Chapter Text
The sun is setting and Chuuya is ready for a quiet night. The Dragon’s Head Conflict has been over for months now, Yokohama humming with as much serenity as it ever has. In the place of conflict, life has become an endless cycle of restructuring, rebuilding, renegotiating. Supply lines have been fucked, power vacuums sit where smaller organizations once stood, and allies outside of the city are wary.
It’s not as bad as when the previous boss reigned, according to Kouyou. Power struggles are nothing new to her, and Chuuya trusts her opinion. Wounds don’t heal easily, but they do heal. Eventually.
Having an evening off is a luxury these days, and Chuuya intends to enjoy it. Lately, he’s been coming home as late as 2 a.m. and going back to work only four hours later. It was Mori himself who, upon seeing the lines under Chuuya’s eyes, told him to go home. If Chuuya had a bit more energy, he might be offended, might have protested a bit more. Instead, he followed orders.
In his kitchen, next to a little window showing off Yokohama’s skyline, is the cabinet where Chuuya keeps his booze. His selection this time: a bottle of wine that Kouyou gave him when the Conflict ended. It was a gesture of appreciation for his work and an encouragement of his interest in finer vintages.
Rose-and-gold hues filter over Chuuya’s counter and spill onto the floor, a last farewell to the day. The wine bottle pops open to breathe and Chuuya begins scrolling through his music library to pick something to relax to. He can almost feel the tension in his back begin to unwind—
There’s a thump and a rattle at his door. Then, a scuff in the entryway.
Chuuya closes his eyes, breathes in through his nose, and recorks the wine bottle. Apparently he won’t be enjoying a quiet night in. Instead, he’ll be fending off a headache from his partner, because of course it’s Dazai who’s in his entryway. No one else would turn up at his apartment unannounced and no one else would even dream of picking the lock instead of just fucking knocking.
Chuuya rounds the wall between the kitchen and entrance. Sure enough, Dazai is slouching, his balance wobbling as he kicks off his shoes.
“Chuuya!” Dazai chirps, a fake smile stretching over his face. “I haven’t seen you in forever.” Dazai successfully removes one shoe and moves on to the next. “Did you miss me?”
“Nope.” Chuuya crosses his arms. “What do you want, Dazai?”
Dazai snickers like it’s a stupid question and, his second shoe thrown over his shoulder, stumbles over the genkan. “I’m visiting my partner. Do I need a reason?”
Yes, actually, he does. Chuuya tries not to grind his teeth as Dazai floats about, unsteady on his feet. He’s definitely drunk. Chuuya can smell booze on his breath. Dazai doesn’t usually come to Chuuya’s apartment after drinking with his friends—why would he, when he could keep staying with people who actually like him?—but it’s happened on occasion. At least Dazai’s usually a friendly drunk. Or, more accurately, a less-of-an-asshole drunk.
The state of Dazai’s mood does nothing to improve Chuuya’s. Dazai glances at the kitchen Chuuya was just occupying and winces at the bright lights. Then, he turns towards the unlit living room and collapses into an armchair, sighing contentedly.
Dazai always does this. He acts like Chuuya’s space is something that he can just... saunter into and claim. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t warn, he just turns up and demands. The tension in Chuuya’s spine that was only just fading is back.
Once, after the millionth time Dazai broke into his apartment, Chuuya offered to give Dazai his spare key. It was an attempt at a peace offering, a stupid flicker of concern for a kid his age who lived in a literal dump. Maybe, he reasoned, if he showed a bit of kindness to Dazai, they could stop with the stupid bickering and just... tolerate each other.
Dazai laughed in his face and asked, “Who would want to go to your apartment?”
Chuuya follows Dazai into the living room and sits on the couch, trying his best not to show his irritation. In the midst of the rich, warm colors of Chuuya’s home, Dazai is a slash of monochrome.
He asks again: “What do you want, Dazai?”
Dazai hums, hooking his long legs over one side of the armchair. His back is to Chuuya, the apartment’s large windows in his view. The sun has nearly set and the lights of the city are popping through the darkness. “You’re always asking the wrong questions, Chuuya,” he sing-songs. “I don’t want anything.”
A hand goes to Chuuya’s forehead, rubbing gently to soothe away a rapidly-forming headache. “Just tell me why you’re here, asshole.”
Dazai leans back, far enough that he’s looking at Chuuya upside down. His coat falls off his shoulders, draping over the armchair like a second shadow. That thin smile snakes across his face. “I have a question for you, Chuuya. Don’t answer right away!” He waggles a finger in admonishment and a snicker bubbles up. “It’s serious. I want to know.”
Pushing back a sigh, Chuuya answers, “Fine.”
“When I finally get it right—when I finally kill myself—how are you going to celebrate?”
The air vanishes in Chuuya’s lungs. He waits for a moment, expecting Dazai to dissolve into a fit of giggles and ridicule Chuuya for whatever expression he has on his face. But he doesn’t. Dazai only looks at him with patience and expectation written on his features.
The answer is, of course, that Chuuya would not celebrate Dazai’s suicide. He doesn’t particularly like the bastard, but he doesn’t enjoy the idea that Dazai finds life so unbearable that he regularly tries to take the fast track out of it. When they first met, Chuuya hadn’t really taken Dazai’s constant references to suicide seriously. He figured the moron had a deathwish, but he wouldn’t actually go so far as to take action himself. Then Chuuya found Dazai overdosed on pills, had to rush Dazai to a mafia-run clinic and get his stomach pumped, and he learned just how terrifyingly serious Dazai was about death.
After that, things changed.
As often as Dazai breaks into Chuuya’s apartment, Chuuya drags Dazai here himself. There’s even a drawer in the bathroom that belongs to Dazai. It’s filled with extra bandages, eyedrops for his bad eye, a toothbrush, and a change of clothes. It feels like a bad parody of a romantic drama, where neither of them enjoy the arrangement.
Looking at Dazai, Chuuya realizes that the other teenage is paler and thinner than usual. There are dark shadows under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days.
Chuuya would not celebrate Dazai’s death. Chuuya’s terrified of the very idea. He can never tell Dazai that, of course. Dazai would only find a way to turn that tenderness into poison. The way he always does.
Instead, Chuuya reaches for the next possible answer to Dazai’s question. “I’d rather ask you that. If you could celebrate your own suicide, how would you do it?”
Dazai’s mouth turns into a little ‘o’ of surprise and his eye lights up. He flips around in the chair so that his chest rests over one arm and his legs are curled up and swinging in the air, like a teenage girl in a chick flick.
“Looking for ideas? Hm....” Dazai props his chin in one hand and thinks for a long moment. The gleam in his eye fades. The smile comes back. “If I could, I’d cut open my corpse.” His gaze finds Chuuya’s. “To see if there’s anything inside.”
Chuuya’s fingers feel cold. He forces himself to take a couple of breaths.
“You’re drunk as hell,” Chuuya manages, eventually. “I’m getting some water. Want anything?”
The question is a reflexive one and Dazai rolls his eyes at the gesture of hospitality. Taking that as a no, Chuuya flees to the kitchen. The sunset has vanished, taking its colors along with it. The wine is still on the counter, patiently waiting to see if Chuuya will resume his earlier plans. He ignores it and grabs the wine glass, filling it with water and gulping it down.
Next to the wine bottle is Chuuya’s phone. He put it on silent to avoid the inevitable texts he’ll get from his subordinates, but he grabs it now. Pulling up a new text message, he taps a couple of names from his contacts.
TO: ODA SAKUNOSUKE & SAKAGUCHI ANGO
CHUUYA — MON 7:27 PM
Was Dazai acting weird while you guys were drinking?
Chuuya sets the phone aside as he waits for a response and drinks another glass of water. If anyone will know what’s going on with Dazai, it’ll be the two of them. Dazai trusts them, and Chuuya will deny the bitter jealousy that stirs to his dying day. He’s known Dazai longer, has saved his ass in more scraps, but it’s these two that Dazai’s smitten with.
The reason why is painfully obvious. Dazai doesn’t see them as competition. Oda could be a contender for executive, if he really wanted to be, but he’s ambitionless. Sakaguchi has ambition, but he’s content with office work and shies away from the combat skills that most executives are expected to have. In Dazai’s fucked up mental calculus, that makes them safe. It’s the boy his own age that he’s at constant war with instead.
Chuuya’s phone lights up and he reads the incoming texts:
ODA — MON 7:30 PM
We’re still at Bar Lupin. Dazai hasn’t shown up for a while.SAKAGUCHI — MON 7:30 PM
What do you mean by weird?
Chuuya’s mouth thins into a line. He gives it some thought before replying.
CHUUYA — MON 7:32 PM
He’s at my apartment. He’s drunk and talking about suicide.SAKAGUCHI — MON 7:32 PM
Keep us updated.
It’s Sakaguchi’s curt, professional way of saying, “We’re concerned, but there’s nothing we can do right now.”
What did Oda mean that Dazai hasn’t shown up in a while? As far as Chuuya knows, the bastard has gone to Bar Lupin as often as he could since he was fifteen years old. Come to think of it, Mori mentioned something about Dazai being on away mission, hadn’t he? Chuuya hadn’t given it much thought.
Whatever. That’s not what matters right now. Chuuya fishes a tumbler out of the cabinet and fills it with water. Regardless of Dazai’s attitude, he’s going to need to rehydrate or he’ll feel like shit in the morning. Glass in hand, Chuuya moves from the light of the kitchen to the gloom of the living room, setting the drink on the coffee table. Dazai is sitting upright now, staring out at the now-dark city.
“Hey, if you want to stay the night, I can get some sheets out for you.”
Dazai doesn’t answer, still watching the city. Chuuya waits, but when the silence continues to stretch out, he scoffs. Dazai always gets wrapped up in the dumbass thoughts that rattle around in his head.
“Hey, jackass.” Chuuya reaches out for Dazai’s shoulder. “I asked if—”
The moment Chuuya’s fingers brush Dazai’s shoulder, Dazai whirls around. A hand reaches for Chuuya’s neck.
Years of survival on the streets make Chuuya’s body move without a thought. As Dazai’s fingernails scrape over his throat, Chuuya’s foot lashes out and catches Dazai in the stomach.
Dazai lets out a sharp gasp as he hits the floor. Chuuya touches where he had been grazed, fumbling through surprise, anger, and confusion.
“What the fuck,” he concludes. Dazai has never reacted to a tap on the shoulder like that before. He’ll shrug out of a touch, snap a few angry words, but he never just… attacks.
Dazai pushes himself into a crouch, wordless. In the dark, his face is a haze of shadows.
“I’m just trying to help, asshole.” Chuuya says it without much venom. The exhaustion of endless work catches up with him all at once. He doesn’t want to untangle whatever mood Dazai is in. He just wants to have a bit of quiet.
Dazai staggers to his feet, lacking any grace. “Have you noticed,” he says, voice just above a whisper, “that the people you try to help usually just end up dead?”
The words take a moment to sink in. Then Chuuya’s skin feels like it’s on fire. He closes the distance between himself and Dazai in two steps and slams the bastard against the wall. A smile rakes over Dazai’s face again, but it doesn’t meet his eyes in satisfaction.
“Fuck you. At least I try to help people. At least I care about someone other than my own-fucking-self.”
Dazai laughs and it’s the derisive kind that makes Chuuya feel small, stupid, a marionette dancing on strings. He pushes Dazai away. “Get the fuck out,” he says. He can’t quite manage a shout. “I’m not wasting my time with a worthless piece of shit like you.”
Dazai backs away, backlit by the kitchen light, that smile still frozen on his face. Then he’s gone, disappeared into the entryway. A moment later, the door clicks shut behind him. Chuuya barely hears it over the rush of blood in his ears, the pound of his heartbeat.
The grief is a hot, bloody gash in his chest, even a year later. He can still smell the blood. He can still feel the horror and realization freezing his lungs and crushing his throat. It always ends up like this. The people he cares about are dead or gone or both.
I’d cut open my corpse. To see if there’s anything inside.
Chuuya thinks of that cold, too empty smile. He’s always a puppet. Dancing along on strings.
Chuuya pulls out his cell phone.
NAKAHARA — MON 7:46 PM
He left about 5 min ago.
Checked the building’s cameras. He’s heading NW.ANGO — MON 7:47 PM
Any weapons?NAKAHARA — MON 7:47 PM
Not sure. Probably not.
I kicked him. Might be hurt.
Neon lights color Odasaku’s route as he makes his way through downtown Yokohama, closer to where Nakahara lives. He’s keeping half an eye on the texts as he goes. Ango is playing the role of dispatch, gathering the relevant information. He’s still at Bar Lupin, waiting for a cab to take him to his office. From there, Ango can try to access security cameras around the city and help Odasaku search for Dazai.
If Dazai is heading northwest, he might be going for the Ooka River. The kid is always drawn to water when destructive impulses get the better of him. Odasaku just needs to find him before Dazai decides to jump off a bridge again. If he can get eyes on Dazai, he’s as good as alive. Odasaku can talk him down, wrestle him to safety, jump into the river after him. He’s done it before, maybe a half dozen times now.
The thought of Dazai already being hurt worries Odasaku, but he doesn’t resent Nakahara for it. He knows that the two boys have a... tumultuous relationship. It’s not really his business, so he doesn’t interfere. He’s just grateful that Nakahara at least cares enough to work with him and Ango when it really matters.
Odasaku’s phone lights up with another text message.
NAKAHARA — MON 7:55 PM
He left his coat.
Odasaku makes a mental note to look for a slighter profile. He’s scanning passersby as he darts through streets and earns him a couple odd glances. The city is well-lit here, at least. As long as Dazai hasn’t disappeared into another part of the city, Odasaku has a good chance of finding him.
Odasaku’s phone buzzes with an incoming call. He answers without looking. “What do you have, Ango?”
“Stop looking for me.”
Dazai’s voice makes Odasaku’s heart jump in shock and relief.
“Dazai. Where are you?”
Breath crackles over the line as Dazai huffs with annoyance at being ignored. “I told you to stop looking for me. Tell Ango and Chuuya too.” There’s a beat and before Odasaku can double down, Dazai adds in a softer tone, “I’m not going to kill myself.”
Odasaku stops walking, tries to listen to the background noise on the other side of the line. He needs to keep the kid on the phone. “Then come drinking with me. Or we can watch a movie. It’s my turn to pick, though.”
Dazai scoffs. It’s almost a laugh. “You always pick the worst shit. You’re almost as bad as Chuuya.”
Another burst of relief floods through Odasaku. Suggesting a movie was a gamble. Too much tenderness can set off Dazai far worse than cruelty can. It’s a matter of tolerance. Dazai is more familiar with one than the other.
In the background of the call, Odasaku can hear the usual sounds of city life. Traffic, the chatter of passersby. Nothing that helps yet. He continues scanning, hoping to catch a glimpse of a slight young man on a cellphone. All he sees around him are sleek corporate offices and neat, tree-lined streets. Couples filter through the space, enjoying the cool night air and oblivious to the drama happening just feet away from them.
“Then let’s go back to my apartment. Do you want to take a cab or the subway?”
Silence from Dazai. The honk of a car horn. A burst of laughter from drunk girls. A familiar voice. Odasaku’s ears perk up.
“I don’t want to see you,” Dazai says finally. “I already told you I’m not going to kill myself. Leave me alone.”
Odasaku only half-listens, even as the words make his heart ache. That voice in the background, where has he heard it before? It’s cheerful, beckoning. A store or restaurant owner? He tries to imagine the surroundings that go with that voice. A brick building, colorful signs all around, an oversized lantern hanging in the archway. A ramen shop. He’s eaten there before.
He knows exactly where Dazai is. It’s only a few blocks away. Odasaku’s pace picks up into a run.
“Sorry, kid. You know that’s not going to happen.”
Dazai makes some sort of sound that Odasaku can’t quite decipher. Frustration, maybe, but mixed with something else. The line goes dead. That’s fine. It means Odasaku doesn’t have to keep a conversation going while trying to sprint.
The street comes into view only moments later. Like many places in Yokohama, it’s a mix of sleek, modern architecture and throwbacks to older styles. Stone reliefs and faux pillars splash over the façade of buildings. The lights here are soft white instead of harsh neon.
The city can so often feel warm and inviting, unassuming. It’s always been at odds with the world that Odasaku inhabits: one of death, hunger, and isolation. Recently, he’s been trying to view it the way an ordinary citizen might, trying to see it the way a caretaker might look at the world and think, “Would the kids like to go here?”
Pretending at a life of domesticity isn’t a luxury at the moment.
Odasaku surveys the people milling about the street, dismissing them all in the next instant. Listening to recordings for clues, assessing large groups of people in search of his target—they’re skills he honed in his youth as an assassin. He’s never used them to save a life before. It’s a strange feeling, but one that sits comfortably in his chest.
It’ll feel even better once he locates Dazai. He left the immediate area, that much is clear, but he couldn’t have gone far in such a short amount of time. Odasaku looks for the most immediate escape routes in the vicinity. There’s a bus stop a few blocks away, and Dazai could have easily taken a cab as well. Odasaku’s going to need to clear the area first. If he doesn’t find Dazai, that’s when he’ll figure out his next step.
Odasaku takes his time, even as anxiety tightens his lungs and shortens his breaths. He glances into hiding spots that most ordinary people would look over. He pulls off a man’s hat to check his face because his hair is similar to Dazai’s. It earns Odasaku a few unkind words. He doesn’t particularly mind.
When Odasaku doubles back to the south, he finally sees who he’s looking for. Dazai is facing away from him, but his silhouette is unmistakable, even without his usual coat. Greenery lines the sidewalk to Dazai’s right and to his left, ferns spill from planters embedded in concrete walls. In the few feet surrounding Dazai, the city looks more like a portal to a lush, green otherworld.
“Dazai,” Odasaku calls. The line of Dazai’s shoulders drop. Relief or disappointment? It doesn’t matter. Odasaku closes the distance between them. Wan light spills over the two of them and Odasaku steps around Dazai to get a better look at his face.
Dazai looks tired. Exhausted. It’s not just the bags under his eyes or the waxy quality of his skin. It’s something else that Odasaku can’t quite name.
“Can’t you listen to simple orders, Odasaku?” There’s venom in Dazai’s voice, the kind that would send most subordinates into a frenzy of fear and apologies. Odasaku doesn’t even blink.
“I guess this is why I can never rise in the ranks.” Dazai isn’t looking him in the eye, but he suspects it’s more out of frustration than anything else. “Are you hurt?”
Dazai’s hand lifts, as if to touch his side, but shakes his head. “Just a scratch. Chuuya has shit aim.”
Odasaku looks Dazai over all the same. He presses a hand against Dazai’s ribs to make sure they’re unbroken. Dazai tenses at the touch, but doesn’t move away. After a moment, Odasaku nods with satisfaction.
“Do you have any weapons?” he asks. Dazai rarely carries a weapon himself. If he needs a gun or a knife, he’ll take one from his subordinates or from a fallen enemy. Odasaku still isn’t taking chances. Not with Dazai’s life.
“What are you going to do if I don’t answer? Pat me down?” Dazai finally meets Odasaku’s gaze, defiant. It’s short-lived, however. He clearly reads the ‘yes’ in Odasaku’s eyes. Dazai huffs. “No. I don’t have anything on me.”
Tension finally bleeds out of Odasaku’s shoulders. He hates interrogating Dazai like he’s a criminal or a child, even if he’s technically both. He takes out his phone and taps out a quick message to Nakahara and Ango, letting them know he has Dazai. Then he makes a call.
“I’m getting us a cab,” he says at Dazai’s curious look. “We’re going home.”
The moment they step inside Odasaku’s apartment, Dazai visibly relaxes. It’s only thin walls separating them from the outside, but even a modicum of privacy is all Dazai needs to let the brimming exhaustion surface. He slouches into the kitchen just off the entryway and collapses into a seat at Odasaku’s table.
The kitchen is a small one, every inch of counter packed with appliances, spices, and utensils. What floor space there is to spare is taken up by the table. Dazai doesn’t seem to mind, though. They’ve shared a few meals here in the past, and though the table’s linoleum surface is cracked, Dazai seems just as happy here as he would be at a five-star restaurant.
Odasaku takes the seat at the opposite side of the table. He lets Dazai unwind at his own speed. There’s never any rushing Dazai if he’s going to open up or ask for help. Instead, Odasaku lets his mind wander while he waits.
The table is pressed up against a half-wall and from there Odasaku can see the cramped little living room: a sofa, a coffee table, a bookshelf, and a scarcely-used TV. Peeking out from behind the bookshelf is a drawing in crayon: a token left behind by Yuu and the only splash of color in the otherwise bland space. Odasaku would have left it uncovered, if he could have. He thinks the drawing is supposed to be a cat or a dog and it reminds him of the brief months when his kids lived with him until other arrangements had to be made. Having five wild children living in his tiny apartment was, aside from cramped, dangerous when he had to store drugs or weapons in his living space. He misses it, though. He’d often wake up with a child or two piled on top of him and breakfast would be a chaotic mess.
“Can I get a nightcap?” Dazai’s voice slips organically through the silence. “You said we could drink more.”
Odasaku obliges without a word, pulling out a cheap bottle of whiskey and pouring a couple of fingers into a short glass. He takes his seat again while Dazai knocks it back in a single swallow. He winces slightly at the burn, more used to the smoothness of Bar Lupin’s high-end whiskey. Dazai hums contentedly all the same.
“How are the kids?” he asks. Odasaku knows Dazai doesn’t really care about them. Instead, he cares about Odasaku and knows that Odasaku, in turn, cares about the kids. It’s a roundabout way of showing affection.
“They’re growing up too fast,” Odasaku says, and he can’t help a smile. “Sakura has a cough, but nothing serious.”
Dazai nods but doesn’t ask any further questions. He’s gotten better at pleasantries over the years, but they’re still unnatural to him. Odasaku doesn’t mind. That he tries at all is enough.
Then Dazai says, “When was the last time we drank together? It’s been a while.”
It’s too casual. An attempt at small talk that is too pointed. The unease that was gnawing Odasaku’s insides comes back. Something is all wrong about this. It’s not the scuffle Dazai had with Nakahara or his evasiveness. In their own way, those things are normal. It’s that Dazai’s hair looks recently washed and his clothes are clean. It’s that he went to Nakahara’s home at all.
A suicidal Dazai can barely drag himself out of bed. He stops taking care of himself, be it bathing, eating, or even changing clothes. He’s never once gone to visit a—for lack of better term—friend when he’s intent on attempting suicide.
Dazai said he wasn’t going to kill himself. Maybe that’s the truth. If it is the truth, Odasaku has no idea what he’s dealing with. It’s somehow more terrifying.
“A week or so,” Odasaku says. “I heard you were out of town on business.”
“I was,” Dazai says. He swirls his glass, watching the last drop of whiskey trace the edges. “It was no-contact. Sorry I didn’t tell you first.”
Odasaku watches him. Considers whether or not to ask and then finally does. “Is everything okay?”
Dazai looks up, surprised, and smiles. “I’m fine.”
After that, they descend into a routine. Odasaku puts sheets on the couch and lends Dazai something to sleep in. It’s hardly the first time Dazai has slept off a night of drinking at Odasaku’s place.
If Odasaku thought there was any chance that Dazai would say yes, he’d ask him to just move in already. It’s better than that shipping container that gets too cold in the winter and too hot in the summer. But Dazai likes that horrible excuse for a home. Likes that it’s far away from other people. Likes the idea that when he dies, he’ll already be in a coffin. Nice and tidy.
Odasaku makes sure that Dazai drinks a glass of water—an effort to prevent a hangover—and the two depart for their own beds. Odasaku’s room is only separated from the living room by a wall and he lies in bed, waiting. He used to be a light sleeper, waking at even the slightest sound. After living with children, he’s learned to sleep like the dead while in his own apartment. Tonight, though, he’s reluctant to enjoy that steady, dark rest.
Nothing ever ends easy with Dazai.
Dazai doesn’t sleep. Instead, he stares at Odasaku’s ceiling. The lights outside filter through the blinds and draw abstract shapes. If Dazai pretends hard enough, they’re almost interesting.
He can’t sleep, but he wishes he could. His eyes hurt from the exhaustion. His limbs are heavy and uncoordinated. If he doesn’t get a little rest, work tomorrow will be hell.
Instead, all he can think about is Odasaku’s and Chuuya’s concerned faces. The anger in Chuuya’s voice. He can almost imagine Odasaku yelling at him, too. The idea of it hurts more than the concern, but Dazai wishes Odasaku would be angry with him. It just feels right.
Dazai’s brain can’t stop circling and circling. Everyone tells him he’s a genius, but more often than not he feels like a failure. He can never quite manage to kill himself. His timing is always off. Doesn’t take enough pills. Doesn’t cut deep enough. Dying should be the easiest thing in the world, but he can never get it right.
He can’t even manage to get along with Chuuya. Not even for half an hour. Chuuya’s apartment should have been the perfect place to rest, to get his head wired right. They might fight, might argue, but it’s not real. It’s not dangerous. And, most importantly of all, Chuuya will never ask what’s wrong. Chuuya should have been the safest person to be around.
Instead, Dazai bit and tore like a cornered animal. Between the two of them, Dazai thinks it’s painfully obvious that the one who isn’t human is himself. Chuuya knows how to have all the right feelings. Knows how to care and how to hate. It’s Dazai that’s never quite been human, has never quite managed to have feelings.
Odasaku never tries to hide knives or weapons when Dazai stays with him. Not even when he’s actually suicidal. Maybe it’s trust, but more likely Odasaku knows that even if he gathered up every sharp object, every gun, every pill in the apartment and locked it up in a safe, Dazai could still get to them if he wanted to. He’s always wanted a clean suicide, though. One that won’t be much of a bother to anyone. One where he just disappears without a single trace.
Making Odasaku scrub Dazai’s blood out of the tile just doesn’t match that vision.
Not that it matters. He wants to die, but he’s not suicidal. There’s a difference. If someone came in with a knife, Dazai would let them stab him to death. He just wouldn’t take the knife and do it himself.
Mori would be happy with that distinction. Probably.
It’s been a week, according to Odasaku. Dazai would have thought longer. No, maybe shorter. He’s not sure. It feels like both. It’s all a smear of nothingness. Dazai knows his perception of time is fractured. It’s only natural. It’ll repair itself before too long.
Dazai does sleep, eventually. He dreams of nothing but white. Time doesn’t exist. If Dazai had ever been human to begin with, he’d stop being human now. Then time comes crashing back in. A mouth on his skin. A voice whispering into his ear. Every touch is too hot, too painful.
Dazai wakes. The world is quiet, still dark. Nothing is here. When Dazai breathes, he can’t feel his lungs fill. He spends a long moment, panting and shaking. His face is damp with cold sweat and his eyes are wet.
Mori can’t know. Can’t know that he’s falling apart again. Falling apart already.
He’s better. He’s better. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to kill himself. If Mori thinks that’s not true, then—
Dazai’s stomach twists and his short, harsh breaths come to a halt as he wrestles down a swell of nausea. He presses his forehead against the pillow Odasaku gave him. Tries to breathe. He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.
There’s a click and the hallway light comes on. Odasaku’s footsteps creak against the floorboards. He’s doing that on purpose. Deliberately stepping on the weak points to signal his approach. It’s kind, but also unnecessary. Dazai wipes his face and sits up. Odasaku’s silhouette appears in the doorway.
“You can’t sleep either?” Odasaku’s tone is even, as if he hasn’t noticed that Dazai is a shivering wreck. He really is the kindest person Dazai could ever hope to meet. “Let’s just tough it out until morning. Want some coffee?”
They end up back at the kitchen table. Odasaku drinks his coffee black. Dazai drinks half a glass of water, then pushes it aside. He folds his arms on the table and rests his head on them. Silence falls. Dazai stares at nothing while Odasaku sips his coffee and reads a book. It feels nice. Better than sleep.
Dazai, of course, can’t help but ruin it.
“I wanted to kill myself last week.” Dazai says it to one of the cabinets on Odasaku’s wall.
Odasaku looks up from his book. Doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t anymore,” Dazai adds. He turns his head to look Odasaku in the eye. “I’m better now.”
“Nakahara-san said you were talking about suicide.” It’s not an accusation. Odasaku’s expression is one of gentle curiosity. He only wants to hear Dazai’s side of things.
“It was just hypothetical. I don’t want to kill myself.”
“Okay. I’m glad.”
Dazai hates it when Odasaku has that tone, like he’s decided to believe Dazai at face value. Isn’t going to try to pry the truth out of him. Isn’t going to yell at him, kick him out for being a liar. Dazai is always lying. Even when he’s telling the truth, he feels like a liar.
It’s better, though, for Odasaku to believe his lies than to snitch on him to Mori. Would he do that? Dazai can’t tell. He used to think he could predict Odasaku’s actions pretty well. Now he doesn’t think he can predict anyone. That skill broke, just like his sense of time. A shiver makes Dazai’s shoulders tremble.
Odasaku puts down his book. Stands up and returns with a blanket. He wraps it around Dazai’s shoulders, telegraphing his every move. Then he takes his seat. Picks up his book again, but doesn’t start reading.
Dazai pulls the blanket around himself. Closes his eyes. Inhales the smell of Odasaku’s coffee. A moment later, he hears the turn of a page. Dazai’s shoulders finally relax.
He falls asleep, eventually. The dreams are not pleasant, but they’re bearable.
Ango’s cell phone is buzzing with text messages as he waits for the bakery workers to package his order. He ignores it out of politeness for those around him. Most of the texts are his subordinates sending updates on their various projects. They’re not important. Some of them, though, are from Odasaku and Nakahara: a strategy meeting for the day.
The clerk hands Ango a neatly tied box. As soon as he steps out of the line, Ango flips open his phone.
NAKAHARA — TUES 6:02 AM
Someone should probably stay with him for today.ODASAKU — TUES 6:02 AM
I can take today off.ANGO — TUES 6:07 AM
Don’t.
Maybe I can take him to the office with me.
He needs something to do or he’ll get irritable.NAKAHARA — TUES 6:09 AM
He’s always pissy.
But you’re right.ANGO — TUES 6:09 AM
I’m already on my way to your place, Odasaku-san.
At Odasaku’s apartment, Ango knocks gently before opening the door with his key. From the entryway, he can see Odasaku sitting at his kitchen table. The man turns and smiles, lifting a book in salute.
“Good morning, Ango,” Odasaku says, quiet. Ango returns the greeting, matching his tone. Approaching the kitchen, he sees that Dazai is sitting on the opposite side of the table, head pillowed on his arms and a knit blanket over his shoulders. A bit of tension uncurls in Ango chest, seeing the kid alive and safe. Dazai is already stirring at what little sound they’ve been making.
“Did you bring us something to eat?” Odasaku’s eyes light up at the box in Ango’s hands. He looks like an excited kid.
“Dorayaki.” Ango places the box on the table and offers a small smile. “It’s still warm.”
“It smells good,” comes a scratchy voice. Dazai is sitting up and rubbing his face. He’s wearing clothes that hang off his skinny frame. The bandages over his eye have loosened with sleep.
Ango turns towards Odasaku’s cabinets. “I’ll get some plates.”
Breakfast is a quiet affair, broken only by the occasional yawn. Dazai doesn’t eat much, something that Ango expected. Dazai’s appetite is always the first thing to go when he’s depressed. Eating anything at all is a success. Odasaku, on the other hand, cheerfully devours his portion. He’ll probably eat whatever’s left behind, but he has enough restraint to leave a few in the box for now, in case Dazai or Ango want them.
After breakfast, Dazai excuses himself in order to prepare for the day. Ango and Odasaku busy themselves for a couple minutes after Dazai has shut himself in the bathroom.
Finally, Ango says, “How is he?”
Odasaku shrugs. He pours himself another cup of lukewarm coffee. “He says he’s not going to kill himself.”
Ango nods slowly, rinsing a plate in the sink. “Do you believe him?”
The question earns a thoughtful hum. “I think he’s made up his mind to stay alive, for now.”
“You don’t sound happy.” Ango transfers the cleaned plates to a drying rack. He turns to watch Odasaku’s face.
“Something happened.” Oda rubs a calloused hand along his jaw. “He’s a mess. He could barely sleep.”
Ango scrutinizes the bags under Oda’s eyes. “Looks like he got more than you did.”
A smile flashes in Ango’s direction. “Had to make sure my oldest got his beauty rest.”
Ango rolls his eyes, but he can’t help a chuckle. “It feels like we’re a divorced couple with joint custody.”
Odasaku nods solemnly. “You’re a classic deadbeat, leaving a poor single mother like me to raise an unruly teenager.”
An undignified guffaw slips out of Ango. “Why are you the mother?”
“I met Dazai about nine months before we met you. It just makes sense.”
Ango buries his face in his hands, knocking his glasses askew. “Nothing you say ever makes sense.”
“Really? I thought I was the reasonable one in our group.”
They continue like that for a few more minutes before Dazai returns. He’s wearing what Ango assumes are yesterday’s clothes; the bandages over his eye have been re-wound and tightened. His expression is soft, the way it always is at the sound of his friends teasing one another. Odasaku lights up again when he sees Dazai, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Dazai leans away from his touch, but the smile stays on his face.
Then, Dazai’s phone buzzes with a text. The calm vanishes as he looks at his phone, replaced by something inscrutable. “Mori-san has a job for me and Chuuya.”
Ango glances out of the corner of his eye at Odasaku. Worry and dismay have written themselves over his features. He meets Ango’s gaze, a silent dialogue passing between them.
Ango intervenes. “I’ll drive you. Where are you going?”
Dazai gives him the address, a location in a warehouse yard. It’s a common rendezvous spot.
Ango turns to the third member of their group. “Odasaku, do you need a ride to work, too?”
Odasaku is watching Dazai carefully as he responds. “My job for the day is in the opposite direction you’re going. I’ll take the bus.”
A few minutes later, Ango is navigating through Yokohama’s morning traffic as Dazai fiddles with the radio, trying to find something to listen to. The silence that’s settled over them should be comfortable. It often is, when it’s just the two of them. Odasaku is the one that usually heightens things, despite his mellow personality. He draws Ango out of his shell and pulls Dazai out of whatever schemes he’s musing on. Today, the air feels heavy between them.
There’s a thought stuck in Ango’s head. It’s been there for weeks. Every time he tries to shake it off, it pops up again. Like a stuck second hand on a clock. It keeps trying to move forward, move on, but it’s always looping through the same bit. Nothing else can move on until it’s finally resolved.
Odasaku said that Dazai wasn’t going to attempt suicide. Ango trusts his opinion. The thing is, Dazai has always been prone to impulse. A little bit of encouragement is usually all it takes for him to indulge in whatever whim is simmering just below the surface. It’s the boredom. Most of the time, the world is gray and empty to Dazai. His mind is always looking for something to distract him, challenge him, entertain him. He’s often happy to take whatever is suggested to him.
If Ango offered to help Dazai complete a suicide attempt, he would definitely say yes.
It’s not that Ango wants Dazai to die. He likes the kid. Likes him a lot, really. It’s just that letting him die now might be the kindest option for everyone.
Dazai turns off the radio. He stares out the window, one leg jackrabbiting up and down with pent-up tension. His blind side is to Ango.
If Ango succeeds in his work as a spy, it will almost certainly lead to countless arrests within the mafia. Dazai would be among the first. He would also be among the first executed.
Ango has no illusions about the way the government operates. It has little kindness for criminals, even if they’re children, even if they were all but forced into illegal activity. He’s always hoped that he can make changes once he’s worked his way up the ranks. But that won’t be for a long, long time. Not soon enough to save Dazai.
Dazai’s violent death is inevitable. Either at the hands of the government or at the hands of a fellow criminal. If Ango helps Dazai die now, it’ll be more comfortable. Happier. It could save countless lives from whatever schemes Dazai would concoct in the future.
Ango wills himself to say it. Just a few simple words. Instead, he pulls into the warehouse yard. Long lines of industrial buildings circle them, sapping away the bustle of the city. Here, everything is utilitarian. The personality that the rest of Yokohama exudes is replaced with gray tones and straight lines.
Rounding a corner, Ango sees the rendezvous point. Nakahara and a driver are waiting, a car ready to take them to their next destination. Ango pulls to a stop beside them.
“Call me if you need a ride later,” Ango says, because it’s the only way he can say ‘I care about you.’ Dazai steps out of the car without responding.
Nakahara catches Ango’s eye. They rarely speak with one another directly. They rarely have a reason to. That doesn’t mean they don’t have a sort of understanding.
Nakahara’s glance promises to look after Dazai. It puts Ango more at ease than it has any right to.
Ango reverses the car and leaves.
