Chapter Text
SNIPPET: CHUUYA
It’s not a choice, really, in the end. Dazai doesn’t think about where he’s going or where his legs are taking him other than away until he’s standing in front of an apartment building and staring up at the stars.
He wraps his coat tighter around himself. It’s midnight in the winter, and even the warm breeze off the water is doing him no favors. His own house, or at least the nearest hideout which he has the keys to on his person, is on the other side of town.
No way to go but up.
It takes Chuuya a few minutes to open the door. He’s probably asleep, but Dazai has never had it in him to worry about annoying Chuuya, seeing as that’s the sole purpose of most of their interactions. He peers through the crack in the door before swinging it open completely. “Dazai?”
The apartment is exactly the same as he remembers it, even all these years later. There’s hardwood floors and abstract art on the walls and a rack for all of his hats and vintage alcohol. It smells like cinnamon.
“What are you doing here?” Chuuya says, crossing his arms. It’s a good question.
“I saw your bike outside,” Dazai says instead of answering. “It’s still just as obnoxious as the day you bought it. I should have blown that up instead of the car.”
“Dazai.” Chuuya doesn’t move to let him in, but he enters anyway.
“Is Akutagawa here?”
Chuuya stares at him. “No, he’s with Gin for the night. Are you looking—”
“Good,” Dazai says, sitting on the brown leather couch and putting his knees to his chest. Chuuya frowns when he puts his muddy shoes on the couch but doesn’t say anything.
SNIPPET: KENJI
Dazai is fine, probably.
It’s been almost a year since the Aging Quirk Incident and even more years since anything bad has happened (unless you count going to jail or his coworkers getting their limbs chopped off, but the Days Since Our Last Nonsense Involving Mortal Injury Which Dazai Saw Coming sign has been at 0 for a few months, so he doesn’t count it).
He’s getting eight hours of sleep, even if some of those hours are during the work day. He’s eating food every day, even if he doesn’t see the point of it and some days everything tastes like sawdust and he downs a sandwich in three bites so Kunikida and Atsushi will stop looking at him like that, like he’s just kicked a puppy—
So it’s warranted, right? There’s nothing in his job contract (a document thirty-five pages long) about having to go to company parties and make nice for longer than a perfunctory five minutes. It’s a lot of people, and a lot of cheap alcohol, and sometimes he doesn’t want to deal with it. It’s the whole verbalizing-his-feelings crap that his coworkers keep trying to encourage, right?
And yet when he walks down the street, hands tucked into his coat pockets, leaving Yosano’s birthday party a few minutes after it’s begun, the door swings open. He keeps walking forward, steadfastly ignoring Kenji’s unhurried steps behind him.
Kenji is not one to be ignored or acknowledge social cues, maybe because of all the time he spent around cows.
--
Dazai isn’t intimidated by anything. It’s an impulse he simply doesn’t possess, an emotion that he’s been bled out of.
Standing on the front porch of a farmhouse decidedly built by hand, getting ready to meet Kenji’s parents and six siblings and countless aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins, he feels something very close to intimidation.
SNIPPET: FYODOR
Dazai’s not upset that Fyodor knows, because of course Fyodor knows. Of course he does. They know each other’s next moves years in advance, Dazai only managing to get the upper hand by sheer force of will, by virtue of having more things to fight for.
He knows Fyodor’s secrets too— the way his father used to hit his mother, the scar on his leg from the time he tried to run away, the amount of times he’s been to prison before and who he killed to get back out. He knows the people who know these secrets other than him (mostly Gogol) and the people who don’t (mostly everyone else).
SNIPPET: ANGO
These days, Dazai counts himself lucky to have a support system, people who actually care about whether or not he’s alive for reasons beyond the impracticality of not having him and his Ability around.
Of course, it only counts as a support system if he actually calls them when he needs support (which he has no intention of doing), but it’s the thought that counts.
He shares important parts of his plans with Ango, trusts him to have the heart and the influence and the common sense to do what needs to be done. He trusts and keeps trusting, because they’re friends because Ango is in a powerful position he can utilize in a number of ways.
--
Ango doesn’t really expect the phone call. He gets a number of important phone calls every day by virtue of his position, most of which remain ignored on a landline. He can count the amount of people with his cell phone number on one hand, and he keeps it in his pocket more out of habit than any previous sense of necessity.
Which is why, in the middle of holding a debriefing one Tuesday afternoon, he almost doesn’t realize what’s happening when his phone starts to vibrate.
“You need to get here right now,” Kunikida says as he steps out and flips it open. “It’s Dazai.”
Ango has expected for years to receive a funeral invitation, so he’s already out of the building and in his car by the time Kunikida finishes speaking.
“What happened,” he says flatly as he steps through the front door of the Detective Agency. He broke more laws on the way here than he’s ever enforced.
“He’s been poisoned,” Kunikida says. They both keep moving as they talk; Ango appreciates the sense of urgency and straightforwardness the man always has.
“So he’s not dead?” Ango says, then, “I’ve always suspected he can’t die,” immediately followed by a furrowed brow and “Dazai has been made immune to almost all poisons.” He’s watched Dazai show off his resistance to cyanide on more than one occasion in plans reminiscent of that scene in The Princess Bride.
Kunikida makes a strangled sound but seems to not want to pursue that sentence further, at least for the moment. “This was recently developed by a bioterrorist, and we believe Dazai was one of the first targets.”
“Okay,” Ango says. His job is damage control, being the man with boots on the ground. “So does he need better doctors, or specialized care, or an armored car—”
“For the antidote to work,” Kunikida cuts him off, “he has to take off his bandages. All of them.”
‘And he won’t let us do it,’ hangs unspoken in the air.
Ango freezes. He makes eye contact with Kunikida.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“And he called for me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
“I don’t pretend to know what sort of codependency you two have. But he’s going to be dead soon,” Kunikida says, handing him a jar, “and you’re going to fix it.” He shoves him inside a dimly lit room and suddenly Dazai is in front of him.
SNIPPET: ATSUSHI
Dazai’s doing good. Not in the plastered-on sort of way of the days where his head fills with static but his limbs haven’t yet stopped working. It feels nice to have something like a family, like emotions, like a purpose.
It’s been a few months since his last suicide attempt— and he laughs to himself bitterly when he thinks that, thinks of the bare minimum, staying alive, as such a milestone. But it is, and his friends family take notice. Ranpo breaks into his apartment with a cake on the two-month anniversary and then proceeds to eat most of the cake himself.
That was what used to get to him: the loneliness. The way no one seemed to understand him beyond being something they could dissect or postulate about. He existed solely as a machine for others to control. It seemed like he was trapped underground with no way out, and he might as well make the metaphorical literal.
Finally, finally he comes to a conclusion: for years he has wanted to be understood, and when Fyodor came along, he despised it. Here he is, loved in his entirety, and there’s no need for everything he is to be known. Enough of him is.
Dazai is doing great. So, since the Armed Detective Agency is in a constant and balanced state of turmoil, Atsushi gets poisoned, that stupid motherfucker, and he doesn't even have the good sense to just die and avoid getting chewed out about it.
FINALE: RANPO
Dazai is good at hiding. In every way, he’s had to become an expert at it to survive. He keeps to himself in almost every way, jokes masking his true feelings, bandages masking his true skin.
This withdrawal from society does not extend to physical affection.
It’s something he’s worn them down with since year one at the Agency. It’s a common sight to find him draped over Kunikida’s lap, or sitting with his entire body on Atushi’s shoulders, or intricately braiding Yosano’s hair as she works. Ranpo, who would get more use from a hug than any monetary payment, is the reason Fukuzawa remained under the impression he and Dazai were dating for about six months. Both parties were aware of this misconception and found it too hilarious to dispel.
The Agency’s facilities are questionable at best, with money reserved for broken desks and shattered windows and new scalpels. (Yosano controls the budget. She has decided there is always money for new scalpels.) So when the heating stalls out completely one day in December, frost beginning to creep over the edge of the windowpanes, every other member bands together and makes Kunikida call a repairman.
Kunikida appears in the doorway thirty minutes later wearing another sweater, so they rule out any possibility of good news. “They say it’ll be three days until they can get here and fix it,” Kunikida says, arms crossed.
“I’m going to die here,” declares Ranpo. “Working in subzero temperatures goes against… child labor laws. Or something.”
“You’re like thirty,” says Kenji, wrapping his arms around himself. “I’m the only one allowed to invoke child labor laws.”
Dazai emerges from nowhere and fixes himself firmly between them on the couch. “You know, death by hypothermia doesn’t sound like the best plan right now.”
Ranpo absently cards his fingers through the other’s hair before he notices Dazai frowning.
It’s gone the moment after it’s there; Dazai throws his legs over Kenji and lays his head in Ranpo’s lap. Kenji leans into the warmth appreciatively. Dazai pushes his torso into Ranpo’s side, sucking as much heat from him as possible, but there’s a moment of hesitation.
Dazai’s eyebrows inch together, imperceptibly closer, and Ranpo moves his hand from its place on his head. He catalogues Dazai’s discomfort, the way his body tenses, the way he doesn’t move away from them.
“Kenji,” Ranpo says with a childlike whine, “go get us some more blankets!”
He stands up and goes to rummage through the Agency’s storage closet without complaint, but still Dazai doesn’t move into the empty space left behind. There’s plenty of space on the couch for them both to sit apart. Dazai wants to; Ranpo can feel it.
The uncomfortable silence lasts for a few more minutes before Dazai lurches abruptly forwards and walks quicker than normal towards the hallway.
When Ranpo gets there, Dazai is kneeling on the tile floor of the bathroom, leaning over the toilet, looking flustered and miserable. This indicates that he’s feeling something.
Dazai has everything under control all the time, and the only things that continue to elude his dictatorship of reality are his own emotions. Emotions are things he doesn’t quite understand, and things he doesn’t understand leave him scared and reeling after years of predictability. Case in point: Fyodor.
“Dazai?” Ranpo says, walking into the bathroom. He’s only marginally better at emotions, but he needs more evidence to pin down what the current problem is.
Dazai groans softly and waves a shaky hand towards him. Ranpo nods at his request and locks the door behind them to avoid unwanted voyeurs of Dazai’s vulnerability. Atsushi says their wordless communication is terrifying, but the silence seems comfortable now. Neither of them have ever wanted to talk it out a single day in their lives, which is why Ranpo has appointed himself for the job of making Dazai express his emotions.
Dazai retches into the toilet again, spitting up nothing but water, and Ranpo sits down and reaches to rub circles on his back. His hand stops before it makes contact, hovering in dead air, and several things make sense.
“You could have just stood up when you realized you didn’t want to be near us right now,” Ranpo says. “There are plenty of other seats in the office.”
“But I was cold!” Dazai leans his head against the metal of the bathroom door. “And I did want both of you near me. I love it when you play with my hair.”
“You don’t always have to want what you usually want,” he says. It seems like a fairly simple fact of life to him, but Dazai rolls his eyes.
“But it’s stupid. You’re not— It’s not like either of you wanted a blowjob or anything! Kenji’s a kid. It was just physical contact.”
Several more things make sense. Ranpo sits back on his heels. “It doesn’t have to be a sexual thing. You don’t always want to eat the same thing for lunch every day either. And your body is your body, no matter who the other person is or what they want from you.“
“You sound like a self-help book for teenagers,” Dazai whines.
“And you sound like the stubborn high schooler whose inability to set boundaries caused his mom to buy it,” Ranpo says.
Dazai leans his head in Ranpo’s direction but keeps a few inches away from him. He sighs, low and forlorn.
“You know, some nights Edgar kicks me out of bed and replaces me with his raccoon,” Ranpo says. This whole conversation thing, expressing his feelings? He’s decided he’s great at it.
Dazai laughs despite his eyes being a little too wide, his movements being a little too imprecise. “Must suck for you.”
Ranpo hums. “I’m the one who made him do it to begin with. I can see right through him, great detective that I am, and I knew he wanted me around, but if anyone was near him he’d… stop being present.” He nods matter of factly. “I had to assure him that we were still rivals on as equal footing as ever. It helps him to hear it. I only criticize him for his inability to analyze evidence, not anything like—” He looks down at Dazai, who has stopped listening and also moving. “Right. Yes.”
“I’m being stupid,” Dazai says hollowly. “I don’t even know what the problem is. Nothing happened, nothing’s happened in forever. Nothing even reminded me of anything.”
“Hey,” Ranpo says. “You wouldn’t tell Atsushi to snap out of it if he was dealing with his feelings involving the orphanage, right?”
Dazai averts his eyes to the door. His mouth presses into a line in a very telling way.
Ranpo blinks. “Okay. Alright, we’re having a conversation about that at some point in the future, with a capital C. Involving Atsushi. But my point is that you’re allowed to have rough days, no matter how long it’s been, how matter how good things are going.”
He scoots a little further away to give Dazai space. “Everyone who’s gone through what you have does— and anyone who’s gone through any trauma, for that matter! Probably the whole agency at this point. And when you have a bad day, you give yourself the time you need, and then you get back up.”
Dazai continues to curl tighter into his position on the bathroom floor. “Was that literal or metaphorical?”
“Both.” Ranpo chews his lip and watches him. He wants to say do you need anything— that’s what always works with Poe, verbalizing things out loud and listening to his responses. But proper communication is one of Dazai’s few weak spots, so instead he sits on the floor for a few more minutes.
Dazai’s chest is heaving up and down at an alarming rate, but it seems to be slowing down as the minutes pass. Slowly, Ranpo rises to his feet, intending to give the other a little bit of space now that they seem to be well and truly done talking, but Dazai makes a noise as soon as he shifts.
“Stay here. If you want,” Dazai says under his breath. It’s almost inaudible. Ranpo wouldn’t be sure he meant to say it if it was anyone else, anyone with a tad less control over their body. But it's Dazai, so he sits back down.
“Alright. I won’t go anywhere.”
Dazai huffs to himself. “That’s stupid. Of course. Because Kunikida is going to want to come find us eventually, because we’re not working, and he’s used to me disappearing, and I don’t even know how long this is going to last—”
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” Ranpo cuts in. “I’ll tell him we found the coldest spot in the whole building and he’s not allowed to come in for his own safety. I’ll tell him I found you frozen solid while taking a piss.”
Dazai laughs a little, strained and stretched thin. Ranpo takes this as encouragement.
“Yeah, and I had to take Fukuzawa’s hair dryer out of his office, risking life and limb, and then aim it directly at you until you thawed out. Stood there for hours, out of the goodness of my heart and my sheer humanitarianism. You know how I am. Always willing to help out the little guys, or, uh, the guys who got frozen solid in the bathroom through no fault of their own. Mostly the repair guy’s fault. Him and his busy schedule.”
It looks like they’re going to be there for a while. He sees Dazai trying, trying to get up and stop digging his nails into his skin and get his mind to obey him through sheer willpower. And Ranpo has a distinct feeling it’s not going to work, so he empties his pockets of all the candy he has and lays it on the ground. These are plentiful rations enough, so he settles in.
“Have I ever told you about the time I got double pneumonia trying to catch a stray cat?”
Dazai doesn’t answer, and Ranpo worries for a brief second that he’s making things worse. It’s a fairly happy story about his childhood, and he really is talking without stopping. But Dazai tenses up more the longer the silence stretches on, so tentatively continues.
“My mom had to make me this giant vat of soup—” He demonstrates its size with his hands.
It’s the most personal thing he knows how to do, share stories about his parents. Stories about Fukuzawa are a close second, but they’re freely given in an attempt to embarrass his father figure. His mom and dad are something he can never have back, so he keeps the memories happy and light, a secret between himself and the earth.
And now, apparently, Dazai.
After a long time— he doesn’t have his phone on him, but he gets through so many tales it has to have been over an hour— Dazai stretches out like a cat. He reaches out his hand towards Ranpo, who doesn’t move, and locks their fingers together. Dazai must approve of whatever answer he gets, because he sits up and sighs, posture a little more loose. He looks tired. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again.
“You’re welcome,” Ranpo says. “And you should probably go home. I’m pretty sure it’s after work hours anyway.”
Dazai delicately stands up, walks over, undoes the lock. He only sways a little. As soon as the door is open, he says to Ranpo in a voice a little too loud to be real, “Did the piss freeze in midair or was it just the rest of my body?”
“You didn’t get that far,” Ranpo assures him, standing up and popping his back.
They never talk about it again, per se, but sometimes Dazai pulls him into a closet or onto the rooftop or calls his number in the dead of night, and Ranpo just. Starts talking.
...It certainly won’t help dispel the myth that they’re dating, he thinks with a grin.