Chapter Text
They say a dog is a man’s best friend.
A dog is loyal and loving; no matter the circumstances, no matter how many times you hurt them, they’ll always run back, wearing the same loyalty they gave you the day you earned it.
But there’s also another saying.
If you love someone, let them go. If you’re bad for each other—bad for them—to leave before the damage becomes irreparable; before the holes become too big to patch over and forget; before you feel like a nuisance in each other’s company.
So what if that someone is a dog?
Dazai loves his dog too much to hurt him again. He knows himself; he knows that everything he wants to keep, he ends up losing. He’s no better than the last grape in the bowl you’ve avoided eating. He’s no better alive than he is dead.
Dazai was gone.
But then Chuuya drew him in, and found the part of him he didn’t know existed.
His ability to love. His ability to laugh, smile, and feel things flutter in his chest. His ability to cry, get upset, throw fits, and get mad at things. All emotions that he had suppressed—things he thought he couldn’t feel anymore.
Chuuya made him feel that.
Chuuya made him feel love.
He loves his dog.
Turning around to see pale skin sleeping beside him has never felt more bitter.
They’re together, not as partners, but as mates and lovers. Chuuya’s bright ginger hair spreads across the pillows perfectly, each strand belonging on a canvas and hanging up in a museum. He’s a beautiful dog. The first and only dog Dazai chose, the only one he tamed.
An arm loosely hangs on his waist, gently holding a bit of his shirt, which he didn’t fall asleep wearing, he remembers. Chuuya’s face remains still; he’s always looked the most angelic sleeping with how his freckles dust across his cheeks, barely visible unless your temples are almost touching. This isn’t a man he wants to hurt—quite the opposite, but… Dazai is only good at hurting the things he wants to keep.
He doesn’t want to hurt his dog.
Dazai knows he can’t just up and disappear again; it would be too bittersweet. And their bond is still quite new; their imprints on each other are still fresh and unpredictable; one second, they can be fine without the other, and the next, they can feel the other’s painful longing. It’s almost a sense they have.
He needs to leave Chuuya—he doesn’t want to hurt him again.
But he loves Chuuya too much to stay.
The lumps in his throat only remind him of how human Chuuya’s made him feel. He didn’t used to feel them before—he didn’t used to feel anything, really, but his Slug is one of many talents, and one of those is being so human that he doesn’t want to taint it with his sorrows.
He brings a hand up to his lover’s face, caressing the only skin that’s felt like home. Dazai’s calloused fingers trace from one cheek to his forehead and down his nose—blushing as Chuuya’s face winces before settling again, a sleepy sigh escaping his lips.
He loves his dog.
Dazai smiles warmly, petting Chuuya’s hair to settle him more. It works. Chuuya’s always been relaxed by his touch, in his sleep, in his wake. He thinks it’s an alpha thing; maybe they’re not all as tough as they make themselves out to be.
“Thank you, Chuuya,” it flows out of his mouth, barely above a whisper, barely audible. “I…”
He knows he loves him. How hard can the words I love you be to say, to think? Maybe it’s his fear of vulnerability, of being wound up too far, for far too long, that he doesn’t know how to be anything if it isn’t stiff.
He brings his lips to plant a tender kiss onto his lover’s, Chuuya unconsciously blushing at the fondness of it all. He doesn’t wake, he doesn’t dare stir.
Completely unknowingly of it all, just how he needs him to be.
He has to be quick. He doesn’t know when Chuuya’s alpha will sense that his omega is gone and wake him up from his slumber. Dazai tamed Chuuya, but his alpha instincts are a stubborn thing he hasn’t figured out.
Dazai slowly unclenches Chuuya’s hand from his shirt—little noises being made from the alpha’s mouth. He’s lucky his Slug is a deep sleeper, unlike himself.
Their arms are intertwined beneath the covers. Even though Dazai is much taller than Chuuya, their hands aren’t that far apart in size, maybe a few centimeters in difference—but that doesn’t stop him from locking their palms together and bringing them up to his lips.
“Love you,” he just barely manages, before pressing a soft kiss to each of his mate’s fingers. He sets his hand on the mattress, watching as it goes to grab the sheets instead.
He smiles at that, he does. He smiles at everything Chuuya does. Chuuya makes him happy, content to be alive.
Slipping out of their nest is a thing he’s used to doing. Quietly, like a sly fox in the wind. It hurts to abandon it, the nest he’s worked weeks on, scenting his shirts perfectly for Chuuya’s alpha and stealing his Chibi’s clothes to satisfy his omega, but…
He can’t have hesitations; he knows what he needs to do.
“‘Samu?” Dazai’s heart freezes, the room going stale like rotten cranberries in a bowl. “Where ya’ goin’?” Chuuya murmurs; he’s not even conscious yet, eyes staying closed with no sign of opening.
Gentle. Dazai has to be gentle. Like this is just another day where they’ll be fine and okay.
“I’m getting water, Slug. I’ll be back.” He lies, albeit hesitantly. His heart weighs heavily on his aorta, yet he doesn’t let it show—he can’t let it show.
For the sake of a mission. His own personal mission.
Chuuya acknowledges him with a hum, sleep-lidded eyes returning to a close.
He does go ahead and get a cup of water. Chuuya has the hearing of a dog—too good, too observant. Though the Slug was barely awake when Dazai left.
It’s okay. He can go through with this.
There’s a tug on his heart that he can’t quite place. It’s something more than guilt, it’s something less than heartbreak. He doesn’t even know if there’s a name for it—he’s irrationally inhuman, he can’t rely on human labels to describe how he feels. The only thing he feels for sure is love, even if Chuuya says he feels more than that.
His omega is telling him to return to safety, to his nest where his alpha lies, but he can’t. His heat has been done for a little over a day now; finally calming down after what’s a week's worth of his vulnerability live on display. Dazai’s in control now, and he can make his own decisions.
The February chill isn’t enough for him to need a coat, but…
It’s the last time he’ll be here; maybe he can steal one of Slug’s, he won’t mind.
Chuuya has a wide collection of coats hanging by the front door. He doesn’t know why a tiny body needs so many clothes—aren’t short people supposed to be more eco-friendly? His alpha surely isn’t one of them.
A typically fast process feels like an eternity—like time is slowing down for him to think, but he doesn’t. He made his decision, and he has to follow suit. The putting his cup in the sink, the walking over to the front door, the choosing of his alpha’s coat that he will die smelling and wearing.
Leaving Chuuya’s apartment has never felt like more of a challenge. If he’s quick, he’ll be able to complete his mission before Chuuya has the chance to save him.
He doesn’t want to be saved, not anymore, not when he’s a burden.
The door clicks behind him, louder than ever before, and not looking back has never been harder.
...
Dazai’s always late.
It’s a thing Kunikida has learned about his weird colleague. The man was on time for the first few months—before a few minutes of tardiness transcended into multiple, then hours, then half-days.
He tried to be understanding at first. The agency hadn’t exactly been accommodating to their odd new comrade, but the man had slithered his way into their pack, whether he approved of it or not.
Maybe it’s because he’s always ordered the same thing from the cafe downstairs: a caramel latte with light ice, but he’s never finished it, always tossing it the moment the ice has fully melted. Maybe it’s because he’s never seen him write with pens that aren’t red or black. Or maybe it’s because his footsteps are more silent than a two-ounce rabbit.
So really, Kunikida shouldn’t be feeling as tingly as he does right now.
But he can’t help it.
No matter how late Dazai is, he’s never missed a day unless it was for his weirdly timed vacations. And after having known the man for a while, that doesn’t seem to be Dazai’s forte.
…He’s at Dazai’s dorm door.
Waiting as his heartbeat increases by half a beat a minute. Waiting for any sign of life, a grunt, a cough—god forbid he hears a moan. But something, anything would do.
He’s been standing out here for ten minutes and has heard nothing of the sort.
Fukuzawa had given him the go-ahead to go check on Dazai—even he must’ve sensed something was off. Though Dazai doesn’t talk to Kunikida directly unless it’s for a prank—a way of entertainment—he’s always seemed oddly lax around Fukuzawa, an unspoken relationship for those two and their lonesome.
Their relationship isn’t his business, but it bugged Fukuzawa enough to let him take charge… as if to respect the man’s autonomy.
“Dazai?” He calls out, it’s the first time he’s said the man’s name with his heart, not his chest.
Yet nothing happens, nothing changes.
“You’re joking with me…” It’s more of an admission of guilt—a mumble intertwined with exhaustion of worry. Kunikida isn’t one to wear his emotions on his sleeve. He doesn’t like expressing himself.
The master key enters Dazai’s lock, as it should, and as Kunikida twists it open, a sense of dread pours from inside.
Taking a step in has never felt more off-kitler.
It barely looks like anyone lives here. Everything is too neat, too put together, even by his standards. A step inside, and he can hear a faucet dripping water in the kitchen, and the chairs look untouched.
He opens the fridge only to find it vacant, not even turned on. The light inside buzzes as if it’s a plea to be used, but it’s been neglected of it’s only function. The countertops lack crumbs, the drawers are void of utensils—there’s not a single napkin, not even salt for seasoning.
He strides to the living room, where a singular cushion resides. A flousy thing, it looks old and beaten—like it holds dozens of nightmare-esque stories he doesn’t want to know.
A quick visit to the bathroom—the only place that looks lived-in, even if it’s not by a lot. There’s a blue toothbrush in a cup, with a tube of cranberry-flavored toothpaste lying beside it. He checks the cabinets only to find too many rolls of bandages and prescribed pills in Dazai’s name, along with a few unlabeled bottles only saying the correct dosage to take.
A concerning amount of bandages, even for one man.
The bedroom is no better than what he’s seen already. One futon, a light blue one at that. The bed is made, yet there’s a cloth on it that looks too out of place for what he’s seen.
Kunikida snaps on his gloves—the ones he uses to investigate crime scenes—so as not to tamper with evidence.
…It’s a shirt.
It looks old. There are all kinds of holes in it, and stains coat every fiber of cotton. It looks, and smells like it hasn’t been washed in years, yet something is off about it…
He sniffs it once, and…
There’s a tinge of an alpha; it’s a scent he faintly recognizes, but he can’t place his nose on who.
Why would an alpha’s shirt be in Dazai’s dorm?
Kunikida feels off—everything here feels off. From the vacancy of the dormitory. To those weird prescriptions he saw in the bathroom, to the vintage cushion, to now this.
He doesn’t know what to feel.
He wouldn’t say he cares about Dazai, but is more so protective of the man. He’s noticed a handful of oddities about him—hell, even his arrival was unusual. From the way his posture is too straight, to the way he carries himself with pessimism, to jokes about taking his own life with a beautiful woman in a way so carefree it should be a legality.
Kunikida has seen the signs of someone at the end of their rope far too many times; it comes with the job… but, with Dazai, it’s almost like he’s making himself known just enough to be seen, but not enough for a relationship.
…Like he’s lost someone and is scared of letting anyone else into his heart.
But it’s not in his ideals to care for the unknown.
From the looks of it, Dazai hasn’t visited this place in weeks—and if he wasn’t staying here, then… where has he been living?
He pulls out his phone.
“Ah, Kunikida! So what do I owe the pleasure?” A cheeky voice sings on the phone. For once, he appreciates the audaciousness of it; it’s familiar, wanted, home.
Even though he made the first call, he’s struggling with how to start. No words feel right for what he has seen. There’s no evidence besides a lousy shirt smelling faintly of an alpha he can’t place.
“I’m at Dazai-san’s dormitory, and…” He starts; his tongue feels too big in his mouth. What does he say, how does he explain… this?
“Hm? The cat’s got your tongue?”
He shakes his head. “There’s a shirt.”
The line goes quiet.
“A shirt, you say?” He can hear the detective sit up in his chair, tone voided of the chutzpa it had a few moments ago. “What do you think?”
“Well… I’m not sure. It smells of that of an… alpha?”
“I see…” He draws out.
“Ranpo…?” Kunikida begins. He knows his colleague likes to take his time, but…
“Okay,” Ranpo speaks up. “One, the shirt was planted in Dazai-kun’s apartment. Or two…” A deep breath escapes, sending shivers down Kunikida’s spine. “—Dazai-kun’s classification isn’t what we thought it was.”
“But he’s classified as a—”
“A beta, yes,” Ranpo interrupts. “Do you remember when you sent Dazai-kun home a couple months ago because of his scent?”
“It’s not abnormal for a beta to hook up with an alpha or omega, Ranpo-san. There’s bound to be an afterscent.”
“Tell me, Kunikida-kun.” The detective hums. “Did you find pills in his bathroom?”
“Only the ones with—” And Kunikida remembers something. “There were some without a label…”
“Atta boy!” He can feel his older colleagues' grin appear on his face. “Grab those pills and give them to Yosano-san to analyze.”
“Ranpo, are you saying—”
The line hangs up.
His instincts don’t like where this is going.
He’s rushing to the bathroom faster than he’s felt himself go before. Swiping the bottle of pills and scurrying out the door.
Because no matter what, Dazai was a part of his—the agency’s pack.
And he couldn’t afford to lose anyone else, not anymore. Not again.
...
Chuuya isn’t used to waking up to an empty bed.
He turns over to rest his arm on what he hoped to have been a warm body—preferably nuzzling up to his neck, but what he finds instead is too soft and cold.
Opening his eyes, and it’s a pillow…
…with a printed picture of Dazai’s face on it.
The hell?
…The smell is strong.
He sniffs the cushion, and it reeks of Dazai’s pheromones—freshly scented, put up right next to Chuuya’s favorite glands to tease—the ones on his neck.
Something doesn’t sit right with him.
Even though Dazai is an oxymoron of a human being… he has habits, he has his nicks and knacks—and Chuuya has figured out what makes him tick and what makes him stick. Yet this? Too out of character, too tender, too unDazai-like for his liking.
The pillow is one from their nest, so he leaves it be. Dazai’s always been a bit of an unpredictable omega; he defies nearly every stereotype of what they’re made out to be. But if there’s one thing he does indulge in is their nest, and not getting out of it until the heat is completely done with it.
He may not have been completely heat-free, but his omega senses are still calmed by the presence of his alpha.
Chuuya splashes water in his face to wake himself up. His senses are uneasy—just waiting for the right hairpin trigger for him to burst into panic. He hasn’t seen enough yet.
He hurries himself to the kitchen. Dazai’s been here recently; he remembers him saying something about getting a drink.
There’s an empty glass in the sink—one that wasn’t there last night as they both did the dishes together. Thinking of it makes him smile.
Though the glass looks as normal as it does odd.
He picks it up, running his finger along the rim. There are faint lip marks on the chalice. They’re fresh.
The smell is off as well. He’s worked with the Port Mafia for half a decade now. He recognizes the smell of drugs before he’s even entered the room.
It smells faintly of a painkiller.
Chuuya opens his cabinet of over-the-counter drugs only to find the painkillers missing.
He’s dumping out every single bottle of pills before he can even think.
Dazai’s always left something, anything to let him know he’s gone out attempting. A shoe in the fridge, a bottle of Chuuya’s favorite wine dumped and sitting in the drain—hell, he’s even found a video game that should’ve taken hours to beat on the endscreen and displayed on the TV.
But there’s nothing, not even a linger of an oddity to be found.
“The hell”? Chuuya swears to himself, more in worry than in malice, and before he realizes, he’s peering over his balcony looking for any sign of blood or a dead body splattered on the sidewalk below.
He’s looking in every crevice of the house where that slippery fish could hide himself to die in bliss. Underneath the bed in the spare bedroom, in the bathroom cabinets downing bleach—he gets desperate enough to the point where he’s looking under pillows for the man—for any semblance of a clue of his existence.
Gone.
He’s turning his phone on and off, refreshing his and Dazai’s chats, exiting and reopening the app. There are no texting bubbles, no missed calls, not even a half-assed email.
Dazai isn’t a heartless dog, and he doesn’t know why he bites sometimes, but he at least yips and yodels and whimpers at his worst.
So why? Just why didn’t he notice? Why is it always when things are going well that they get taken away from him?
He can’t. He can’t afford to lose him again, not for a second time. He doesn’t want to lose anyone anymore.
He’s close to flying around the entire fucking city and blowing up every building in sight before he sees Dazai’s beige coat peeking out from the closet.
Chuuya’s made comments about the coat multiple times, how it’s too long and almost drags on the floor—but Dazai’s only reasoning was that it reminded him of Odasaku. He never knew the man personally, but he knows how much he meant to Dazai.
He’d never seen the man cry such earnest tears before; the grief destroyed him and their relationship.
Chuuya almost found himself hating the man. Hating him for getting himself killed and hurting the only person Chuuya cared about. He hated his stupidity, his volatile savior complex, and grief. Had he not intervened, had he not acted with such crassness, he might’ve still been alive today.
But he isn’t.
And he can’t change that.
The coat in his hands feels worn even though it’s new. There’s barely a scratch—not even a single stain. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to Dazai, yet the omega’s scent pierces through his nostrils.
His heart aches.
He smells it—a big inhale, and for a moment, it feels like his omega is right by his side again, pressing his head into the crook of his neck. It nearly brings a tear to his eye, yet he can’t bring himself to lament over a possibility, not a fact.
A cling beam through the apartment, for a moment, he wants to ignore it, but there’s a shine that irritates his eyes.
…it’s a pendant.
It’s a dark green, maybe emerald. It feels too heavy for it to be an ordinary gem in the palm of his hand. He turns it around, inspecting it with a light when he notices something etched into its casing…
The Armed Detective Agency.
…is Dazai?
Chuuya finds himself blinking—turning to the kitchen island and laying it there flat. His mind isn’t playing tricks on him—it’s real as it is horrifying.
He’s typing the address in on his phone before he can think.
For a second, he calls his thoughts foolish—an irrational jumble of all his worries gargling up and presenting themselves in just this moment. He wants to believe it to be false—that Dazai has not been right there this entire time, and he could’ve had him had he just kept looking.
But he didn’t.
He’s scrambling his mind for clues. Why, why didn’t he think to look at the enemy? What made him so ignorant as not to look there? His throat itches as if a dozen bees are stinging it—and at that moment, he remembers something Dazai said to him a few nights before his disappearance.
“He told me to go to the light, and I think I figured out what he meant by that.”
He should’ve remembered the light that shone in Dazai's eyes—the very first glimmer of bliss he had seen in weeks.
Dazai was depressed; they both were, living a life of loss only leads you to have more sorrows—misery that traces your every step as if to taint your reason for living.
Yet at that moment, he saw light.
Dazai speaks in riddles; it’s one of the things that makes him extraordinarily unique. It was a riddle, right there for Chuuya to grab and lie loose like a knot on a bright red string.
He would’ve gone with him.
He still blames himself for his leaving, but he will not blame himself for his death.
Chuuya’s fast, he always has been—yet nothing feels fast enough when your lover’s life is on the line.
...
Dazai wasn’t meant to live a long life.
He knows that everything he wants to keep he’ll end up losing—that he’ll never be able to love anyone without the nagging thoughts that his mind tells him; you’re going to lose them, too.
How is anyone supposed to live knowing loss is the outcome?
He wasn’t supposed to make it this far—he was supposed to die hiding in his underground escapades; the Black Wraith passing in darkness, how ironic.
Yet he was found. Found against his will and nursed back to health by Chief Taneda—forced to learn how to breathe, how to eat, how to feel again. He didn’t want it, didn’t ask for it. He didn’t want to confront the monstrocities he’s been running from, but he was forced to.
He remembers the night he was found; it was a few months after he had turned nineteen. His skin was paler than the sand on the Maldives beaches, bones sticking onto his flesh to remind himself that he was human, embarrassingly so, and like how humans do, he’d die a slow death.
Dazai was fine with that—he truly was. Hands bloodied with hundreds of bodies, topped off with the blood of his dearest friend. His death deserved to be painful, slow; everything he didn’t want it to be. A natural death with clocks ticking, not a beautiful suicide with powder pouring.
And just when he thought he saw the lights of Heaven, when he felt warmth touch his skin and sounds deafening, he was saved from this prison we call living.
He awoke in a white room, sun blessing his eyes, which he thought to be a joke; he surely wasn’t an angel after working in Hell, yet when he realized the women who entered the room lacked wings and halos did he panic and try to flee.
Then a voice spoke—a voice he thought was God when his mind was passing, the same voice that was supposed to lull him to the afterlife.
It was by an older man, about the same age as Mori, was by his side, talking to him like he cared, like he was someone worth wanting to save and love.
He wanted to hate him, with every bone in his body; he wanted to detest the man, but he couldn’t.
Maybe it’s because the man spoke in riddles just like Odasaku did in his last moments of living. Or maybe it’s because in his state of drug-filled delirium, the two resembled each other in a way that was tragic—not physically, no, but in the way they spoke and told fables about the world like they had experienced it in its entirety.
“You kids think you know so much about the world that you think it’s your time, yet all of you are just startin’, all of you need savin’. There is no place in the world where dyin’ cures your loneliness.”
He only remembers bits and pieces after that: how hard it was to eat again, how he had to be watched twenty-four-seven by nurses and staff, how, after every failed escape attempt, Chief Taneda would sit by his bed reading his book, and speak only a few words.
He wasn’t even discharged on good behavior; the Chief brought him home the same way you do a stray cat that’s been abandoned in the rain. He gave him his own room, his own autonomy, and would make him sit down for a meal every morning and night.
It was an oddly domestic life.
Then he introduced him to Fukuzawa.
Dazai knew then that he was the light Odasaku told him about.
So, Dazai played with everyone’s game—got on his best behavior so he’d be allowed to roam freely. He got a bit healthier, would engage in conversation with the Chief, and not just sit in loud silence. He showed he could be human, showed he wanted to live.
But that was in the past; he was done living in the light for now.
Didn’t he do his job? Played goodie-two-shoes with everyone in the agency? He saved a couple of people to make up for the hundreds he killed—reunited with an old friend and mated with the one person who was capable of understanding him. He’s played the good fairy, and it was time to move on before darkness crept on him again.
He’s not a selfish person; he’s saving the light from his destruction.
The concrete beneath him has never looked more inviting.
His phone buzzes.
He knows he shouldn’t answer it. He shouldn’t check and look for a way out; that’s what a person would do, and he’s proved time and time again he’s far from his humanity; he lost that long ago.
Yet, part of him aches.
He’s going to die anyway.
What’s the harm in looking now?
...
“So, Dazai-san is—”
“An omega, yes.”
“And why didn’t you think to let anyone know, boss?”
The air in the room is more tense than it is when students are taking their final exam. You can hear each minute ticking on the clock, how mere breaths cause the plants around you to move; the silence is louder with each passing moment.
“He has a right to his autonomy,” Fukuzawa says, tone even and to-the-point.
“And we have a right to know when an omega has entered our pack.” Kunikida’s never fought with the boss, much less argued with him. He doesn’t know why this secret ticked a nerve—he doesn’t know why he feels that he has a right to know.
“You speak as if you own him,” Fukuzawa clears his throat. “Neither one of us, no matter the classification, is above or below anyone. Here, we are all equals, and Dazai-kun didn’t want it to be known. I respected his wishes.”
“You speak as if that makes it fair—”
“I speak with respect for the man, unlike you.”
Kunikida grips his tongue.
Does he not respect Dazai? He’s indifferent about the man, sure. He’s hated his guts ever since he appeared out of thin air—he doesn’t know why, it’s irrational and not in his ideals, he just did. He knows it’s unfair, how he should’ve given the man a fair shot like everyone else, but he just couldn’t, for some reason.
“My apologies, boss,” He doesn’t mean the apology, he can’t bring himself to mean anything when he’s this on edge. Yet arguing isn’t going to fix the problem at hand. “Do you know if he had a heat partner?”
Fukuzawa makes a face, “No, I do not.”
“So we’re at a loss.”
“Ratatatata!” Ranpo pops his lips. “Not so fast, Kunikida-kun!” He grins. “We mustn’t give up yet, we still don’t have all the pieces to the puzzle!”
The alpha sighs, “Ranpo-san, none of his can place his scent, how are we supposed to—”
“You seem to think this alpha of Dazai-kun has kidnapped him…” Ranpo trails off, mind thinking and placing a million possible scenarios in a matter of seconds. “But why would his alpha kidnap him now? It’s irrational! Dazai-kun has been coming back after his heats unscathed for months! I don’t think this alpha had anything to do with his disappearance.”
“So what? He just up and left of his own accord?”
“Bingo!”
“Can you idiots stop arguing? It sounds like primary school in here,” Yosano enters the conference room, hair a bit messy and undone. “I figured out what the drug is.”
Fukuzawa gives her the go-ahead.
“It appears our slithery omega has been taking illegal heat suppressants for quite some time now.” She stands, holding the drug in a tiny tray, as if it’s poison.
The room stills, and Kunikida feels some sort of obligation to respond…
“So when I sent him home for his scent a few months ago…”
“Those were the pills malfunctioning, yes.” She replies.
“Why would he—”
She takes a deep breath, “Must you guys be so careless?” She breathes. Yosano’s always been the most understanding of them all—at least enough that it’s noticeable. She’s caring in her own, mysterious way; she’d stain her hands with the blood of thousands if it meant she’d keep her treasure. “If you were an omega entering an alpha-dominated workplace, would you want your colleagues to know?”
Kunikida’s stumped for a moment—he’s not sure why he answers when he can’t be concise, but he feels this adamant need to be right about this.
“For safety reasons, it makes sense to know,” he speaks with hesitance, not even he fully believes his rebuttal. “But for everything else it doesn’t.”
Yosano nods, “You’ve been speaking of him as if he’s property you own since you found out.” She glares at him, face painted in layers of disappointment, and Kunikida flinches. “I don’t know what in the seven hell’s has gotten into you to be referring to him as omega; use his damn name, not his species.”
“Fukuzawa?” Ranpo questions, turning his head in worry. “What’s on your mind?”
“Kunikida-kun,” Fukuzawa speaks up, yet his voice wavers as if he’s about to confess a sin. “This isn’t the first time Dazai-kun has disappeared.”
Kunikida halts to speak, he knows there’s more about to be said. His stomach quakes with uneasiness as butterflies explode in his chest, heartbeat lurking to start beating faster.
“He’s always been a flight risk,” the man explains. “I met him half a year before he joined the agency. He wasn’t stable when I met him, and I was foolish to think a man who’s experienced such terrors could improve as fast as he did.” He looks… shameful, almost, eyes looking through him, but not at—hazed over with the guilt of a millennium. “That part I regret keeping disclosed, I should’ve warned you all that much.”
“...What does flight risk entail?” It’s a stupid question, Kunikida knows that much, but he needs clarification. Nothing is as simple as it seems.
“It means…” Ranpo speaks, this time with caution, like the fun of the chase disappeared from the room. No longer a mystery, but… “He’s going too—”
The door flies across the room.
And it reeks.
But the scent is familiar.
“You.”
Kunikida turns around to see the ambience, just whose voice that is, and why it’s so familiar, yet the moment he does so, he’s pinned against the wall and can feel a knife on his throat.
“You reek of him,” the voice seethes. “So where is he?”
Kunikida opens his eyes to see his capture, and he freezes.
“You’re Nakahara.”
“Where the fuck is he?”
Kunikida should be scared; he wants to be, yet he’s too busy being stunned by who Dazai’s alpha is.
“Nakahara,” Fukuzawa tries to intervene. “We do not have him. I assure you, we do not know where he is, and killing a person who’s trying to find him will not fix that fact.”
“Oh,” Ranpo gasps. “You’re his alpha, aren’t you?”
“What?” Chuuya grins. “You think I kidnapped him or somethin’?”
“Not specifically you,” Ranpo tries to de-escalate. He leans over to the chair beside him and throws the old shirt at the mafioso.
Nakahara catches it, and he stops, lowering his knife and bringing the shirt up to his nose.
“Where the hell did ya’ find this?”
Kunikida brings a hand to massage his tight throat. “It…” He takes a deep breath. “Was in his dorm on his bed. We thought whoever the scent belonged to was his capture, but it appears we were wrong.”
“Now, Nakahara,” Yosano smiles uneasily. It’s rare for her to smile with kindness. “Step away from my collegeue, would you?”
The alpha listens.
And something in Chuuya changes.
“He’s gonna kill himself.” He says. It’s not a lie, not with ill intent, but with utter desperation, prayer—with love. "Dazai is... going to kill himself, and you've all done nothing."
“Oh…” Ranpo realizes, “You’re… serious.”
Kunikida didn’t think mafiosos could show much emotion—hardly any, if you ask him. But the more he looks at Nakahara’s eyes, the more he swears he can see unshed tears hanging heavy on his lashes.
“He left about two hours ago,” He recognizes that tone, the tone of holding in tears. “He overdosed on painkillers, probably more, but—his coat, he left his fucking coat, and that’s how I—”
“Nakahara-kun?” Ranpo asks, his voice is wavering heavily with guilt, like he should’ve known something. But you can’t predict the actions of a ghost. “Did you leave him a message at all?”
Chuuya nods, “A couple of voice messages.”
“Kunikida-kun?”
He looks his way.
“Is Katai-kun at work today?”
“He’s in the computer room—”
Ranpo grins, “All’s not lost yet, then.” Kunikida doesn’t know how there’s still hope in Ranpo’s eyes after hearing how one of their colleagues might be dead, and they didn’t even bat an eye. He’s praying he’s right, that if there’s a God, they won’t be too late to save a life. “Nakahara-kun, you’re gonna call Dazai-kun’s cell and leave a message.”
Chuuya opens his phone and walks out of the room before Ranpo finishes speaking.
“Okay,” Ranpo exhales. “Kunikida, alert Katai to track Dazai’s cell. There’s a high possibility Dazai will at least listen to the voicemails.”
He doesn’t know why he doubts that.
“How can you be so sure?” He asks. He doesn’t want to doubt the brains of the agency, the key to solving every impossible case, but—
“Trust me, please,” it’s a plea.
And he doesn’t need much more.
...
[...] “Mackerel, I don’t know where the f—hell, you’ve gone this time, but you can’t fuckin’ do it. You… can’t. You can’t just leave me again after coming back into my damn life like some runaway dog. You can’t—you can’t do that to me, okay? Not again. I won’t let you leave me again, not when things are like… this.”
[...] “Dazai, I swear to fuckin’ God if you don’t answer the phone right now, I’m going to blow up the entire fuckin’ city. You don’t get a choice, ya’ don’t get to fuckin’ leave me again. You’re a piece of shit, y’know that? It’s so fuckin’ hard to love you, yet for some twisted reason, I still fuckin’ do; you don’t get to control how you fuckin’ die; you’ll die on my terms, by my hands, and I’ll savor every damn second of it. I’ll kill you before you kill yourself.”
[...] “Don’t be dead, please.”
[...] “Osamu, please don’t die. I don’t know if you’re hearin’ these or if they’re goin’ to the voicemail of a corpse, but… I need you. I didn’t know how badly I needed you until I lost you. Please. It’s selfish of me to ask ya’ to live, but please don’t be like them. I can’t—I don’t know if I can handle more people dyin’ for me. ‘Samu, if you’re dead, I’m goin’ to kill myself. Please, I can’t be alone again.”
[...] “I love you, Osamu, please…”
He shouldn't have heard those messages.
He could’ve died without the guilt, without knowing Chuuya’s painful yearnings of admission. He’ll move on, right? All of those were just words spewed out in the moment, words of desperation that aren’t true? Feelings, they were just feelings, and like how feelings do, they will fade to be as old as time.
Is he crying? He isn’t sure; nothing feels real as he stares down at the asphalt that calls his name. It's pretty. This is what he was meant for; he wasn’t supposed to live this long, he wasn’t meant to be here, he made his point, and it was time to move on.
But still…
This is his Chuuya.
His phone buzzes in his hand.
Bzz.
Bzz.
Bzz.
“Dazai? Please, just—”
“I’m sorry.”
It’s time for him to go.
He’s been rotting for far too long in this thing you call living.
...
“I have his location!” Katai yells, coming out in an emergent yell from the closet. “He’s on a rooftop northeast of here.”
“Yosano, are you good too—”
“No,” Ranpo interrupts, a forte of his; though, in a way that’s typically done bashfully, cuts through the room in a cold tone. “None of us would make it on time, except for Nakahara.” He looks at the mafioso, who’s already nearing the closest window. “Message us when you have him, alright?”
Chuuya nods, launching off the windowsill, causing the building to shake in the process.
“Are we really going to trust him?” Kunikida scrutinizes. Logically, Nakahara is the fastest out of all of them, but sending him alone leaves him feeling uneasy at best. It should’ve been me. His mind screams, but he can’t listen to those irrational thoughts that are stemming from none other than his own incompetence.
“He’s high up and miles away. We wouldn’t get to him in time, and Yosano’s ability can’t help us here.”
“So what? We just wait and hope?”
“Exactly,” Ranpo sits down, not even kicking up his feet or slouching in some odd way. “If Dazai-kun is alive, Nakahara will let us know; if he’s dead, then it was nice knowing all of you.”
“You don’t think he’ll…”
Ranpo tilts his head. “You saw how desperate he was to save Dazai-kun. He’s the strongest ability user in the country! If he finds his lover’s dead body, we will all die, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. It’s romantic, if you think about it.”
Yosano snickers, “What’s so romantic about that?”
The detective smiles, “Dazai-kun is the only one who can stop Nakahara’s ability, that’s why.”
...
He should’ve jumped.
Minutes ago, maybe even seconds ago, he should’ve jumped.
He had the opportunity; he should’ve jumped. He would’ve been freed from all his sins.
Doesn’t he deserve a break? He played the part of a good Samaritan long enough that people fell for his authenticity. He learned how to love, how to laugh, how to act like a person who saw value in life. And it was nice while it lasted, but the fake halo around his head has fallen, and it’s time for him to die. This game of charades has been going on for far too long, and he’s calling it quits.
“Dazai—”
He should’ve jumped.
“—Back away from the ledge.”
He turns around, the winter chills blowing between the two as flakes of snow begin to fall from the sky. Maybe it’ll be easier to fall rather than jump, maybe the too-human part of him is scared to look and would rather look up.
“Why should I, hm?” He says, his voice more hoarse than he thought. “Don’t you wanna save me?”
“You idiot,” Chuuya’s cheeks are cold with the breeze; he can’t tell whether those are tears of fear or from the cold, probably both. “You know I can’t—”
“What? Save me?” He takes a tiny step back, just enough to make the other flinch. “You can’t save me from falling, you know that.”
“Don’t take another step, Dazai, just listen—”
“I’ve been listening to you for far too long,” Dazai licks his lips, they’re coated with the aftertaste of too many pills swallowed, skin peeling away with each crinkle. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
“It’s not your time yet, Dazai.” Chuuya panics, pupils shaking, trying to stare nowhere else but at him. “You don’t get to die today.”
“Or what? You’ll kill me with your own two hands?”
“Exactly.”
He takes another step.
“Dazai, don’t.”
“I’m tired, Chuuya,” Dazai confesses. He’s so close that he may as well start confessing his sins in hopes that he’ll be let go without a fight. “I’ve done everything I need to. I’ve been in the light. I’ve helped people, and it’s time for me to go.”
Chuuya waits, taking a step forward, a testing one. Dazai doesn’t move; he’s stuck in place. “And who told you that?”
“I–” His breath hitches. He needs to jump. There’s no point in starting to relay his sins when he could write a bible full of them. It’s pathetic to beg for forgiveness before you die. “I don’t want to hurt the light. I—” He stumbles on his words. “He told me to find the light, and I did, I did that. I…” He pauses. “I can’t risk tainting it…”
His mind is screaming for him to take another step back, but his twisted heart is keeping him in place. That same achy feeling makes way for his aortas, tying them into a knot he can’t undo. He’s the only one frozen in time as everyone else moves on, a criminal thing. Another punishment for his many sins.
“You’re not hurtin’ anything by bein’ alive, not anymore.” He’s getting closer, and that scares him. He used to be so far away, his chance used to be so close, and now it’s disappearing in front of him.
“You don’t get it—”
“What? That you’re hellbent on that death’ll fix your sins?” A nervous chuckle escapes Chuuya’s tone. It’s both a plea and a demand, and Dazai isn’t sure if he finds comfort in that or not. “Your wrongs don’t disappear in death, Dazai, they stay unfixed, leavin’ another person to clean up the mess.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, or the others, or—”
“I don’t think you want to die, Osamu.” Chuuya starts, and the moment he does, sparks of hope dance around scent. “I think… if you truly wanted to die, you wouldn’t have answered the phone to say you’re sorry. If you wanted to die, you would’ve done it when you got here. But you answered, and I think that, no matter how much you deny it, you want to find a reason to live.”
He doesn’t know what to say.
“You talk about how not-human you are, when you’re choosin’ the most human way to die,” He’s getting closer. “Only humans commit suicide; only they try to take their own lives. You may not’ve even realized it, but… you’re so drastically human that it hurts you.”
That’s a lie. That’s a lie. That’s a lie.
It’s not true.
He made a promise to Odasaku, saying he’d find the light, and he did. He did that. He did that so well that he thought it was time for him to go before he ruined it. It’s better to leave before you get too comfortable—to leave with some sins atoned before you have more to repent.
Is he just supposed to break that promise? After all these years, he can’t break that promise.
“There’s some part of you that wants to live with your humanity.”
The moment a hand touches his wrist, the chance is gone.
“Please, no—” He begins to beg. He isn’t a beggar. He isn’t one to plead for mercy or pray for forgiveness. But it’s all he has now; he has nothing else other than words of desperation that wail for him to die. “Chuuya—please, I need to—”
And Chuuya says nothing.
The world blurs around him as he tries to pull back towards his sanctuary. The asphalt that was once calling his name is getting quieter and quieter, and he hates that. He thinks it's the tears that are running down his cheeks that make his face burn; he can’t tell.
Chuuya’s always been the stronger one of the two of them, but it’s never been more obvious than now, as he’s pulling and pulling towards a dissipating fate that was once his. It’s gone. The moment is gone, and no matter how hard he pulls, it’s not coming back.
He’s pulled onto the floor, a light layer of snow adding to the heat of it all. It’s gone. This is his reality. He’s being forced to live again.
“Chuu—please—I—”
“It’s okay,” Chuuya says into his hair. “I’ve got ya’”
Dazai sobs into his lover’s neck, and his chest heaves in a way he didn’t know was possible. He’s sobbing with a desperation only men who’ve gone through war should, but he’s helpless to stop himself; for all he is are his sins he can’t confess.
A hand cards through his hair as another holds him tightly. It’s wanted, in a way, maybe because he’s selfish or maybe because he’s more pathetic than a dog too scared to fight. He’s so tired of fighting; when will his nightmares end? This was supposed to be his ending, the final chapter of his horror story, yet it landed on a cliffhanger instead.
“I’ve got you, ‘Samu,” Chuuya croons, his voice trembling with every word. “I’ll always have you.”
Maybe in another lifetime, he would’ve jumped off the ledge. Maybe in another lifetime, he’d be worth grace.
For now, he’ll play in this game we call living.