Chapter Text
Rattling resounds from the kitchen. Atsushi turns his head towards it, calling out, “Osamu?”
No response.
Osamu isn’t clumsy - he isn’t the kind of person to drop a pan or to trip by accident. Instead, he is a man built by precise and exact machinations, so Atsushi worries something bad has happened. But, through his four years at the Detective Agency, he has lost the incessant urge to jump to the worst of conclusions.
“Osamu? You alright?” He calls out again. Still no response. Atsushi sits up and begins walking to the kitchen, purposefully allowing his feet to scuff and drag on the floor - he doesn’t want to scare him by accident. Maybe he’s just in a mood.
“Osamu,” he says for the third time in a row. A final warning before he actually sees him.
He looks into the kitchen, and instead of seeing his boyfriend, he first sees a large black coat. It looks more like window drapes than clothing. Then, he realizes the coat is worn by a person, who has a familiar mop of dark curls for hair, and is staring at a fallen pan on the floor.
That must’ve been the source of noise. It appears that Osamu has not always been so deft with his movements, honed after years in the Mafia. Although Atsushi has heard of Osamu’s time there, he is still in disbelief after seeing living and breathing evidence of it.
“Are you alright?” He asks softly. Stories climb out of his head, unbidden, about Osamu’s lifetimes of suffering. His sins, his regrets, the metaphorical death of himself after his friend bled out in his arms. “Living day to day,” Osamu muttered, his voice stoic and his face turned away, “was...”
“Hellish.”
Atsushi stands in the kitchen, heart in his throat and his mind running through the possible causes of this. His first thought is an ability user, but Osamu’s own ability should’ve negated it. It must've not been as impervious as he thought it’d be. And what could’ve been their motivation behind it? It also couldn’t have been due to their recent cases, Atsushi wrote up the reports for majority of them (after much bribing from Osamu, and unfortunately Atsushi was a weak man), and no associated culprits possessed such an ability. Perhaps it was an ability which worked latently, kicking in hours or maybe days after contact.
So is it some bad actor that they just happened to bump into in public at some point? Personal motives? Osamu has plenty of enemies, his current form a sore reminder of that, but why would they act now?
The man in question is still standing there. Atsushi has enough sense not to make any sudden moves, as he knows fully well of Osamu’s former position as a Port Mafia executive. Atsushi detests the idea of suspecting him, but Osamu doesn’t know him. He could be armed and empty a magazine’s worth of bullets into him at a single wrong move.
Well, not that it would be a big deal, but Atsushi doesn’t exactly like the idea, unsurprisingly.
“Sorry. I don’t really know where I am,” the younger Osamu finally replies, a hint of false mirth in his voice. “I’d introduce myself, but you seem to be awfully familiar with me, using my given name and all of that. So, I’ll say this instead,” he says, turning to look Atsushi in the eyes –
“Who are you?”
—
Atsushi sits on the couch, facing a teenage Dazai sitting across from him on a loveseat. A table with teacups and a teapot sit in between them. He curses at himself for not remembering everything Osamu’s told him in the past, but in his defence, Osamu has an unfortunate penchant for only sharing things when they are inebriated or on the verge of sleeping. Probably to protect himself - Atsushi senses that he still fears complete vulnerability.
Osamu’s face is younger than he’s ever seen it (Osamu possesses no old pictures of himself, whether due to the fact he had no one to take them or because they bring bad memories, Atsushi will never know), but he looks tired beyond his years. His eye bags indubitably beat any kind of sleep deprivation Atsushi faced while doing paperwork, and the lack of life in them coaxes memories of himself, in the orphanage, when he was surviving rather than living.
Perhaps they’re more similar than he’d originally thought.
Atsushi nurses a cup of jasmine tea (bland and terribly inoffensive of a choice) as Osamu leaves his untouched. His single, uncovered eye stares daggers into him, suspicion etched into his posture - his hands are in his pockets - which makes Atsushi fear he really is armed - and his back is straight to allow for their height gap to be emphasized. He smiles disarmingly under Atsushi’s gaze, but makes no move to drink his tea, indicating his lack of trust. Atsushi is distantly amused by this - does he think he'll poison him?
“How old are you - if you don't mind me asking?”
“I don’t see why I should tell you that,” he replies curtly, “there’s nothing in it for me,” and crosses his legs to punctuate his point.
Atsushi takes a long sip in lieu of a response. For some reason, he wasn't expecting that.
“Oh, don’t look so dour,” he finally answers with a crooked grin, making Atsushi realize his eyebrows had subconsciously furrowed. “If it’s so important to you, I’m eighteen.”
Eighteen. If Atsushi wasn’t mistaken…
Osamu tilts his head, appearing to have cottoned onto Atsushi’s silent realization.
“I’m four years your senior, then,” Atsushi replies. He desperately hopes his tone remains even, but he knows he’s abysmal at hiding his emotions, which is why he still holds his cup near his face, but that isn’t the real issue. That would be what assumptions Osamu makes off of it, him being a brilliant strategist. Osamu typically isn’t off the mark, but what Atsushi is thinking simply is not within the realm of possibility for Osamu at this point of his life. This Osamu was on the brink of facing something abhorrently life changing, and his Osamu always repeated one facet of this terrible, terrible thing - it was:
“I never saw it coming.”
And so, how could Atsushi bear to tell this eighteen-year-old, who likes to drink underage with his friends at Bar Lupin, who still talks regularly to Chuuya, who’s finally somewhat settled with his life –
That one of his best friends dies? Right in his arms? Odasaku, a funny nickname for an eccentric man, is now a grave that sits on the cliffside near the ocean.
Atsushi refuses to be the one who dumps such tragedy onto him.
Osamu doesn’t respond to his remark, still sitting there, legs crossed. Atsushi absentmindedly wonders if he should try contacting another member of the agency for backup, before vetoing it due to the fact Osamu likely wouldn’t let him. He extends an olive branch again, “Do.. you know what happened?”
Atsushi internally winces at his wording - this is why he never did interrogation, his question being too curt, vague, and blatantly hard to answer. Osamu’s eye flutters before he replies, “No, not really,” and maybe as a form of mercy, divulges more than what was asked, “I was in my room, and then, tout à coup!” His hands fly out. “I’m here.”
Atsushi frowns, “No possibility of an ability user being involved?”
A corner of Osamu’s mouth twitches, “I’d hope not. As far as I know, there is no ability that can accomplish this.”
And if that wasn't a pickle. Something the Port Mafia undoubtedly rivalled the Agency in was their prowess in reconnaissance and their long chain of power, which allowed for their found information to remain in their sole hands. If Osamu didn't know, then it was reasonable to say that if an ability user was involved, they simply did not exist when he was eighteen. This was also operating off of the assumption he was telling the truth, but Atsushi finds it hard to imagine any scenario where he wasn’t.
And so what if he was a little biased in his assumptions. Sue him.
-
Osamu’s nails dig into his palms, hidden from sight in his pockets. There is a man named Atsushi in front of him (he offhandedly remarked that usually he calls him Atsushi as to refrain from giving him his last name), who hides his face with jasmine tea, and looks far, far, too familiar with him. Stupidly naive, too. Osamu has lied straight to his face multiple times already, yet Atsushi takes it all in stride. He wishes he could say that Atsushi could be faking his faith in his words, but he can tell from Atsushi’s guilty nature that he has no room to think critically about Osamu, consumed by something else in his head. He has to remind himself to play nice, even though the feeling of bitter jealousy swallows him from head to toe. It’s just so–
Unfair. That the Osamu he has replaced has a stable life outside of the Mafia, seems to have a cute friend (boyfriend?), and has a relatively normal life. Atsushi seemed put off by his age, was he surprised by his decrepit appearance? Osamu’s heart fills with bitter poison, overwhelmed by the ironic jealousy of someone who’s him!
Death pervades his thoughts - he feels so hopeless. His own world is so desolate compared to this. Continuing to live in this miserable fashion feels pointless. Yes, he's sure that Ango and Odasaku would be sad, maybe even his annoying shrimp of a partner, but it's too late to fix his mistakes. To be able to right his wrongs would’ve had to start back when he was fourteen. Four years too late.
When he returns to his universe, he's going to kill himself. It’s simple, he’ll probably visit the Bar Lupin one last time, depending on the time of day which he was transported to, then he’ll tell Chuuya that he’s going to go jump off a building, except he’s unlikely to take him seriously considering how many times he declares this. Akutagawa - ahh, he doesn’t care enough about him to say anything. His fervent following of him gives him the creeps, and he hopes his death will be enough to throw him off the path he’s following.
Even if it's Osamu’s fault.
Atsushi furrows his eyebrows at him again, proving his incapability at hiding his thoughts. His eyes, an odd heterochromatic combination of yellow and purple are alluring in their own right, and also give off the impression that he, too, is an ability user. Ability users tend to overtly rely on their powers, which assures Osamu that he possesses the upper hand no matter if Atsushi already knows him. In fact, all the better, since he’s likely to let down his guard against Osamu. He looks troubled, but Osamu is more than willing to let him stew. The key is to wait for the other party to slip first, which Atsushi seems keen to do.
“That’s a pretty cute picture,” Osamu says, nodding his head towards a picture frame on the drawer next to Atsushi.
“Thanks,” Atsushi replies. “I took it. We were at the fair - I thought it was a good photo-op.” The aforementioned picture is of Osamu smiling with far too many teeth (in his opinion), holding up a peace sign, next to a girl Osamu knows distantly as Demon Snow. Colour him surprised - either she too escaped her horrible fate, or managed to defect to the other side. He can’t quite decide which one it is, since he doesn’t know how different this world is, but Kyouka having a normal life feels almost impossible, considering how her family was set up for tragedy.
“How’s Kyouka-chan?”
Atsushi shifts in his seat, setting down his cup, “She’s fine. Happy.”
“Good, good. And the others?”
“If you’re so curious about the Agency, you can just meet them yourself,” Atsushi snaps, rising to Osamu’s blatant fish for information.
Osamu can’t contain his grin, “I’d be honoured,” and Atsushi gives him the most hilarious horrified look, but doesn’t take back his words. It pleases Osamu further - Atsushi must’ve realized there was no other development to their situation, but didn’t like how the decision was made with no thought behind it.
Osamu is leaving in a couple of days anyways. If he gets into a sticky patch with the Agency, it won’t matter in the long term as he’ll never see this universe again. Although it may kick up a spot of trouble for this Osamu, it is quite frankly none of his concern. He might even deserve it, Osamu thinks with a bit of spiteful vindication.
Atsushi’s ears flush, “I can bring you into the office tomorrow. But, to prevent any incidents, I’ll have to inform them ahead of time.”
Osamu is almost disappointed, he wanted to send the Agency in for a real shock, but he submits to this instance of bureaucracy just once. Admittedly, it would make his experience much smoother without having to explain every time he meets someone.
“That’s fine with me,” and for this next sentence, he uncrosses his legs, places his hands on the table, and leans close. “But where do you want me to sleep, Atsushi-san?” He lightly teases, making the assumption Atsushi and him share a bed.
Atsushi burns up like a house on fire. He sputters, “I can sleep on the couch. You take the futon.”
Osamu laughs and doesn’t bother arguing over his hospitality.
-
Atsushi uses the time as an excuse to get dinner started. It’s actually Osamu’s turn today, which is why he was in the kitchen, but Atsushi refuses to make a guest cook no matter if it’s technically still his boyfriend. He sees sliced onions, carrots, and potatoes, along with chunks of chicken thigh marinating in some salt and probably some soy sauce. His gaze drifts to an opened package of instant curry cubes.
Atsushi easily picks up where twenty six year old Osamu left off, and begins sauteing the vegetables. Osamu likes his carrots extra soft in his curry, which is why the vegetables get cooked first by themselves rather than with the chicken. Atsushi doesn’t know if eighteen year old Osamu holds the same preference - or if he’d care at all - but it’s what he knows, so that’s what he’ll do.
He can feel Osamu's curious stare from the living room. Atsushi will get Osamu to eat first, and while he eats, he’ll call up a few of the Agency members. The president, of course, and then probably Kunikida. Would Ranpo appreciate a warning? Maybe he’d be able to offer some insight as to what happened. Oh, and Kyouka would probably need a heads up. At this point, shouldn’t he tell the whole agency? Well, not all of them were intimately familiar with Osamu’s past, but still, seeing your colleague turn eight years younger must be jarring...
“Fuck!” Atsushi swears upon the discovery that he’s accidentally burnt one side of the vegetables from the lack of stirring. He pours in water, prods the wok a few times, and covers with a lid, hoping it's enough to cover his mistake. It’s because his attention keeps drifting to the boy in his living room.
Well, boy isn’t exactly correct, but he just seems so young. So - boy it is.
Osamu doesn’t respond to his sudden curse. A quick glance in his peripheral vision shows him sitting on the couch, a leg crossed over the other, and chin perched on his hand. Even in this bedraggled state, Osamu looks handsome as always, although with more boyish charm.
But that’s all. He’s drastically different from the twenty-two year old Osamu Atsushi met, and he has no interest in falling in love twice.
Atsushi thinks about what could’ve happened if their roles reversed - Atsushi picking up Osamu after Oda’s death, taking him in like he did with Kyouka. Atsushi mentoring him, Atsushi helping him through an intense period of grief. He shakes his head, it wouldn’t have gone anywhere near as smoothly as it did for Atsushi. Osamu already had experience with Akugatawa, where he made as many mistakes as he could and repeated none of them with Atsushi. No matter how much time passes, he will always be Osamu’s kouhai in the workplace.
He wishes he could give him the reprieve Osamu so desperately needed during this time, but he knows better. He is no Oda, nor Ango, nor their Boss. In the end, it has always been Atsushi reliant on Osamu, so how could he possibly reverse it?
Atsushi pops open the lid to dump the chicken into the wok. Osamu stands up from the couch, causing Atsushi to whip his head towards him, “Where are you going?” He asks, like a chiding mother.
Osamu raises his hand and waves it as if to shoo away his question, and answers, “The washroom.”
“You don’t even know where it is?”
“Tch. I would’ve figured it out eventually.”
Atsushi sighs, feeling distinctly ridiculous for being put in this situation. “In the hallway, first on your left.”
“Thank youuuu!”
Atsushi gets the feeling he was not just going to the washroom, but he doubts there’s much for him to find in the house. He also can’t fault him for being curious of his future self. Although there are the possible repercussions of time paradoxes, Atsushi really cannot bring himself to care. Osamu himself is a singularity anyways, so maybe whatever changes he brings to the timeline will be negated irregardless. Maybe he’ll find the picture of Chuuya and himself sitting amicably at a cafe, and at this thought, Atsushi snickers.
Osamu comes back just as Atsushi is ladling fragrant curry over plates of rice. The smell has wafted throughout the kitchen, causing Osamu to scrunch his face as he enters. “I don’t suppose this would be spicy?”
Atsushi blinks, saying, “You don’t like it spicy - this you, I mean.” He sets the ladle into the wok and picks up the plates with both hands. “I’m sorry for assuming, then.”
“I wouldn’t know, ‘cause I haven’t had it,” Osamu says. “Curry in general.”
“Well then I’m sorry for taking away your first time, then,” Atsushi replies, walking over to place their dinner on the table. “You should eat first,” he adds on, “I need to step out for a bit.”
Atsushi slips out of the living room upon Osamu's acknowledgement to dial up the Agency members. Atsushi notices that he doesn’t mutter a thanks before eating - another difference.
When he is a healthy distance from the kitchen and in a room which he knows is decently sound proof, he begins by calling Fukuzawa. His boss picks up quickly, and doesn’t let Atsushi get a chance to speak. “What is it?”
“Hello, sir - Osamu..” He struggles for a second on how he should phrase it, “has turned back into an eighteen year old. He’s with me in our house, he doesn’t seem dangerous, and uh - he’ll be visiting the office tomorrow - if that’s alright with you of course - he doesn’t know what happened either. Or any of his memories of his future. What - what do you want me to do, sir?”
“... Bring him to the office. This should go without saying, but talk to Ranpo as well. I trust in your judgment.”
“Alright, thank you. Good night, then.”
And as Atsushi goes to hang up, Fukuzawa speaks. “Oh, and Atsushi -”
“Yes?”
“It would bode you well to remember that right now, he’s still an executive of the Port Mafia. He was one of the youngest in history for a reason.”
“.. Will do, sir.”
“Good night,” and Fukuzawa hangs up before Atsushi can return it.
Unfortunately, he’s not misplaced in his vague warning. Atsushi is probably a little lax in his handling of Osamu, having no personal knowledge of Osamu when he was still in the Mafia, therefore throwing caution to the wind. Of course, he’s heard a lot of stories, but there’s still a cognitive dissonance between Osamu, eighteen, half of Double Black, and Osamu, twenty-six, who falls asleep in the bathtub if the water is too hot. Maybe he’s going about it all wrong; should’ve sent him straight to the office to be detained.
Whatever. It’s too late now. He made his bed, so now he has to sleep in it. He resigns himself to hearing his own stupidity being thrown back at him a few times, and poses his phone at his ear to call Ranpo next.
--
Atsushi returns to the kitchen, face feeling warm after getting significantly chastised by Kunikida and laughed at by multiple people. Kyouka gave a long sigh, and said, “Only you could end up like this.” Honestly, Atsushi had thought his naivety had gotten better, but it was quite obvious everyone thought the opposite.
Water can be heard running. Osamu is.. washing his dishes. It evokes a feeling of domesticity that shouldn’t exist, not with him, making his heart hurt in the missing space left by a man who is technically still here.
And so, he turns away and goes to eat his own cold curry.
The futon Osamu lays on has enough space for two. He lays spread eagle, in only his button down and his black slacks. Atsushi looked disconcerted enough for Osamu to lay off him about pyjamas - and besides, Osamu normally sleeps in worse conditions. Oftentimes, he doesn’t even bother with discarding his jacket.
The idea he could be loved romantically is a foreign concept, being only conditionally wanted his entire life. Maybe his family loved him, but he can’t remember, so it doesn’t matter. But this bed is proof of companionship.
He covers his eyes with his forearm, trying to imagine this world’s Osamu buying this futon with Atsushi, but no matter which scenario he starts with, nothing comes to mind. He’d long since sworn off the ideas of romance, instead brandishing it like a tool when needed. Memories of flirting with men and women alike rise unwillingly - a long glance here, a caress about the waist there. When he was a minor, his height made it easy to ignore his youthfulness and unproportioned body. Or maybe, some people just didn’t care. God knows Mori didn’t.
He can’t imagine Atsushi giggling and twirling his odd long bang around one finger, clutching onto his arm (they’re the same height anyways, so that would be uncomfortable), nor can he picture him trying to gain some kind of dominance over Osamu. Maybe it’s similar to his partnership with Chuuya - in how they're equals - but he finds it difficult to draw any romantic comparisons with him, especially since their relationship was forged in extreme hardship. Not that he ever would think of him like that - in fact, the thought of him prompts him to fake a gag. Fucking Chuuya.
…
When he dies, he wonders who will replace his position in Double Black. Mori would be hard-pressed to find one - only Osamu can boast about being the youngest Port Mafia executive in history. Only Osamu, who can handle Chuuya’s shit temper, can help him with Corruption.
He rolls over, curling into an almost-fetal position. If not for that, then what else is he useful for? Nothing makes him feel human anymore.