Chapter Text
It had been an immensely slow day at the ADA Coffeeshop, the same kind of slow that Dazai swore he’d been noticing more and more often in the last two weeks. Perhaps it was the golden-orange trickle of sunlight that bled through the blinds, scattering the sunset across the empty tables and floors, but the entire café seemed a lot smaller than usual. While it was true that no one really stopped for coffee at this time, the shuffle of strangers today was especially slow. All of Dazai’s favorite regulars no longer appeared at their expected intervals, and somehow, Dazai found himself with a lot more free-time on his hands than he expected as the main barista during the evening and night shifts.
He would be lying to himself if it didn’t make him the slightest bit antsy. The constant rush of the job, from brewing coffee to refilling the snack bar, meant that Dazai had a temporary reprieve from his thoughts. It was one of the many things he appreciated about the job. He liked the opportunity to talk to strangers, faceless individuals who would never judge him for more than a few seconds. He liked the spontaneity of it all, of making a game in his head, predicting what which customer would order. He liked the chatter that blanketed the space, just loud enough to keep his mind at bay.
After Dazai grew bored watching the Sun slowly set, he swiftly turns around, making a beeline for the backdoor to the kitchen. Yosano is there, standing in front of a stack of boxes: the most recent batch of coffee beans delivered.
Akiko Yosano. What a woman. When Dazai first accepted the offer from Fukuzawa to work at the ADA, she was one of the first people he had met. She had taken one look at him, at his crumpled clothes and tangled hair, and pursed her lips. She scared him, back then, with a gaze that seemed to say “I see you.” She was also entirely unimpressed by the jokes he had thrown her way, merely shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
Still, she helped him. Helped him learn his way around the counter and how to work the cash register that only popped open when pressed a certain way, helped him learn how to make all the different kinds of lattés, teas, and matchas. She never asked him any questions about his past, or where he came from, something Dazai had learned to appreciate more and more.
“Yosano!” Dazai greets cheerfully, walking and positioning himself so he was right in front of her.
She looks up briefly, pausing her organization and tallying of the boxes, “Dazai.”
“Has business seemed slow recently? We’re not getting any more customers...” He lets his voice trail off into a slight whine, looking up to see how she reacts.
“I don’t think so. I spent most of today baking though, since your sorry ass can’t do shit.” Yosano’s response is instant, laced with enough dryness that Dazai has to scoff.
“Everyone knows you’re better at baking anyway.” In all honesty, Dazai just didn’t like the kitchen. With no windows and giant metal tables, it was a cramped space that reminded him too much of memories he wished he could shake.
“Weren’t you bragging about how you were flirting with some women a few days ago? If you really wanna know, why don’t you ask Kunikida? He probably has a better idea of what’s happening anyway.”
Kunikida, Dazai’s assistant manager and apartment roommate who always acts like Dazai is the source of his grey hairs. Dazai can already picture the blond rubbing his temples.
-----
Kunikida’s phone picks up on the third ring. Dazai’s pretty sure Kunikida’s too responsible to ever let a call go missed, so he’s ignoring him on purpose. How mean.
“Dazai.” The familiar gruff voice echoes in the empty café.
“Kunikida! Just the man I wanted to speak to.”
“Don’t use your phone during work-hours.” Man, Dazai doesn’t know how Kunikida doesn’t get tired of repeating the same thing so many times.
“It’s about work!” Dazai responds instead, absently running his hands along the brim of a plastic coffee cup. “Have we gotten less customers recently? I keep seeing less and less beautiful women during my shifts, it makes me reall-”
Before Dazai can finish his sentence, Kunikida cuts him off with a sigh.
“Business has been slower recently, but it’s nothing to worry about. It’s because of the new café that’s opened.”
Damn, color Dazai surprised. He’d seen a shop being renovated on his way to work, but he didn’t expect it to be another coffee-shop.
“A new café? This could be a serious problem, Kunikida. How come you haven’t called a team meeting about our newest competitors? We could definitely review bomb them on Yelp, I’m sure that would help us a lot.”
“Dazai.” The way Kunikida says his name reminds Dazai of a disappointed father. It’s quite amusing.
“No one is review bombing anything. They’re called the Port Mafia Café, and they just established a branch here. It’s not a big deal, I’m sure the rush will die soon enough. Now, get off your phone.”
With that, Kunikida hangs up, leaving Dazai with nothing except a name to search up and stalk on the Internet.
-----
The next afternoon, a quick Google search tells Dazai that this Port Mafia Café is entirely awful and should close for even trying to compete with the ADA Coffeeshop.
Well, in all honesty, it wasn’t terrible. The entire website seemed professionally designed, with a sort of alternative, grunge look to it. The menu shows an assortment of different teas and coffees, with a few pastries on the side. There’s a pop-up, encouraging Dazai to put his phone number and become a member, which the website dubs “Night Wardens”, something Dazai refuses with a substantial amount of passion.
Atsushi Nakajima, the new part-time barista, is standing near the water station, eyeing Dazai warily. When Dazai catches him staring, he turns the faintest shade of red and looks away, almost knocking over a few cups in his haste to look busy.
Dazai was actually the one who found him, lingering on the side of the street. He’s also the one who gave Atsushi the offer to work there part-time for money, although Fukuzawa needed little convincing before hiring the kid. The teenager is a bumbling mess of scrawny limbs and sorries, apologizing profusely any time Dazai offers him any kind of advice or correction. He’s 18, yet he seems so much younger, and comes in every other day to follow Dazai around like a little duckling.
Dazai looks around: there’s a middle-aged man sitting at a table, typing away on a computer, and two young girls sitting together on a couch, engrossed in conversation with each other and giggling. Other than that, the café is empty again.
“Atsushi. What are you doing?” Dazai asks as he walks over to Atsushi, watching the kid nearly jump.
“I’m washing the glasses like Kunikida instructed me to.” Atsushi reports earnestly, watching with wide eyes as Dazai smirks.
“Okay, well you have a new job now. Have you heard of the Port Mafia Café?”
“Yeah I have, it-it's that new tea and coffee place down the street right?” He’s not quite looking at Dazai, as if he’s afraid he’ll say the wrong thing.
“I want you to go over and buy something from them. Scout out the place, see what their people are like, if their food tastes good, and report back to me.” He has to paste on an expression of faux seriousness, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder as if assigning him a mission to complete.
“Are you sure? I thought we weren’t allowed to leave the ADA during our shifts for extended periods of time? And aren’t they our competition anyway?” The boy looks awfully unsure, looking questioningly up at Dazai like he’s expecting a joke.
“Don’t tell anyone. To know your enemy is to know yourself. Sun Tzu said that, y’know? He has to be a famous war strategist for a reason.” Dazai replies easily, patting Atsushi’s back and pushing him towards the exit.
“Um...okay. I’ll go now..?” Atsushi hesitantly takes his apron off, folding it neatly into a little square before making his way to the door. With a final glance back at Dazai, he makes his way to the Port Mafia Café.
With that plan set in motion, Dazai goes back to the counter, where the newest onslaught of online orders have just loaded. The perfect way to pass the time while his loyal barista-intern treks through enemy ground for him. He doesn’t know why he cares this much—Kunikida is probably right, as always, about the rush dying down. But, something tells him that there was more to the new café than it appeared. The ADA was a bustling, busy café that had existed long before Dazai even got hired. It was a popular favorite for the locals, and to Dazai’s pride, it was a fan-favorite on TripAdvisor and Yelp. No one in their right mind would start a café so close to such a popular spot, unless they were out of their mind.
There was something about this situation that made Dazai feel like it was better to have someone else go test the waters for him. Additionally, the silence afterwards is grating; it unnerves him, in more ways than one, to have his favorite place so quiet. It makes the rush in his own ears louder, gives him more time to be trapped in his head.
-----
The second his phone rings, Dazai immediately looks around to make sure no one’s in line, and then goes to the back to pick it up. Ranpo and Yosano are both there: Yosano baking pastries, and Ranpo lazily restocking their storage shelves (and eating some of the cake-pops Yosano makes) while asking whether or not they can increase the sugar count in their cakes. Neither of them pay Dazai much attention.
“How is it?” Dazai whispers demandingly.
“It’s...fine? It’s a little dark in here.” Atsushi’s quiet voice fades a little as he goes silent. “They’re playing jazz in the background. They have a lot more tea stuff than we do, but I bought a crêpe.”
“Is it any good?” This is the important part. No way pastries are the reason the ADA is getting their customers stolen.
“I haven’t eaten it yet. The baristas are kind of looking at me funny.”
“Are they any nice?”
“Well the one that took my order was this emo guy with black and white hair. I’m pretty sure he was glaring at me, but before I could say anything, he started coughing and I felt kinda bad so I didn’t ask.” Dazai can hear Atsushi walking around, along with the jazz music the kid was talking about. Which café plays jazz?
“And then there was this short ginger dude who gave me my crêpe. He seemed a bit nicer and asked if I wanted any drinks to go along with it.”
Short and ginger? Black and white hair? Dazai feels his heart lurch in his chest, the same way it had every time something about the foster institution was brought up. He hates it, hates the way that it still impacts him that the vague, nondescript mention of strangers was enough to catch him off guard. It had been over two years, two years since he got away from that stupid fucking group home with plaster white walls and the constant odor of mildew in the air.
“Don’t be fooled by kindness, Atsushi.” Dazai says, instead of telling Atsushi that he too, knew a short ginger and an emo kid with black and white hair. “They could put poison in your crêpe, and then I’d lose my favorite part-timer!”
“I’m your favorite part-timer?” Atsushi repeats, rather than focusing on the potential of holding a poisoned crêpe.
“Yes, yes, who else would run the dishwasher for me if not for you?”
“But, everyone seems pretty normal here, it just seems very...dark. The baristas are kind of odd though, one of them keeps glaring at me, and he’s super pale too. Who names their child Akutagawa anyway?”
Atsushi tests the name in his mouth, and Dazai would’ve felt a lot more amusement at the way the vowels and consonants clash together awkwardly if not for the fact that the lurch in his heart just turned into an entire arrhythmic sequence.
“Did you just say Akutagawa?” Even saying the name feels oddly foreign, and his throat feels rather dusty and full.
“Oh, is that how you’re supposed to say it? Yeah, why?” Atsushi’s voice suddenly feels like it’s a thousand miles away, sound waves traveling across an infinitely vast ocean before scattering into Dazai’s ears.
“Nothing, just curious.” Dazai’s voice is as calm as usual, but he’s gradually becoming more and more aware of every single hair on his body, the heat on his skin, and the phone in his hands has somehow doubled in weight.
Akutagawa isn’t even his biggest worry. How many short ginger boys could exist in the world? And working in the same place as Akutagawa?
“You said there was a ginger, right?” He chooses to ask. There’s a jittering heat building in his legs, in his calves and thighs, that makes him want to run. All around him, the kitchen walls are wavering slowly, creeping towards him inch by inch.
“Yeah, why?” Atsushi still sounds confused, and Dazai can hear him walking again, hear the thud of his footsteps against the ground.
He doesn’t know whether to ask him to go back in and ask for the name, or to leave as fast as possible, and go anywhere except the ADA Coffeeshop in case they were looking at him.
“Did you see his name?”
“Ummm, kinda? I didn’t really care to look at it though. I think his first name was Chuuya or something.” Dazai exits the kitchen, making his way to the door. In the distance, he can see Atsushi, tiny spot down the street, walking back to the ADA.
Chuuya. Chuuya. There was no possible way it was a coincidence. What was he doing here?
He’s not as happy, or sad, as he expected, a fact that makes him smile softly with a sense of twisted humor. How long has he imagined this day, the possibility where, by some idiotic stroke of fate, he would see Chuuya again? Dazai’s not a stupid man, he’s thought of countless scenarios like this before, where he’s going grocery shopping in some tiny store and he brushes past a black coat and orange hair, where they meet at the old, abandoned warehouse they’d always sneak to, and see each other again.
Out of all the millions of possibilities, he did not expect to run into Chuuya Nakahara here.
It makes him feel insane, makes his stomach gurgle and sink with dread every time he ruminates too long, and it’s exactly why he tried so hard to wipe his slate clean. He shows up every morning with a bright smile, greeting people who look at him and see “Dazai Osamu, the best barista of all time and flirtatious charmer and potential stand-up comedian” (okay, they probably didn’t think that, but a man can dream, right?) instead of the bristly and lanky fuck-up, instead of the nuisance that threw himself at every person who looked at him funny, instead of the pitiful boy with bandages on his arms and legs. They didn’t know his past, they would never have to know his past, and he’d be fine. He’d be born anew, with people who talked to him, who found him funny, who made him feel a little less like he was an alien forced to exist amongst people.
It raises the handful of other questions Dazai has: why’s he working at a café, what even is the Port Mafia Café, why’d they choose to set up their location here, of all the possible places in Yokohama? Was it on purpose? Who else works there? Are they looking for him?
As soon as the question pops up, he immediately berates himself for thinking it. How egotistical, self-centered of him, to believe that they’d be searching for him? He left that damn place because he was a coward, because after Oda, he couldn’t look at any of them in the eyes and continue. So, he left. How they must loathe him, loathe the shell of a human he is, for leaving.
Dazai doesn’t quite know what to do. By the time he snaps back to his senses, the call has long ended; Atsushi probably hung up after Dazai stopped responding. Ranpo and Yosano are looking at him now, Ranpo with mild interest and Yosano with concern.
“I was just telling Atsushi about that new café down the street.” Dazai shrugs carelessly, making an exaggerated motion of hiding his phone. “Gotta inform our part-timers about our enemies.”
“The Port Mafia Café.” Ranpo states, tilting his head as he looks at Dazai. “Why do you care?”
The way he asks the question, it’s almost like he already knows the answer. Dazai snorts and waves a hand instead, already feeling his heart rate slowly drop down to its normal rate.
“You haven’t heard of Sun Tzu, Ranpo? To know your enemy is to know yourself.” Neither of them look like they’re too convinced, but it’s enough that they both shrug, turning away from him.
“It’s actually to know yourself, you must know the enemy.” Yosano corrects with a crooked smile, “but you know yourself just fine.”
God, they way they phrase their words, as if trying to trap him into something makes Dazai’s teeth crawl. They think they know him, think that they have him all figured out in their clever calculations, but Dazai knew that if they truly knew him, truly peered through the shadowy depths of his soul, then they would be nothing short of disgusted.
-----
“Yeah, yeah. I know I’m handsome and charming.” The deflection slides off his tongue, and Yosano rolls her eyes, shooing him away.
He slowly and deliberately turns around, walking back to the counter outside. Atsushi is already talking to a customer at the cash registry, asking hurriedly if a customer could repeat an order by the time Dazai reaches him.
There’s a thousand things he wants to say to Atsushi, he wants to ask what Chuuya looked like now, whether or not he still wore that dumb fedora, whether or not he still had his long hair, and most importantly, whether or not he knew why the Port Mafia Café suddenly existed now, here.
But, he doesn’t. His fingers reach to ruffle Atsushi’s hair instead, chuckling as the teenager jerks around, startled. He walks to help prepare drinks, methodically pours out milk, and coffee, and matcha over and over again. The beginnings of a plan are formulated in his head. Atsushi had done such a great job scouting for him today, hopefully he wouldn’t mind going on a few more café trips.
As the evening shift draws to a close, everyone has left except for Atsushi, who found a habit in waiting for Dazai to finish and dismiss him before he leaves. Good kid, that one, there’s something refreshing in his earnestness, something that makes Dazai’s chest ache.
“Did you tell the Port Mafia Café your name?” Dazai asks while Atsushi wipes the countertops.
“No, I actually thought they were supposed to, but the emo barista just kind of grunted at me.” Atsushi trails off.
“I want you to become a regular at their café. Say you’re buying stuff and if they ever ask your name, just say it’s Yoko [1]. I’ll give you the money every day, and during your shift, just go and buy something.”
Hearing this, Atsushi’s face scrunches up in confusion.
“Weren’t you the one saying they were our enemy? What if Kunikida gets mad at us?” The teen seems genuinely worried.
“Tsk. Sun Tzu, remember? Kunikida won’t get mad at us, he loves me too much to do anything.” The second part was a minor exaggeration, but Dazai’s pretty sure the man has to have possess at least a little bit of fondness for him. They were roommates after all, and he’s been putting up with Dazai’s shit for more than two years.
“Oh, okay.”
“In fact, if you do this, I will so generously grant you an extra 15 minutes of leisure. Feel free to walk around on your phone afterwards if you want. I can see you trying to sneak glances at it during our shifts anyway.”
Atsushi, wonderful as he is, doesn’t call out Dazai’s hypocrisy. He does, however, look overjoyed at the notion of getting free time.
“Are-are you sure Dazai? There’s no need, I’m sorry for trying to look at it anyway.” The remorse at being happy quickly sets in, and Dazai can literally see the regret etched in his face.
“Pffft, don’t worry about it, kid.” Dazai doesn’t say that the true reason is he didn’t want Atsushi to walk directly back to the ADA, in case the Port Mafia Café ever looked too closely at their new regular.
“Thank you Dazai!” Atsushi honest-to-god beams, before straightening up, “is there anything else you want me to do?”
“Just try and be friendly. Make small-talk, if the situation arises.” Dazai’s not sure how much he trusts Atsushi’s small-talk skills, and he’s a little worried the kid will end up looking too suspicious if he does too much digging on Dazai’s behalf.
“Don’t worry! They won’t even know I’m part of the ADA.”
There's a dry irony that's settling in Dazai's bones. All those nightmares, all those hazy dreams, all the carefully thought of what-ifs...had all led to him forcing an 18 year old part-time barista to do his bidding. He truly was a coward. He wonders what Chuuya would think of him, if he ever learned the truth.
Well, only one way to find out.