“I’m sorry Dazai-San, I just had a lot going on. Ahhh can I—” He froze, struggling to ask the big question. “Actually about that. Would you mind ahhh… taking a walk with me, there’s something I want to talk to you about.” Each word was pained and scratchy, a testament to the damage done to his vocal cords.

Dazai gave him a strange look before smiling again.

“Sure, let's go for a walk, Atsushi-kun.”

The evening breeze off the bay carried the smell of salt, filling Atsushi’s burning lungs as they watched the waves lap lazily against the concrete of the sea wall. He stared out in awe as the sun dipped low, staining the water gold. He walked at Dazai’s side, hands so close they’d brush every few steps, the touch sending throbs of longing through his chest.

It was quiet between them for once, no teasing banter, just the sound of the sea and their interspersed breaths. 

“It’s been a while since we did this,” Dazai spoke, disturbing the quiet.

“Yeah. It’s nice,” the white-haired man smiled faintly, blinking up at the older man with remorseful eyes.

They fell into easy conversation. Atsushi nodding along as Dazai described the chaos of wedding plans, Chuuya’s control-freak behavior, the inevitable bickering that came with trying to choose a venue and colors. Atsushi even managed a wet laugh when Dazai called Chuuya his ‘bridezilla.’

“You still writing?” Dazai asked, leaning into the younger man’s space, eyes glimmering with excitement.

“Yeah… kind of. I’ve been struggling to finish this one short story.”

“Oh? Writer’s block?” More like I’ve lost my inspiration to keep writing. It was difficult to write a romance when you’d lost all hope for love in your own life. “Or maybe you’re just afraid to write the ending,” Dazai teased lightly and Atsushi’s smile faltered, eyes dropping to the shimmering  water. 

“Yeah. Something like that.” It felt so normal, so painfully normal to be at Dazai’s side once more. He hadn’t even coughed once since they’d met up. His chest felt light, almost hopeful. Maybe, just for this moment, he could pretend that he wouldn’t erase this man from his life forever. But that illusion only lasted til they reached a bench near the end of the pier.

“Let’s sit,” Dazai said, already lowering himself with an easy grace as he patted the space next to him. “Come on, Atsushi-kun.” The muscular man hesitated, but obeyed, perching awkwardly on the edge of the bench at first, trying to keep his distance. Dazai immediately slid closer, pressing their sides together and looping an arm loosely around his shoulders. “I missed this,” The brunette murmured, resting his head against Atsushi’s shoulder. The position’s closeness sent Atsushi’s heart racing and he held his breath in his shock. “You’ve been so distant lately. I was starting to think I’d done something wrong.” The younger man stiffened, hands curling into fists on his knees. 

“N-no, of course not. I’ve just been… busy.” Dazai hummed.

“Well, I’m glad you’re back to normal. I like seeing you smile.” He leaned in closer, fingers rolling against the short hairs on the were-tiger’s neck and something in Atsushi shattered.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be feeling this way.

 But the warmth of Dazai’s arm, the low rumble of his voice, the easy affection; it was everything he’d ever wanted. But it wasn’t his. Osamu would never be his, not in the way he wanted. Then the brunette pulled back just slightly, tilting his head. “You said you needed to talk?” Dazai began and Atsushi’s heart lurched as he stared down at his hands, the words trembling at the edge of his tongue.

“I… I wanted to tell you that… you mean a lot to me, Dazai-san. You’ve done so much for me. More than I can ever thank you for…” his voice cracked and he swallowed hard, forcing a small laugh. “I guess at some point my appreciation for you ah…grew” Dazai was staring at him so carefully, smile gentle and eyes painfully expectant, gleaming with …love? 

But it wasn’t for Atsushi, not in the way he wanted. “What I’m trying to say is… Osamu I lo–” The truth lingered at the tip of his tongue desperate to escape and Atsushi felt his chest seize. Something in him screamed, “Just say it. Tell him. Free yourself”

I can’t… I can’t tell him.

Dazai opened his mouth to reply and Atsushi tore his gaze away from the older man’s sparkling brown eyes. His breath hitched and a sharp pain tore through his chest like a blade. Suddenly he was lurching forward, falling out of Dazai’s arm as he gripped his knees and began coughing violently.

“Atsushi?” Dazai’s voice rose in alarm and he was crowding over Atsushi placing a hand on his spine. The white-haired man hacked into his hands; flowers, red and white, slick with blood, spilling between his fingers, until the concrete beneath him was splattered crimson. Dazai grabbed his shoulders hard trying to pull him up while screaming, “Atsushi! Breath. Please, what’s happening?!” Atsushi looked up through watery eyes, pain growing as he met Dazai’s expression; horror, guilt and fear twisting across his face.

And that look was the one thing Atsushi couldn’t bear.

He stumbled to his feet, falling forward as more crimson blossoms fell from his lips. 

“I—I’m fine,” he croaked. “Don’t…don’t worry about it…”

“Atsushi!” Dazai called, grabbing for his hand to pull him back. But Atsushi was already running, half-blind, lungs burning, as blood filled his mouth, spilling through his teeth onto cracked lips. He didn’t dare look back.

By the time he burst into the Agency, he was shaking, drenched in sweat, flowers clinging wetly to his lips and neck. “Yosano-san,” Atsushi gasped. “Do it. The surgery. I want it now.” The Dr. looked up from her paperwork and froze, immediately rising from her chair. She walked forward, eyes wide with worry as she forced the younger man to sit.

“You told him?” She questioned, whipping off a bloodied flower from his chin. The question echoed in his ears like a gunshot and he hesitated for an instant before nodding.

“Y-yeah.” Whether she believed him or not she didn’t press. Instead, she helped guide him to the “operating room.” It was just the exam room turned into a makeshift sterile space, decked out with fluorescent lights and an operating table. She gestured for him to sit down and Atsushi collapsed onto the table rubbing at his bloodied mouth.

“Alright, just stay here” she said softly, already reaching for her phone. “I’ll call my colleagues. We’ll do it as soon as the equipment’s ready.” Then she was leaving him all alone. He closed his eyes and breathed out short shallow exhales.

Brrrriing… Brrrring…Brrring

 A vibration on his thigh had the were-tiger jolting. And he fumbled for his phone, eyes watering as Dazai’s name lit up the screen. He stared at it for an endless moment, mouth growing dry before hitting decline. He’d made up his mind. Now he only prayed that Dazai would forgive him.

Pale pink light filtered weakly through the blinds of the infirmary, soft and hazy, painting thin stripes across Atsushi’s eyes as they opened. His whole body trembled as he tried to sit up; his chest felt like it had been pried open with a hot knife and stitched back together with barbed wire. He blinked groggily into the brightness clouding his eyes, and moved his jaw. A quick swallow revealed the rawness of his throat and the dryness of his sandpaper tongue.

“…Atsushi?” A soft voice chimed beside him. Kyouka? His little sister sat in the chair at his bedside, a bunny stuffy in her lap, gripping his hand in her own small ones. She looked tired, eyes rimmed red, but relief washed over her face when their eyes met.

“You’re awake,” she said quietly. Dry lips parted, his voice a raspy whisper. 

“What… happened?”

“You got really sick,” the raven haired girl explained gently. “A respiratory illness. Yosano-sensei had to operate to clear out your lungs. But it went well.” The older man blinked slowly, frowning faintly. He could remember coughing, a lot, enough that his ribs hurt when he breathed. And the feeling of choking, something soft and metallic on his tongue. But everything else was a blur.

“Oh,” he murmured. “Right. I… I think I remember being sick.” Kyouka squeezed his hand, rubbing her thumb over his pulse point.

“You scared everyone.” He gave her a weak smile, and winced at the feel of his chapped lips cracking.

 “Sorry.” She shook her head, expression softening. 

“How do you feel?”

“Sore,” he admitted. “But… okay.” That wasn’t quite true. Physically, he was okay, aching all over but alive at least. But inside, something was off. Everything felt… muted. Like someone had turned down the volume on the world. He could see Kyouka’s worried eyes, hear the tenderness in her voice, but it didn’t garner any feelings in return. It was like a thick fog had settled in and nothing could penetrate it. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Something he desperately needed.

The door opened, and Yosano stepped in, clipboard in hand. 

“Good morning, Atsushi-kun. Glad to see you awake.” The white-haired man pushed himself up slightly, wincing as pain radiated through his ribs. She gave him a faint smile, though her eyes didn’t mirror the sentiment; they were cold and guilt-ridden. 

“If you’re feeling stable enough, you can go home with Kyouka and rest there.” He furrowed his brow, struggling to smile.

“That sounds nice,” he admitted, and the younger girl helped him stand and dress himself, the movements stiff and painful. All the while, Yosano busied herself with paperwork. Finally, they were ready to leave. Kyouka took her place at his side, gently guiding him out of the medical bay. As they trailed down the hall toward the exit, voices echoed sharply from a consultation room.

“You knew!” someone shouted, voice furious and raw. “You knew he was sick, and you didn’t tell me?! You let him go through this alone?” Atsushi blinked, startled by the intensity. He didn’t recognize the voice; it was low, hoarse, shaking with emotion. A client, maybe? But there was something about it that made his aching chest ring hollow. More of that emptiness, like the gaping hole in his chest, was cracking and expanding into a deeper trench.

A familiar deep voice called in response. Chuuya? What is he doing here? It wasn’t unusual for the executive to stop in, usually to visit… wait, who did he visit? Me maybe? We’re friends, right? But the smaller man was also friends with Ranpo and tolerated by the rest of the agency for coming to their aid when things really went to shit.

 “Calm the hell down, Osamu! Screaming won’t change anything!”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” the first voice snarled. “If he’d just told me. If I’d known… It wouldn’t have ended like this! He didn’t even give me a chance to save him!” Atsushi stopped walking, confusion tightening his brow.

“What are they talking about?” he whispered, mostly to himself, though Kyouka tightened her grip on his arm.

“Keep walking, Atsushi. You’re too weak to be worrying about that right now.” He hesitated, glancing toward the door where it was slightly open. Through the gap, he caught a glimpse of a man with messy brown hair, eyes wild with grief and rage, being held back by Chuuya. Atsushi felt the fog part slightly, allowing a feeling of awe. That man was stunning, and he garnered feelings that Atsushi didn’t think were possible: adoration, affection, and regret. But as swiftly as the feeling appeared, they were gone, replaced by throbbing emptiness.

Yosano stood rather stiffly nearby, expression unreadable, while Ranpo leaned against the wall, his usual grin gone.

“I loved him. I could have truly loved him if he’d just told me. If someone had told me!" The man was shouting now, voice cracking. “You let him kill our love! You let him forget me!” The brunette was thrashing in Chuuya’s arms, brown eyes bloodshot, and skin clammy and pale. “Let me see him! I need to fix this.” The brunette growled, elbowing the redhead in the gut. The smaller man let out a pained grunt, but kept his hold on the taller.

“We should help,” Atsushi mumbled mindlessly. 

“It’s not our problem, Atsushi. Please, let's just go home,” Kyouka urged, but Atsushi didn’t budge, too enthralled by what he was witnessing to heed her.

“Osamu,” Chuuya snapped sharply, “if you go near him again, if you remind him, you’ll just make things worse. The flowers will come back.”

“I don’t care!” The crazed man shouted. “I can’t lose him again!”

“Then you’ll kill him,” Chuuya shot back, voice breaking. Atsushi froze, heart hammering in confusion. He didn’t understand what any of it meant. Flowers? Love? Death? The words tangled together in his fogged mind, distant and meaningless.

Kyouka’s hand tightened around his sleeve. And she forcefully pulled him away. The older man allowed it, but as they turned the corner, he couldn’t help looking back one last time. Through the crack in the door, he caught another glimpse of the man; his face crumpling with anguish, Chuuya’s hands gripping his shoulders.

Something inside Atsushi twisted painfully, an ache without a name. He didn’t know that man. But the sight of his tears made his chest hurt worse than the surgery ever could. He turned away, letting the emptiness swallow him whole as he followed Kyouka out into the morning light.

A week later, Atsushi returned to work. Everyone greeted him warmly; Tanizaki waved from his desk, Naomi rushed to hug him, Kenji beamed his usual sunny smile, and even Ranpo gave a lazy two-finger salute from his chair.

And though he tried his best to smile, his lips wouldn’t curl. He wanted to be happy to be back to work, but he couldn’t muster the feeling. Just emptiness, apathy. That's all he’d felt, maybe that's all he’d ever been able to feel and would ever feel again. Yosano only watched him from across the room, expression unreadable. When their eyes met, she gave him a small nod, then turned back to her clipboard.

The were-tiger sat down at his desk. The wood felt the same beneath his fingers, cool and smooth. His papers were stacked neatly where he’d left them. Everything looked exactly as it had before. He hummed faintly to himself, a song he couldn’t quite recall the name, and began filling out the first report.

It was Kenji who broke the quiet by bounding over, hands behind his head, grinning.

“Hey, Atsushi!” The older detective glanced up, pen stilling. 

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen Dazai anywhere? He hasn’t been in since you got surgery. Though I guess I was out of town for a while, too.” The office grew deadly silent.

“...Who?” Kenji frowned slightly. 

“You know! Dazai?” The name meant nothing. It slid through Atsushi’s mind like water through cupped hands, leaving no trace behind. There was no face, no warmth, no memory to match it to. Just another emptiness to join the ever-growing void. 

He gave the young man a blank expression. 

“Sorry, Kenji. I don’t think I know anyone by that name.” Kenji blinked, puzzled.

“Oh. Maybe he’s on another case!” He said cheerfully, shrugging it off. “Well, welcome back anyway!”

“Thanks,” Atsushi murmured, gaze drifting to the corner of his desk. A single white blossom lay there; fragile, untouched, glowing faintly in the office’s gentle light. He stared at it for a moment, feeling a strange ire towards it. Though, as usual, the feeling was swallowed whole by the gaping emptiness in his chest. Without a second thought, he picked it up and slipped it into the trash bin beside his desk, and went back to work.