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1.
He didn’t know when the chase started, but it was definitely after entering the Armed Detective Agency and the Azure King and the flirting and Atsushi and Kyouka and the Guild, when everyone thought the worst was over – a bunch of foreigners trying to colonise Japan for a common goal (Japan had never been formally and completely colonised by foreign power. Dazai guessed there was a first time in everything) – and definitely after Kunikida finding out that Dazai was once one of the five (and youngest!) executives that ran Yokohama’s underworld.
Dazai also guessed the chase started after Kunikida’s outburst before the one day coupon to Double Black was activated. After the initial pandemonium, he was waiting for Kunikida to grab him by the shoulders, repeat the surprised outburst, to yell and scream and demand for answers that he would never get.
This was so Dazai could ultimately achieve level 99 of self-sabotaging all his relationships that were actually good for his emotional wellbeing, due to mostly the unfortunate (or fortunate, depends how you see it) fact that Kunikida was way, way out of Dazai’s league – less in a cutesy romcom way and more in a different moral grounds due to growing up in totally opposite spectrums of life type of way. These past few months had just been a one-way vacation flight. There would be no return tickets available once Kunikida saw his peeled-back true form. So he strapped in, pulled the gear, and braced for the oncoming collision. Dazai was the pilot, driving planes that were only meant to crash.
And it didn’t.
The questions never came.
Dazai waited, shielding his black box with both arms, ready to let go anytime. Then Atsushi got captured and Yokohama was saved and Kyouka’s welcome party and
Still nothing. Kunikida went on as if his lover wasn’t part of something that directly conflicted with every single one of his ideals.
Dazai despised swallowing his pride. He sucked at being a participant in life’s gameshow of emotional vulnerability. The last time he played his part, the only prize he won was holding his dying best friend in his arms, who was uttering last wishes as his blood pooled onto foreign tiled floor – which was not, and Dazai could not stress this enough, the greatest pastime ever.
“– and why don’t you ever do the dishes? I literally remind you every day and you still don’t –” Kunikida was rambling on, arms filled with groceries as his glasses started fogging up from the promise of winter.
“Ack, Kunikida-kun. Keep rambling like that and I will throw up the dinner you paid for,” Dazai whined. He was partially lying, because he did feel like puking, but it wasn’t, in fact, because of Kunikida’s rambling.
Kunikida rolled his eyes, stopping behind Dazai so he could switch places and walk on the outer part of the sidewalk.
Okay, now Dazai was definitely going to empty his insides. Was he really about to bring up a topic that would absolutely kill the person that subconsciously made sure that he wasn’t the one walking nearer the gravel road, exposed to the dangers of reckless drivers? At this point he might as well get flung out and ran over by oncoming traffic himself.
“Is there anything you want to talk about?” Kunikida must have noticed the colour drained from his face. “Look, if you’re sick, I’ll do the dishes this time, and –”
“Why don’t you ever ask about it?” Dazai whispered in the smallest voice ever. He was looking straight ahead.
Kunikida stopped in his tracks, and Dazai deliberately stopped a few steps ahead. He couldn’t feel his own heartbeat, or even look behind. He didn’t want to see the familiar look of hurt flashing across Kunikida’s eyes – the type of hurt reserved only for when he failed to save another life.
“Dazai, can you look at me?”
“I’m not a kid, you can’t tell me what to do,” Dazai joked.
Three steps three steps three steps to the right and he would be gone. The only reason Dazai never thought about dying by the hands of oncoming traffic was because it seemed like a rather painful, messy way to die. But given the current circumstances they were in, it seemed infinitely better than asking your boyfriend why he’d want to stay with a mass murderer.
Kunikida sighed, walking a few steps forward. When he reached to Dazai’s side, he moved all the groceries to one hand, and offered the other to Dazai.
When Dazai accepted it, Kunikida spoke, “I don’t want to ask about something you’re not comfortable with sharing,” he paused a moment before continuing. “Was that all you had on your mind?”
It took a moment for Dazai to realise that the entire time he was on the edge of his seat, waiting for everything to get blown up – Kunikida was not waiting for an answer. Dazai looked down, busied himself with focusing on the warmth of their intertwined hands, and thinking oh god, he was in love love with Kunikida. This was bad this was bad this was very very very bad what the fuck this was not supposed to happen he was supposed to leave him just like Odasaku and Ango and
And he didn’t.
“I –” Part of him honestly did not know how to answer. Another part of him wanted to rip the band-aid clean and blurt out everything from the dark era and the Port Mafia and the Buraiha trio and the photograph and how much he reminded him of Odasaku and why sometimes he disappeared on a specific day of every year to visit a grave overlooking the sea even though he was damn sure at this point Kunikida had noticed by now and just never asked about it because he respected his boundaries and knew just how secretive he was about everything and he was but now he just
Dazai didn’t know how to response, so he laughed. Defence mechanism. Threw people off when you didn’t react according to the script.
It barely stunned Kunikida, who worked around his antics and mind games for a living, but he did grip his hand tighter. “Are you okay?”
He wasn’t, and probably never will be, and he wondered how someone so cursed and full of filth was given a chance to be accompanied by Kunikida Doppo.
He wasn’t able to bring himself to elaborate anything further. The words wouldn’t reach his mouth to form coherent sentences.
“Let’s just go home. It’s getting cold out,” Kunikida placed a quiet kiss on the side of Dazai’s head, “and when you’re ready, you can tell me everything.”
Dazai nodded, burying his nose under his scarf.
If only Kunikida knew that he wasn’t bothered by his first life anymore, but by how much he was underserving of anything he was given in his second one.
2.
Dazai had been keeping a very close eye on Kunikida.
Usually after bad missions (see: any mission that involved a single death), he would check in with Kunikida for an hour or two every day, toning down his eccentric personality to keep a calm atmosphere for his partner to heal in. Every time this happened, it always felt like a time bomb was going to be set off in the middle of their apartment. It never got easier (or maybe Dazai just didn’t know how to properly take care of someone outside the physical bounds of making sure they got up and ate Chinese takeout and was still generally alive under medical records) than the last time.
The last time Dazai was on maximum high alert was right after the Azure Messenger incident, where Kunikida had to watch the kid he took in get shot. That was pretty bad, and he refused to eat anything for a few days.
This was much, much worse. Although Kunikida would disagree with him, because human lives weren’t numbers to be compared of for their worth, and Dazai had to be reminded to reset his grey moral compass once again. (Or to just chuck it against a wall and watch it break, so it would be forced to reincarnate into a tool that gave less controversial directions. He would literally die to change, to be a true Armed Detective Agency member, but some things were involatile in your DNA.)
He had already known what Fyodor would do – break down the Agency’s foundation – and of course he knew the only way to do it was to let Kunikida helplessly watch a disgustingly large amount of lives get perished at his fingertips.
The sniper wound Fyodor gave Dazai as a parting gift had healed to a substantial amount, but he was still advised to stay home. Which he didn’t object, because he needed time to formulate multiple counterattacks to every single one of Fyodor’s moves. Plus, he could take care of Kunikida, who came back with blood stains on his vest and fragments of concrete in his hair and he could guess the method of killing innocents Fyodor had used.
To Fyodor, this was just moving pieces in a board game.
Dazai knew Fyodor had made accurate assumptions of his closer inner circle relationships.
He also knew that they were all adults and capable of defending themselves when the situation called for it – he didn’t underestimate Kunikida’s abilities at all. But it really did start to remind him about the number of people that had a hard time or died in the Mafia because they were found to be connected, even in the slightest bit, to Dazai Osamu.
Like Chuuya . . . before he died he was definitely going to apologise to his former partner for giving him such a hard time – less for the grievances for the many pranks Dazai played on him had caused, and more of just because he was stuck to his side. Chuuya himself probably noticed how greatly intense and causalities-thirsted the assigned missions carried out by the duo were compared to the other guerrilla squads.
But here’s the thing — Chuuya’s abilities were far more powerful than Kunikida’s, and speaking tactically, in a face-off with Fyodor between the two, Chuuya would be more likely to survive.
Dazai suddenly felt sick with burden.
He didn’t want to think.
Dazai also knew he shouldn’t talk about what happened. Instead, he silently took the blood-stained laundry to wash and let Kunikida sleep and not mention about the fact that he hadn’t been writing in his green and gold book for quite some time now.
He leaned against the washing machine churning with Kunikida’s clothes. White foam covered the crimson spots.
Taking care of Kunikida was a tough task (in the literal sense, taking care of Kunikida was the easiest thing ever. He barely asked for any extra assistance and either slept it away or got up and cut through the day with an insane amount of productivity. It was mostly Dazai’s anxieties yelling because he was, against his best wishes, usually the one being taken care of – so it was quite mentally and emotionally challenging for him to take care of someone else’s wellbeing with full attention when he himself might not be in the best state too), especially since he was cursed with fatigue from just having been released, but he was more than willing to do it, and willing to do it right.
Except he didn’t, because at around three in the morning Dazai was suddenly awoken to the side of Kunikida’s bed dipping.
Dazai silently watched him took out two orange bottles from his bedside drawer, popped them open with practised ease, swallow a few pills, and then went back to sleep – only to turn to Dazai who was twitching from shock.
“Dazai?”
“What,” Dazai gulped. He sat up immediately and reached over to the bedside drawer. Kunikida sat up just as quickly, holding Dazai’s hand so it stopped mid-reach. “What . . . are those for? Why have I never seen them? What’s going on, Kunikida? Why haven’t I heard that you’ve been prescribed?”
Mutely, Kunikida combed a piece of Dazai’s hair behind his ear. His expression softened, like he was about to cry. “Those are for my PTSD,” Kunikida replied softly.
Dazai was visibly shaking now. He crossed his arms, holding his shoulders to gain some control on his bodily functions, silently blaming his routinely unhealthy habits of drinking and all-nighters and generally being unkind to his corporeal form – severely deteriorating his immune system at a great extent made him easily physically shaken up when his emotions were in chaos.
“I’ve been taking them for about a year now.” So Azure King. Also around the same time that he had moved in with Kunikida. What the fuck is going on. Dazai had never seen him take medication for anything.
Dazai immediately wrapped his arms around Kunikida’s torso, burying his face in his chest so he could no longer read any of his expressions. What the hell? What the fuck was he so busy with that he did not realised that his boyfriend was diagnosed with post-traumatic fucking stress disorder and was prescribed medication and that he was waking at ungodly hours just to take them behind his back? Was he that self-absorbed? Oh my god, Dazai, say something!
“Why do you take them now –?”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t afford you worrying about me. Our job cannot afford any more disruption,” Kunikida continued to comb through Dazai’s brown hair, an action so soft in contrast to the hard and heavy topic they were discussing – the juxtaposition made Dazai flinched a little, not knowing whether he deserved this tenderness. “I’m so, so sorry. My dosage changed and I needed to take it more frequently. It’s getting worse.”
Dazai wanted to scream. While his lover was suffering right beside him, what was he doing?
Thinking about an enemy who wanted to burn Yokohama to the stake?
If that was what it costed to properly protect Kunikida as a good partner should, he would light the torch and set the city on fire himself.
“I wish I had known sooner,” was all Dazai breathed out, stamping out the shakiness of his tone. It was fine. Being prescribed medication was a good thing. Kunikida was finding help. He was fine. It was fine it was fine everything was fine Kunikida had everything under control it was fine it didn’t matter that the rat was on the loose and that their director was still sick and everything was just going to get worse from here because he was sure Fyodor hadn’t done the worst and now he was just waiting to see which side broke down first and
“Can you promise me one thing?” Dazai asked in a muffled voice. He was trying extremely hard not to cry into Kunikida’s shirt.
“Hmm?” Kunikida replied, unsure whether he could even before Dazai asked.
“Please start taking your medication with water. It’s bad for your oesophagus to swallow pills dry. Being choked dead is kind of my job.” Dazai quipped.
Kunikida just let out a small chuckle.
He looked up to Kunikida.
Kunikida looked even more tired without his glasses, the weight of being the second in command crushing his shoulders.
“Please stay with me,” Dazai murmured into Kunikida’s neck. It was a selfish request coming from a suicidal maniac (not that he had tried out any tactics to take his own life these days – too many issues arising and killing himself would cause a great inconvenience to everyone), and he knew that, but if hypocrisy was what could prevent taking the stars out of his lover’s eyes, then he would spend his entire life contradicting himself.
3.
It was Dazai’s turn to take Ranpo onto the trains.
There had always been a weird sentiment between Dazai and Ranpo. Both masterminds in their own ways who held too much pride to share such knowledge akin to a socialist economy. The consequences of such actions resulted in sporting well-constructed façades of acting like a brat in fear that someone might be able to see past their jokes and snide comments one day. (Moreso in Dazai’s case than Ranpo’s – Dazai wished he could read Ranpo more easily than vice versa. Maybe Ranpo actually was, in the nicest way possible, an unruly child who saw everything as simple as it truthfully presented itself to be, unlike the 300-tonned of bricks Dazai carried out with a shackle to his ankle, even on good days).
Kunikida and Dazai had kept their relationship to themselves for the most part. But lately after recent events proving that they could be torn apart as easily as they came together, carelessness surfaced in the relationship – something they strictly did not allow when the curse of mutual feelings first struck. Hands holding each other’s a little longer than usual, the soft eyes of acknowledgement when the other was going out on a mission, casual shoulder taps that invited all fingers to hold the other’s shoulders, an excuse to smooth down a vest or coat. It was always very professional – they were not teenagers in high school halls – but it held the same desperation, something with a sentiment of I don’t want to lose you today.
Dazai couldn’t pinpoint the exact time Ranpo knew, but he’d be a fool to conjure ‘recently’ as an answer – which was the case for the other Agency members.
“Dazai-kun,” Ranpo said, sitting on a train en route towards the outskirts of Yokohama’s city central. They had passed their stop stations ago. Ranpo didn’t budge, so neither did Dazai.
The city buildings lowered in their sight.
“Hmm?”
“Everything will turn into a massive shitshow soon. Fyodor is gathering more allies and puppets to play for his show.”
“Hmm.”
“Break up with Kunikida-kun.”
Dazai didn’t twitch, although he felt his entire nervous system collapsed within him.
“Nothing is going to happen to either the Agency, you, nor him. I won’t allow it.”
Ranpo stuck his strawberry-milkshake flavoured lollipop into his mouth. “You don’t know that. This isn’t the Mafia, Dazai.” No formalities now. “You can’t just,” he snapped his fingers passive-aggressively, getting increasingly more agitated, “and your problems are gone. We can’t make do with illegal practices, even if it is to protect ourselves. We’re the ones in the light. The moment we stop doing all this we’re going to get blacklisted and Yokohama will fall.”
The unmentioned double standards of how the Mafia could allegedly do anything and not receive the same consequences hung in the air between them. Either inherently good or bad, the Port Mafia wouldn’t be dismissed or persecuted by the general population or the unitary government more than they already socially was. (Legality wise, well, Dazai supposed Odasaku’s death helped solved that part of the equation). ‘Heroes’, even the ones on the grey middle grounds like the Armed Detective Agency, would be decapitated on sight if they did anything out of the very narrow societally-upheld moralities.
(This comment, Dazai learnt while playing jigsaw puzzle mind maps with Fyodor in prison while the rest of the Armed Detective Agency scrambled at their feet to outrun several organisations coming for their lives due to an unfortunate incident involving a clown framing their reputation, did not age very well.)
Dazai let out a humourless chuckle, allowing himself to miss the Mafia and the non-existent moral consequences of the actions done by anyone belonged to it in a contextually ironic way.
Ranpo sat back, eyeing him. “I’ve known Kunikida-kun longer than you.”
The regularly cleaned picture that hung on the wall behind the President’s desk. Fukuzawa seated in a full suit the middle. Ranpo casually slanting to the side, a lose necktie around his white collared shirt. Yosano’s signature smoulder, the butterfly clip tying her then-black hair back. Kunikida’s uptight shoulders, with his usual piercing gaze.
Seeing all his current co-workers in their old uniforms sparked some kind of melancholy longing in him. Dazai had been in the Mafia for a very long time. His first few memories were completely dimmed out by the time he (rather unintentionally) entered the Mafia. He had been there, in all of its historically prominent revisions, why everything was in its place.
He watched the blood of the last leader spewed from Mori's blade. The politics and the betrayals and the blood money swapped under negotiation tables. He knew what happened to kids taken in at ages as early as five and he knew whether they would make it out alive.
He knew every nook and cranny of how it worked – the knowledge and power to improve or destroy the entire system of that organisation with the wave of a hand.
He had seen the sun rose and set in the Mafia.
When Dazai first entered the agency, he actually felt a sigh of relief that he didn’t have the burden of holding the well-rounded knowledge or full control of his new workplace. But slowly he realised that it served great inconveniences at times, despite knowing he would never lead such organisation.
Exhibit A: Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Ultimately, Dazai was happy that he was consulted like a soldier in the trenches – handed down clear tasks and pragmatically consulted for his stronger points, rather than being the one to make every single big, consequence-loaded decision. It made him less anxious and increased his already obnoxiously sky-high confidence when coming face-to-face with the enemy, knowing he had a really reliable team behind him.
But sometimes the harmless (was it, though? God, he really needed a therapist) thought of handling the whole situation with solely his mind and bandaged fingers with No Longer Human etched onto them and taking Fyodor out of the picture entirely in a one man’s show fleeted across his mind.
Whenever he got called into the President’s office and caught a glimpse of the highest photo on the wall, it never failed to remind Dazai of a period in the timeline where he wasn’t there. No matter how much and deeply he learns about the Agency, he would never be there, watching it emerged from the ground like the four of them did.
He held a great respect to Ranpo, though he would never admit it seriously out loud (besides company-scheduled Ranpo-praising sessions to bribe him with the motivation to solve cases) and would say the greatest Agency member was most definitely Kenji and Kenji alone.
“I am loyal to the Agency and its every single member, but,” Ranpo opened one of his green eyes to scan Dazai up and down, in a humour-happy manner. Everything he had said thus far was accompanied with happy-go-lucky gestures – people from afar would assume their murmurs were nothing but friendly banter between two co-workers. “If it came down to you both, I believe you know what my answer is.”
The train went into a tunnel. The echoes of the train and its wheels plummeting against their spines made Dazai grit his teeth at how coordinated he was playing this act.
“Nothing is going to happen. Kunikida will be safe,” he held his eye contact with Ranpo. “If the situation calls for it, I will die in his place,” he promised non-hesitantly. He thought about how much the tables had turned in his life over the decade. In the Mafia, people would be ordered to kill others or even themselves for him. Now he was expected, but also willing to give his life to someone else.
It made him re-think a lot about his suicidal tendencies and the gravity of them.
(Ugh, being responsible and having worrisome inconveniences felt so foreign. Was this how people lived?!)
The train left the tunnel. They were moving past small towns now. Dazai wondered which suburban countryside Kenji came from. Kenji was one of the members that were really open about his origins and life outside the Agency (well, he was fourteen. Dazai would be quite worried if he had a tragically dark backstory like Kyouka), always sharing the cultures and traditions and oddly specific stories of his hometown (Kenji had a wonderful memory – he would be sent out to run errands without a notepad or a phone like the true countryside boy he was).
It was extremely entertaining and reassuring to have Kenji around to break up any awkward tension among the members when certain topics got brought up (e.g. the conversation they were having right now).
Sometimes he was wary about how the President took in a fairly young teenager into the world of fighting crime and injustice, but he saw Kenji’s generally optimistic personality and left it at that.
(This did not mean he would just stand off the side watching passively if the world ever decided to rip Kenji apart with its claws. He would be first in the line to hoist Kenji over the shoulder and run out.)
Kenji was also weirdly very mature, in a different way from Kyouka. Teenagers his age would be interested in drinking and partying and dating (thinking back to when he was fourteen, those activities were part of his socialising routine that it got sickeningly habitual), but Kenji had no interest in such activities and would rather talk about plants and fertilisers and climate change rallies with Kunikida.
While those interests were very valid and he supported each and every single one of them, Dazai felt that Kenji hung around too many adults and just wanted to tell the President to send him back to high school so he could worry about normal things – like cultural festivals and English exams and university applications, not compiling annual tax return invoices.
(Kenji worked on Dazai’s tax invoices sometimes.)
Kenji’s general openness sometimes made Dazai feel silly for being so tight-lipped around someone he trusted with his life.
Heck, Dazai wasn’t wrong when he said Kenji was the best Agency member.
Ranpo suddenly burst out with laughter, all airy and carefree with no underlying malicious intent at all, pulling Dazai out from his train of thought on dissecting Kenji’s character analysis. He turned away and looked back out the window.
“Boring, Dazai-kun!” Formalities were back. “Everything you say is so serious and boring lately.”
Dazai closed his eyes.
He pictured the grave, facing the ocean, the trees rustling in the wind above it. He pictured the sunlight filtering through the south-facing window in the living room of their apartment.
He pictured the box of cigarettes that he kept and Kunikida asking whether he smoked. Dazai said he didn’t. He pictured Kunikida’s frowning face.
He didn’t know whether he was doing anything right lately.
4.
Dazai was going to kill him.
That was what he said to the guy with the sniper rifle.
“I’m going to kill you,” he announced, loud and clear from Ranpo’s ear.
He knew he was far out of his hearing range. But saying it aloud made Dazai feel like he was talking to someone else besides the Russian rat. Exclusively talking to Fyodor in an empty cell was starting to get tiringly irksome. He wasn’t even that close to Fyodor! Sure, they worked together with Shibusawa(’s like . . . third incarnation? Holy shit, why did no one ever looked into that. How the hell did he revive himself so many times? Dazai thought of it more of a curse more than a blessing) for that one cursed foggy night, but that was about it.
Anyway, despite the few times they came face to face, they really had nothing to talk about (that was what Dazai thought – but the latter seemed to have much to say. Dazai was not a physically violent nor strong person, but if given the chance he would dislocate Fyodor’s jaw in an instant).
(Okay yeah, he could throw a punch and generally defend himself when the situation called for it, but again, he didn’t like to think that was one of the features he closely identified with). He knew he claimed that Fyodor and him were alike with his “Because that’s what I’d do” reply, but (besides the fact that he would very much not poison his own director, there was no way he’d end his journey in the light side like that) that was more for the dramatics of intimidating the enemy. Old habits died extremely hard. He wished he could go about things more diplomatically like Kunikida.
He actually found Fyodor boring as hell to talk to, and his purple eyes bothered him so much. Was it an ability or did he frequently wore disposable contacts? Must be such an expensive and uncomfortable lifestyle – no wonder he always looked half-dead and wanted to commit mass genocide (and probably eradicate capitalism, to get contacts at a cheaper rate).
Dazai was supposed to play his role as a quarantined-stand-up comedian with an audience body count being one (Fyodor Dostoyevsky) as the entire Agency agreed – he was the only one that could keep the enemy in check, but he was slowly about to lose it. He had never been in prison, just a few weeks’ worth of being held as hostage here and there, so this was an entirely new experience.
Fyodor drawled on, but Dazai blanked out on him. Ugh. Did he not have any personality outside of his Grand Plan To Conquer The World With The Book? Boring, boring, boring! Dazai did the bare minimum required of his job by categorising every detail Fyodor let out and passing it onto Ango with his heartbeats, but part of him just wanted to clasp his hands on his ears and scream.
During his time in captive, Dazai also allowed himself to remember the events in what the Agency’s reports categorised as Dead Apple.
Although he had complete faith in the Agency, that was one of the moments where he worried about the outcome.
It depended a lot on his estimate of calculated moves and being in close contact with the supernatural enemies for a period of time that was longer than usual. He remembered how cold the night fog was, and how for the first time in a while he was working solo — which reminded him of his Mafia days. What a full circle.
There was always this silent acknowledgement between Dazai and Kunikida about how different their abilities were and where they often led them on the battleground. Kunikida was always in the frontline of combat and generally dealt with surface-level matters compared to Dazai and his demonic abilities with insider work.
He didn’t know whether he felt safer or more anxious not seeing his partner most of the time during huge Yokohama-destroying nationwide missions (where were the rest of the good heroic ability users at other Japanese prefectures at times like these? Yokohama wasn’t even the capital! God, one day Dazai was really going to get up and move down south to the island of Okinawa – an entirely separate territory from the Japanese mainland – with Kunikida. That way they wouldn’t be bothered by stupid issues like these anymore. Maybe he could move the entire Agency too. Start afresh. He would miss Kenji a lot).
(Being near an ocean that wasn’t overlooking Odasaku would help too).
Just something about lately not being able to work side by side with Kunikida made him really sad.
The number of available members of the Agency was crucially low at this point (count: one) so the plan unfortunately didn’t involve physically taking out the marksman, which Dazai would gladly very much do so.
Stop – Dazai. He was probably just some guy hired for a nine to five job.
The practice Kunikida taught Dazai when they were on the couch one evening, when Dazai first admitted that he didn’t understand why Kunikida didn’t just view human lives as a body count, and why couldn’t the guilt of not being able to save everyone be outweighed even a little bit by the amount of lives he did save. Dazai definitely felt better after switching sides and was starting to save more lives than reducing them.
“Each person is alive, Dazai,” Kunikida stated matter-of-factly. Dazai was laying his head on Kunikida’s shoulder, watching as Kunikida embroidered one of the couch’s pillow. It was a simple sunflower on top of a white backdrop. He was working on the petals now. Yellow threads slipped under and up again, the skilfulness in his hands really reminded him of ocean waves rising and collapsing onto each other.
No, not now, Dazai. You’re with Kunikida. Focus.
For someone who whined and complain outwardly a lot, Dazai was actually actively trying to make himself a better person for himself and his partner by not pondering in the past anymore. And it was hard – so hard – because God really struck way too much nostalgia onto him before kicking him into the universe. He groaned and lamented and got stuck in flashbacks for four years. Now he had the sunshine by his side. And Kunikida did left him a note to try going to the therapy centre right down the road. Maybe . . .
“Everyone is leading their own lives. They all have their dreams and passions. They all woke up that morning under the same sky,” Kunikida continued. Dazai watched Kunikida prick his finger a little and did not budge at all. Dazai’s pain tolerance was abnormally high due to growing up in the Mafia and general trying out new ways to commit suicide every once in a while, but Kunikida . . . what the hell did Kunikida go through to be so unfazed by physical pain?
“Not everyone has driving passions like you, though,” Dazai said, only partially teasing. Kunikida had so much drive in life. He was filled with so much admiration for him. “What if they wanted to die? You don’t need to feel guilty about not being able to save a life that wasn’t like, fully appreciated.” Dazai pouted, clinging onto his arm, lazily staring at cloudless blue sky. The atmosphere rang of buses and high school kids who just finished their evening lessons. It was a day off from one of the more intense missions they went on involving more than three hundred hostages.
Usually after experiencing missions like these Yosano would force them to apply for a sick leave. When the Agency first started, she argued with Fukuzawa that his All Men Are Equal ability was not perfect and ability users were still very much human (Fukuzawa came from an older generational background of soldiers who were both ability users and conservatively secretive when it came to disclosing their physical or mental vulnerability – not exactly the greatest combo, if Dazai was being honest) with the need of serious surveillance on their mental health.
Dazai was really grateful for Yosano. She was the first person he got along immediately due to a nod at the same general backstory. He thought about how Yosano went through the Great War with Mori holding her at gunpoint if she, an 11 year old then, didn’t rapidly resurrect soldiers who did not want to be alive in the first place. Though her time affiliated with the devil was short, it sounded like a nightmare and almost equivalent to Dazai having to spend his coming-of-age years in a severely manipulative environment. But Mori as a superior officer, plus an actual ability user-fuelled war? Dazai could not imagine the abuse Yosano tolerated.
He always wanted to ask how she dealt with the damage – the confidence and love for her ability was astounding. She also didn’t space out in her own thoughts as much as Dazai did.
Being able to connect with Yosano was probably the only good thing that came out of being exploited by Mori at a young age.
“That doesn’t matter,” Kunkida said, a certain firmness in his tone, “What matters is that we don’t judge people based on that. We have the ability to keep them safe, and we should. So they could have a second chance in waking up again.”
Kunikida tugged a yellow thread in a straight line, gesturing Dazai to cut it. He took the scissors from the coffee table and gently snipped it, careful not to hurt Kunikida or the pillow. The small sunflower was done.
Sonder. That was the word.
Dazai looked at Kunikida again, murmuring about how they needed to go to the yarn supply store. The kettle rang. Kunikida got up to make them both green tea.
Sonder . . .
Gunman. Nine to five job. Probably had a wife and kids and a loving household. Should not be in Dazai’s hitlist. Dazai would not find him after this whole thing was over to end him with his own hands for revenge. Focus. Focus.
He was back.
He heard a gust of whoooooooosh through his earpiece. Ranpo had dropped the fainting gas canisters. He was on his way to save Kunikida. The moment he heard a electronic door bolt open, Ranpo spoke.
“Kunikida does not have any hands.”
Everything around Dazai went black.
He did not bother concealing his expressions with Fyodor right across him.
“What?”
“You heard me.” Rustling noises and murmurs asking Kunikida whether he was alright filled the air as Ranpo hoisted him over the shoulder. The exchange was only a few milliseconds, but it was enough to shove all the air from Dazai’s lungs into a zip block bag.
He was going to throw up.
It’s fine, Dazai. Dazai I swear to fucking god if you black out right now
It’s fine it’s fine it’s fine listen can you hear me it’s fine it’s
The echoes of four footsteps played in the background of Dazai’s rapid thoughts, two more coordinated than the other pair rang against his ear piece. Dazai was supposed to stay with them until Ranpo reached to safety, but currently his mental headspace was not in the rescue. His most logical subconscious was in absolute forced serenity, kicking his skull and rationalising that he couldn’t blank out now because Yosano’s rescue mission was literally in less than an hour, and hers involved moving vehicles and therefore arguably way more complicated and required his full attention for acting as support. His other subconsciouses did voice in agreement, but the loudest voice right now was asking why he lost all the words he wanted to say to Kunikida.
It had been weeks (although it felt more like multiple cycles of lifetimes – God, he couldn’t wait until this arc was over) since the Decay of Angels (Dazai thought it sounded more like an outdated tacky try-hard punk rock band than a terrorist organisation, but whatever) framed the Armed Detective Agency and Dazai got taken in as prisoner for his past crimes. Wouldn’t be honest to say he didn’t panic over that a little (people who assumed Dazai didn’t panic was wrong – so wrong – he panicked over every little thing. It was his façade that was calm. Everything that didn’t move along the plan wreaked havoc in his mind, but that anxiousness was also the reason why everything that he planned almost always did go smoothly. Except, like, now).
It had also been weeks since Kunikida and Dazai had seen each other. Since they both fell asleep with their arms tangled and warmth next to each other. Since he heard the idealist hummed the latest song on the radio (people would also assume Kunikida had the most niche playlists, but in reality he was too busy with other life events to explore the music industry, and anything that played on mainstream radio was fine enough for him. It was Dazai that had those weird indie playlists and often dedicated the cheesiest ones to Kunikida) as they both took down the curtains to wash.
The plants in Kunikida’s balcony . . . the laughter as they huddled out to watch the trains fly by to the other side of the city. The plants . . . who was watering them? Were they all dead? The plants . . . and the sunlight. The sunlight that filtered through. But the entire room should be bright now. Because they took down the curtains but never managed to wash them –
“Dazai-kun? Hello? Are you there?”
“Yes!” Dazai perked up, cheerily. No time had passed. He was back. It was fine. “Butterfly clips next, right?”
“Yeah,” Ranpo exhausted out a breath. White noise. They were in the designated safe place. “I’m catching my breath, and then I’ll hijack Yosano-san’s vehicle,” he let out a childish groan, but super emphasised so he knew he was joking. Ranpo was harsh, but he knew when to lighten the mood. And with the alarming rate of how increasingly dire their disastrous calamity of a situation was becoming right now, having Ranpo lighten the mood and releasing any past resentments was more than necessary to keep the only two active members of the Agency sanely alive. “Come on, I’m the one doing all the physical rescuing here. Pay attention to me!”
“Yeah, yeah, I just,” Dazai paused. He hated how selfish loving Kunikida made him to be.
“You want to talk to Kunikida? Okay, five minutes – but then we have to get going. The place Yosano’s kept in is a long walk without someone to help me with the trains,” Ranpo passed his ear piece to Kunikida, and left to talk to Katai. Dazai appreciated how straightforwardly blunt he was sometimes. He took this gesture as a coded message for an apology for the weirdly hostile conversation they had on the train (all these indirect inklings and mixed communicative signals – damn, maybe they both needed to go to therapy). Ranpo could have the title of the second best Agency member, as a treat.
Silence.
They allowed each other to gather their own breath. They couldn’t believe the other was still alive. Then Dazai spoke.
“Doppo,” Dazai breathed once he got used to hearing the familiar breath. “Doppo . . . it’s me, Dazai. Sorry I might sound raggedy right now. Prison stinks and I only have one person to talk to. It really sucks that it isn’t you,” Dazai breathed out. He was about to cry. “I miss you. Please talk to me.”
“Dazai . . .” Kunikida started. “My love.” He rarely used any form of wordy endearments. Dazai felt a cotton ball manifested in his own throat.
Dazai didn’t know what to say. They never went this long without knowing where the other was. It felt like a miracle that they were still in the same plane of existence.
“When we get back home,” Dazai felt tears ran up but forced them back down. He only had five minutes to talk to the love of his life. There was no way he was going to waste a second of this for any tears. He had his love back in his head. He was not going to give Fyodor any more satisfaction watching him being downright miserable. The purple-eyed freak could use the happiness that he gained from this five minute phone call against him all he want in the future, Dazai didn’t give a fuck. It was over. “Can we wash our curtains? I left it in the laundry basket.”
Kunikida let out an airy laugh. “Yes, love. We will.”
Conversation was always easy between them, ever since the beginning. The silences weren’t awkward and each word that bounced off followed the momentum. Dazai was keeping all the speech bubbles in his memory to ration out as substitutes for serotonin until they saw each other again.
Five minutes was a short time, but Dazai felt it was the right time to info-dump about his past. To just tell him everything from the get go, the closure that his partner always deserved but the ex-mafioso was just never brave to live up to the expectation. Also, if Kunikida wanted to break up with him, this was the time. “Kunikida-kun, there’s always something I wanted to tell you. Remember the box of cigarettes? It’s –”
“It’s alright, Dazai.” The softness flooded the white noise and embodied its whole. “Not now.”
Dazai stopped.
“And time’s up!” Ranpo’s voice came back into line. “Alright, Dazai. Let’s go save Yosano-san!”
The static blurred into distorted voices.
Dazai did pass out halfway, much to Ranpo’s distress.
It was fine. He was the greatest detective in existence. He could manage himself.
In his dreams, he saw Odasaku’s kind face. The sound of the ocean swivelled down his ears. The sun was shining down on them. He opened his palm towards Dazai, a smile on his dear old friend’s face.
It was an unfamiliar scene. They usually hung out in the Lupin bar, nine out of ten times it was raining heavily out – since it was located in a dodgy underground-like alleyway, it was a complete hassle to commute to, even more so in bad weather. But it was good for the trio who didn’t hang out in normal daytime hours, and would be questioned for doing so anyway. They all belonged in very different departments in the Mafia and it would be suspicious of them to even acknowledge the other (mutiny attempts always started from interacting with other departments to check out any loopholes to take down the head of the organisation).
(Dazai hoped at least he was exempted from this precedent and that everyone knew if he wanted to take down Mori Ougai’s head, he could and would had easily finished the job himself.)
Dazai realised he remembered his time with the Buraiha trio through a heavily rose-tinted stained glass. He had forgotten how much unending anxiety the friendship caused and the sour taste in his mouth after every hangout (not really any of their faults to be honest – the environment they were situated in wasn’t the best for cultivating healthy, blossoming friendships), fearing that it would be the last.
And then one evening, it was.
The epiphany came that everything about it was just sceptical and pessimistic and dark and
so unlike his current friendships with the Agency.
Why did he compare his current life with his past one constantly?
Why did he compare Odasaku and Kunikida constantly?
Odasaku’s palm was still extended out, waiting for Dazai to take it.
Dazai glanced down, then looked back at Odasaku.
He shook his head. The figure frowned back at him.
Far away, he spotted Kunikida. A splotch of murky blue hospital gown and bandaged hands in the middle of the green fields. The same tired green eyes. As he ran towards Kunikida instead, barely catching his breath as he desperately screamed and yelled his lover’s name, the whole scene faded out and he awoke to feeling purple eyes watching him again.
5.
“Everyone! Kenji-kun has an important announcement to make!” Kyouka ran around the room, raising her voice by the octave. She started hiking up the default volume of her voice at a steady pace – hanging around Kenji who was almost always easily the loudest in the room with his booming voice had certainly played a part in that.
Atsushi looked up from replying a message. Probably from Lucy Montgomery, the ability user from the café below. Dazai always thought she was the brightest one out there. He heard stories from a very animated Atsushi (he definitely did have some sort of strong feelings towards the red-head) and how she became the base when the whole Agency went to decline. He couldn’t wait for the right time to file more paperwork and allow the Agency to sponsor yet another one of his adoptions.
Kunikida’s sixth sense picked up Dazai’s plotting energy, and kicked him from under the desk.
“Oww! Kunikida-kun! I saved you from the last mission and this is how you return the favour?” Dazai whined, before getting up and stretching to the side.
“I can hear your plotting from over here.” Dazai looked towards the blond idealist and see that he wasn’t even looking at his victim. He never failed to impress Dazai.
“C’mon,” Dazai nodded towards the group of members heading towards the common room. He noticed Kunikida struggling with stiff fingers on the same data analysis he was working on two hours ago. He slithered around their desks and punched the power button on the computer.
“Dazai, you absolute brat,” Kunikida groaned, but didn’t show any form of restraint when Dazai pulled him up, his hands staying clung on his side even when Kunikida stood up.
“It’s alright. You’re improving massively,” Dazai whispered, patting his arm before slightly laying his head on Kunikida’s shoulder. “You’ll go back to your regular pace in no time. And if you don’t, know that you’ll always be faster than me when it comes to finishing up those nasty reports. Although I could always handle them in your place, if you want!”
The harsh, stressed look on Kunikida softened a little. “Thanks, Dazai,” he grumbled before placing a kiss on the side of Dazai’s mop of brown hair, “but I think the Agency will have to close down if I relied the company’s paperwork on you.”
Dazai scoffed. “Rude! I know I didn’t touch a computer back in the Mafia, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to read the accounts! I just have better things to do!”
Kunikida just chuckled back as Dazai nuzzled deeper into his clinging.
Comments like these were easier to blurt out these days. Dazai decided there could no longer be more hiding in unopened shelves if this relationship was to work. And he did very, very much treasure this relationship. It was healthy and good and what his past-self needed right now. Life could take any of them away at any second – although it would have to go through Dazai’s cold, dead hands first.
He looked up to the Agency gathering around Kenji excitedly.
“My hometown is having their annual summer festival this year!” Kenji circled around, handing flyers out with information. “But this year is super special. It’s the 100th anniversary to when it was first discovered!”
“Oh, is there a reason why you’ve invited us?” Yosano asked, daintily skimming through the paper.
Kenji shrugged. “Nope, why’d you ask?”
The members looked at each other.
“Anyway, I’m planning we should all go! As an organisation, or a family!” Kenji smiled brightly, unaware of the abrupt silence that stunned the room.
Kyouka must had received the second-hand shyness from the bold statement, and her face immediately started to redden.
Knowing what they had just been through – the fate of the Agency hanging on the edge of the cliff, fingers nearly slipping into oblivion – that was a more than appropriate term to use. Dazai thought it was just that the Agency was filled with a bunch of positive-affirmation-starved losers (himself included, obviously).
“So the flyers have all the details. I hope you all can make it! Oh god, I can’t wait for y’all to see my place! It’s very different from Yokohama obviously. Oh, Kyouka, did I tell you? They handmake these sweets right in front of you –”
“Wait, did someone say handmade sweets?” Ranpo perked up from the couch in the corner, immediately interested.
“Reminder for Tanizaki’s birthday celebration at my apartment tonight . . . ?” Kunikida supplied questioningly amongst the excited chatter. Everyone responded with a ‘yeah’ before going back talking about Kenji’s summer festival. Even the birthday boy, Tanizaki himself was chattering eagerly with Kenji about what he should bring to the festival from the city over his own birthday.
Dazai realised in the midst of his self-reflection, he missed Tanizaki a lot too. He was a member that kept a distance from Dazai, rarely interacting with the nullifier, probably because he was one of the more relatively new members who didn’t receive guidance directly from him or had the unbridled confidence of an extrovert like Kenji. As an effort to get closer, he decided he would throw a birthday party for him – Kunikida was surprised when Dazai brought it up, because he wasn’t one to plan the social gatherings of the Agency (usually the younger ones filled with youthful energy would make all the serious social planning), but was hundred per cent on board with it.
The party went well. Everyone showed up, even Fukuzawa who was currently in the kitchen with Kunikida discussing about his rapidly-growing collection of plants. Dazai managed to talk to Tanizaki, exchanging details of what happened in the latest course of events. Tanizaki wasn’t one to dig deep into things that weren’t his business and he also didn’t offer much about what was, usually just hovering around with Naomi, so it was interesting to hear so much from him in such a detailed account. Also, Dazai never knew what a great singer he was until he completely owned the karaoke session.
“Oh my god, remember when the biggest worry we had was what the Port Mafia was doing?” Ranpo exclaimed, beyond belief. They were all hanging around the couches. Dazai was hugging Kunikida’s sunflower-embroidered pillow to his chest, trying not to take up too much space next to Kenji. He had no idea how Kunikida, who was eight centimetres taller than him, managed to always appear upkeep and sure – Dazai did not know what to do with his awkwardly flailing dangly limbs most of the time. He leaned against Kunikida who was sitting to his right.
Yosano dramatically gasped, laying a leather-clad arm across her eyes. “What were the Black Lizard brats doing? Oh, trying to take over the Agency?” Yosano laughed. “God, we were such idiots back then. Remember how worried Atsushi-kun was?”
Atsushi folded his arms. “Hey, I was actually genuinely scared, okay? The Mafia was onto us. I was new!” he scoffed.
Kyouka perked up from peeling oranges in the sink. “I was never that scared of the Mafia. I’m four years younger than you . . .”
“That’s different!” Atsushi sputtered, and everyone chuckled amusingly.
“And now we consult with them on a scarily frequent basis . . .” Kenji said, shuffling his feet to sit criss-cross apple sauce. “Gin-san is so cool though. I’d love to see them again.”
“Kenji-kun likes Gin-san? That’s so cute!” Ranpo cooed jokingly, rustling his blonde hair. Instead of being flustered, Kenji just laughed along.
“They are cool, though! Who would not like them?”
Dazai gave Kenji a high five. Gin was very cool indeed.
“How about you, Yosano-san? Any plans on getting married now that this is all over?” Ranpo asked, obviously in a satirical manner.
“Of course!” Yosano retorted sarcastically. She clasped her hands together and leaned her chin on them, in a faux daydreamy state. “To be a wife in a heterosexual nuclear household . . . where all my dreams are dead . . .” she chuckled, instinctively placing a hand on her golden butterfly clip. “But don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon. Owing my whole life to one man is already quite tiring.”
It was Kyouka who first extended her arms to give the Agency’s healer a side embrace. When Yosano offered a small smile in response, every Agency member slowly inched closer to form a gigantic group hug. Laughter filled the room as heads bumped against each other.
Dazai thought about how Mori would gladly accept her back into the Mafia with open arms – just like how Mori had saved a spot for him in the ring of executives – and hugged Yosano even tighter, a feeling of relief knowing that they would both never return to that side ever again.
Ranpo nudged Fukuzawa in the side. “It must be weird having to talk to Mori-san after such a long time.”
Fukuzawa shrugged, but didn’t say a word, knowing no matter how unconventionally sound their interactions were currently (probably in addition with fighting alongside each other for twelve years under Natsume in the past, they also had to make more alliances and truces than not lately), the wellbeing of his subordinates who used to be mistreated by him came first as priority without question.
Dazai didn’t know how he felt about this new not-just-black-and-white relationship the Armed Detective Agency had recently started with the Port Mafia and the inevitability of seeing his old colleagues even more frequently. But Dazai decided he didn’t need to worry about that, for now. As long as he was on this side, wedged between Kunikida and Kenji as Atsushi and Kyouka competitively played Just Dance with everyone crowding around and cheering for one or the other, it was fine whatever bullet the organisations wanted to aim at each other.
When everyone left, Dazai was busy washing the plates as Kunikida stood outside the balcony. Noticing the lack of debriefing about the party they just had, Dazai patted his hands on his trousers and went towards Kunikida, tapping his shoulder to warn him about his presence.
“May I join you?” he asked, leaning against the balcony’s barrier with both elbows propped up to support his weight.
Kunikida gave a slight nod before going back to watch the cars drive by at the streets below. Although they were located on the fifth floor, it felt like an entire universe away.
There were a few more moments of silence before Kunikida cracked a sob.
“Everything feels so different now.”
Dazai immediately turned to Kunikida, full alert. He lifted his hands and placed them on Kunikida’s face, gently tilting his head up so he could make eye contact. “What do you mean?”
“These hands . . . they’re frustrating. Everything that happened keeps replaying in my mind.”
Kunikida did not receive a break between the Cannibalism period and the fiasco with the Decay of Angels.
“You just need time, Doppo.” Dazai said softly. “I can accompany you to some of your rehabilitation appointments, if you’d like. Please know that you have my full support.”
The party playlist that Dazai had put on spun to La Vie En Rose. Kunikida’s shoulders shook. He took off his glasses with one hand and wiped the oncoming tears in another.
“Come,” Dazai outstretched his hands. “Dance with me, Doppo.”
Kunikida calmed down a bit, accepting Dazai’s embrace. They swayed side to side in the cool summer wind, uncaring whether the world watched their subtle, yet for them, enormously grand display of affection.
“I felt like I haven’t been a good partner to you –”
“No, Kunikida, stop,” Dazai halted softly. “What we – the entire Agency – bounced back from was horrific. There wasn’t a precedent for what we just went through. None of us knew whether we’d make it out to the other side.”
But Kunikida shook his head, choking out another sob. “I just . . . I swore I’d always protect you, and the Agency, and then you got locked up in prison in Europe with Fyodor, and everyone in the Agency was on the run, and there was so many times where I got so scared, and I saw Kenji literally getting gutted through the helicopter and I couldn’t do anything–” Kunikida swallowed a lump in his throat, but the feeling did not go away.
Dazai thought about being sedated and waking up in an entirely different country and having to just talk to Fyodor alone. He knew the Agency was going to have a rough time without everyone being present to face the Big Bad like all the times before, but he didn’t estimate how bad it was going to turn out in the long run. Compared to his role of playing mental chess with the Russian rat in Meursault, it seemed like a distorted version of a staycation (because he didn’t feel like he was out of Japan. And he didn’t manage to try any French delicacies. And that he hardly suffered from any jetlag.)
Dazai was quiet for a moment, allowing Kunikida the time to catch back his breath.
“Doppo, can I . . . take you somewhere tomorrow?”
Kunikida nodded in response.
Dazai placed his arms around Kunikida’s neck before leaning in for a deep kiss. When they pulled away, Dazai caressed Kunikida’s cheek, wiping any stray tears left. “I’m still here, aren’t I? And the whole Agency. They’ve all went back to their own places. They’re safe. We’re all fine,” he placed another kiss on Kunikida’s jawline. “Let’s go to sleep now.”
Dazai tugged Kunikida’s arm, letting him follow suit.
The next morning, they drove out of the city. (Dazai knew how to drive. His acts of incompetence were just an excuse to be coddled by Kunikida – he wouldn’t survive a day in the Mafia without basic life skills.) Dazai sang to the radio and poked at Kunikida for not singing along with him, but Kunikida was just stressed about making the decision to agree with this overly spontaneous trip on a whim and Dazai threw his head back and laughed, the roads slowly narrowing until they were the only ones in sight.
They went to a small-scale national park. They walked through the fields of young kids running around, dragging bubbles out from oval wires while their parents busied with the barbecue pits. Dazai walked through the woods, hand-in-hand with Kunikida as he attempted to read the map, while Dazai was just looking around, finding a secluded spot.
They did. A spot away from the noise and the chattering and the people. Dazai laid down a yellow blanket. Kunikida had brought his book to journal in. Dazai laid his head against Kunikida’s shoulder.
And then he spoke.
He told him everything about his past. About while his first memories were clouded by scenes from the Mafia, he remembered distinctively feeling non-neurotypical ever since he could walk. How Mori and him met. How much he did not want to be sent to a psychiatrist for his suicidal tendencies, and ever since that day he was careful about what he wished for because ultimately, he was not sent to a psychiatrist for his suicidal tendencies. He was sent to a borderline mad non-doctor that wanted to take over the Port Mafia.
About his old partnership with Chuuya. How Double Black was formed. About the Mafia’s hierarchies and formalities and Lupin Bar and
“There was this man named Oda Sakunosuke. He let me call him Odasaku.”
Dazai felt Kunikida shift slightly. No doubt he had come across that name multiple times.
The bandaid was coming off, thread after thread.
“The mafia stuff never suited him. Obviously, he’s the reason why I’m here.”
Dazai felt something being drawn out of him. Atsushi had caught Dazai in the grave once, before the events of Dead Apple happened. He had reached this same level of explanation with Atsushi. That was the biggest piece of Odasaku that Dazai offered back to the world, who obviously very much did not deserve anymore of him.
Was he going to get any deeper. Was it right? Shouldn’t he keep his name small and out of reach from the universe, just like Odasaku himself?
He felt his right hand being hovered over by Kunikida’s. Then it slid comfortably into Dazai’s, their fingers intertwined. He was lending him his strength.
“Do you want to continue?”
Dazai took a deep breath. “He’s also usually the reason why I’m . . . not here,” he gestured, moving their palms in motions. “He was a good man. His grave is located at a great spot, you know. Overlooking the ocean. It’s what he would’ve wanted. Besides writing books and raising five orphans.”
They were laying down now, not more than five centimetres apart from each other, their joined hands laid in the centre.
“I used to visit his grave almost every single day after he died.” It was like some twisted sort of safe space.
After Dazai joined the Agency, these visits became less frequent, more with the help of self-control and focus on building his new life to not let the efforts of everyone that helped erase his past and create a vacancy in the Agency for Dazai to fill, rather than his own willingness.
(Namely and begrudgingly, Ango – although the clean-up was never permanent because he was sniffed out by Jouno anyway.
On the bright side, that meant they were even now. Ango couldn’t pull that I helped wipe your records card anymore.)
“Nothing romantic ever happened between us. He was just someone that . . . really looked out for me. I loved him, Kunikida. And it hurts me. It still hurts me ‘til this day. I don’t ever know what to do with this hurt. Because you remind me a lot of him — your selflessness, the things that drive you,” Dazai was getting agitated, his emotions being vomited out sentence after the other.
But they were in a vast space, miles away from the whole world. This time belonged to Dazai. He looked into Kunikida’s eyes desperately. The green painted his whole vision. “It’s going to kill you. Please, please don’t go.”
Kunikida blinked slowly. He had been given way too much information to process in the last hour.
“I’m not him.” Kunikida said. He got up slowly.
That was all it took to snap Dazai out of his nostalgic ramblings. He got up with Kunikida, holding his wrist. “No, you aren’t.”
The same look of hurt that flashed across Kunikida’s face made Dazai’s heart dropped, and he cursed himself for not being able to coherently connect his sentences. When would he ever stop hurting Kunikida? The answer was probably never – he couldn’t change himself entirely to accommodate the 58 requirements of Kunikida’s (ridiculous) list for his ideal partner – but at least now he had released the thought of crash landing, and was holding onto the aircraft’s control lever, determine to search the ends of the universe for a safer destination for both of them.
“You’re not Odasaku. You’ll never be,” he looked straight into his lover’s eyes. “Because you’re Kunikida Doppo. My best friend, my idealist. The strongest man I’ve ever known. You’re my love in an entirely different way, Kunikida. You’ve seen my worse and still accepted me with nothing but love and respect and," he breathed, "I might want to die but not without you.”
Kunikida shook his head, as if denying every single statement Dazai had just made. “Why did you take me here? When your heart belongs to someone else?” He sounded dangerously close to tears. Damn, they really had been on a non-stop crying fest ever since they reunited – mostly out of disbelief that they were still by each other’s side.
Dazai took a deep breath shakily, unwilling to look away. The final round of emotional vulnerability was up. “I took you here instead of the grave that I just mentioned how important was to me – because I have chosen to start something new with you. I don’t want to drown in the oceans anymore. I want to breathe in the fields. With you. And only you.”
Dazai would carve out his heart for Kunikida, if only he asked.
The sheer look of worry filled Kunikida’s face after Dazai made possibly the boldest declaration of love since they started their journey, and Dazai could only hold him close to assure him he meant every single word he said. Kunikida sobbed, making Dazai laugh as tears rolled down his face as well. They held onto each other until their hearts bumped into a singular pattern.
Away, the wind rustled as the cloudless blue outstretched above them.
They were finally under the same sky.