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Dazai didn’t buy new clothes.
There was never a need.
Never, was an occasion that warranted such frivolous purchase.
Predominantly composed of lowliness, his childhood lacked in lavish; a fact that remained intact despite the tremendous salary increase that came with his accession to mafia executive.
A simple white button-down with black pants, and his signature trench coat.
Mori’s trench coat.
That was all he needed. Should a mission require otherwise, alternative arrangements were made.
Expression was a tricky thing in his world. Upon defecting, he was forced to confront the rankling of such a reality. A strangely fitting experience, yet disorienting in its disconcertion, to live as a child picking out their first outfit, though as an adult taking their first step towards the future. Towards change. The light, and all that.
The process was poignant in misery and stress, undeniably unworthy of recurrence.
Though, it would be inaccurate to misconstrue such toil as a diminishment of the end result of his purchases. Despite the tribulations, the outfit on which he decided was immensely satisfying. Perhaps it was the softer fabrics and unique style, or their complete contrast to his prior attire.
Pale pants, a bolo tie with a bright turquoise pendant, and a tan coat that caught his eye, as if canonized from the heavens in which he did not believe.
He loved layers. Needed them like water, oxygen.
Bandages, an undershirt, a dress shirt, a vest, and a jacket.
What could be considered constricting to others was purely freeing for Dazai.
Aside from its success, the shopping trip took far too much of his ceaseless time and limited energy, that Dazai did his best to avoid the activity when possible.
Today, avoidance was not possible.
“I, uh—” Atsushi stumbled, fidgeting beside his mentor, “I don’t know where to start.”
They stood before a stretch of suits, row-upon-row full of various shades of black and blue, light grays and whites. The men’s formalwear shop in the local mall was fairly empty, seeing as it was a Monday afternoon. Nonetheless, the two young men strolled through the store on official business.
“I’ve never been to a gala before,” Atsushi remarked, “I didn’t uhh…” he paused, blushing even deeper than before, “realize, um, how fancy we would need to be.”
Dazai chuckled softly, “Yes, this one is especially important.”
“Are you searching for a suit too, Dazai-san?”
“I—” Dazai’s would-be indignant reply was cut short by a feminine tone.
“Yes, yes he is Atsushi,” Yosano Akiko replied on his behalf, her silky black skirt sashaying with each leisured step, “And don’t let him convince you otherwise.” A scalding yet loving glare was shot Dazai’s way. Shuffling footsteps of Kyōka Izumi trailed behind like a duckling alongside its mother. They both held large bags from a neighboring shop.
“Oh come on, Sensei—” Dazai protested, only to be cut off once more.
“We talked about this Dazai. The president gave us very clear instructions. Everyone is required to go and formal garb is mandatory. Absolutely no exceptions.”
Dazai rolled his eyes.
“That includes you.” She crossed her arms, continuing her pointed stare.
“Can’t we just go dress shopping instead!? I would look great in something sparkly…” fake golden-flecked stars danced in his eyes at the prospect of being anywhere other than the exact place where he stood.
“So you really are going to this event?” Atsushi asked, ignoring Dazai’s typical antics. The question was not out of mockery, but from a place of innocent, justified confusion.
“I’m afraid so,” he laughed. “Trust me, if it were just orders from Kuni-chan, I’d skip in a heartbeat. But the president?” Flaying his arms in a dramatic swoon, “My hands are tied!” Atsushi nodded thoughtfully.
In the past few months since joining the Detective Agency, Atsushi had yet to see Dazai attend any parties or otherwise formal events.
From Kyōka’s entrance exam celebration to Jun’ichirō ’s birthday and a handful of strategic public-facing events, avoided all with galling skill.
Seeing as Dazai was such an enigmatic personality, it puzzled not just Atsushi, but most of his agency colleagues, save Ranpo. For such an outgoing person to slink away from every single event felt unusual.
“Kyōka-chan, did you find something nice?” Dazai posed in swift conversive redirection. The young girl nodded, her alfalfa bobbing with each upward motion.
“Yes. My Yukata is pink and green. Sensei helped pick it out,” while her voice was as monotone as ever, her massive blue eyes held a glimmer of excitation.
“Wow, that sounds really pretty!” Atsushi chirped, smiling brightly.
“You should show it off for him later~” Dazai goaded with a melodramatic wink, instantly bringing his subordinate to a fluster.
“I—uh—no! Uh—ahh—” Atsushi stumbled gracelessly over his words, resulting in gibberish.
“Okay,” Kyōka agreed with a serious nod, only intensifying Atsushi’s fluster.
Yosano held a convincingly apprehensive look in Dazai’s direction to avoid encouraging his behavior, but couldn’t help the whisper of a smirk that made an appearance.
“Come on you two, we don’t have all day,” Yosano commented, ushering the men further into the department store.
“Oh, but we do~”
“No Dazai-san, we really don’t—” Atsushi protested his mentor’s insidious smile. He knew that smile and it meant trouble.
“It’s been so slooooooow today~” the dark-haired man-child whined, “we can stall just a liiiiiiittle, can’t we?” His faux innocence fell flat, as the group was clearly over his fuckery.
“No!” They snapped simultaneously.
Abdicated, crocodile tears streamed down his face. “How hurtful you all are!! You just want to see me miserable!”
“Anytime you say you just want to stall for a ‘little’ it turns into hours,” Atsushi huffed, “I don’t mind taking our time but…I don’t know. You always get distracted and look for new ways to attempt suicide!”
“Atsushi’s right,” Yosano added, “I’m not going to rush you, but you can’t keep dragging this out.”
“You wound me so! Kyōka-chan, are you hearing this!?”
Evidently, Kyōka had not heard at all, she was busy ogling at the sheer number of suits that lay in front of them.
“Wow, you too Kyōka-chan!!??”
“Oh. Did you say something Dazai-san?” She asked, oblivious to their entire conversation.
Once again, ignoring his mentor’s cries, Atsushi fumbled through the aisles and motioned for the others to follow, despite his overt cluelessness regarding the art of shopping.
Dazai snickered to himself, irreverent towards the notion of helping his pupil figure out what he was doing.
Not that he would be that useful otherwise, but making it a conscious decision not to help rather than being unable was the clear winning option.
“Why do men’s clothes have to be sooooo boring?” He complained, nearly hissing at each limpid garment he passed.
“No matter how much you complain, you’re not wearing a dress,” Yosano commented with an eyeroll.
“UGH! Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.”
Bored out of his mind, he chose to partake in a beloved pastime.
Enjoyment at Chūya’s expense.
FROM: Shitty Bandage-Wasting-Menace (11:45 AM)
Chu-chu-chan! I found the perfect suit for you ♡＼(￣▽￣)／♡
[attachment]
FROM: <3 Chibi-chan ≧◠◡◠≦ [aka my favorite partner of all times, far cooler than Kunkida] <3 (11:46 AM)
IS THAT A CHILDS SUIT!?!?!?!??!?!??!?????
FROM: Shitty Bandage-Wasting-Menace (11:47 AM)
Yes
It’s perfect
for you
and your itty bitty legs ~
So precious >>o>>
(like you)
;)
FROM: <3 Chibi-chan ≧◠◡◠≦ [aka my favorite partner of all times, far cooler than Kunkida] <3 (11:50 AM)
fuck off
FROM: Shitty Bandage-Wasting-Menace (11:51 AM)
You know you love me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖°
“Are you done stalling?” Yosano dragged him inimically out of his only chance at entertainment, “Atsushi needs help deciding which to try on first,” Yosano sighed, a tone that read “fed up with playing babysitter.”
Much to his surprise, helping Atsushi pick out his options was somewhat enjoyable. To no one’s astoundment, the boy gravitated towards the lighter colors, white, pastel blue, khaki, light gray.
“This one’s pretty,” Kyōka commented, pointing to a lavish pink suit that looked and felt entirely out of place. As if it were delivered by mistake, but forced to blend in with its surroundings, failing to do so no matter how hard it tried.
Dazai never related more to a suit in his life.
“Ahhh, erm…it is a pretty color,” Atsushi agreed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head, “but I uh—I think it’s a bit much for this.” Kyōka nodded earnestly and continued paddling down the row of suits.
A good bit of time had passed when Atsushi had narrowed down his top 3 options. Dazai, of course, opted to practice his well-refined craft of dilly-dallying.
“Did you find anything you like, Dazai-san?” Atsushi asked, noticing the way Yosano’s lilac eyes odiously tracked her dark-haired colleague.
“Hmm,” he hummed, “not really.” Atsushi nodded.
“Do you uh, need any help or—”
“Oh no, I’m quite okay~ Let’s finish taking care of you first!”
Though reluctant, Atsushi nodded then looked around. Pink crept its way back onto his cheeks.
“Okay but…” he started, looking down at his feet, “how do I um…try these on?” Dazai tilted his head in display of confusion, resembling a curious kitten, “I mean…how does sizing work?” he managed to ask, eyebrows knit tight.
“Yeah Dazai, how does that work?” Yosano asked, equal parts confused and curious. “Truthfully I’ve never helped anyone pick out a men’s suit before, so this isn’t my arena of expertise.”
Dazai pursed his lips, terse in unwillingness to admit his uselessness on the topic.
“You should ask the sales associate their schema~” he settled on, gesturing to a bald man standing near the changing rooms with a gruff expression.
“Oh, okay!” Atsushi said, “Let’s go—” Dragging an unenthusiastic Dazai along, the two made their way to the man.
“When I said you should ask, I really meant just you,” Dazai muttered under his breath.
“Huh? Did you say something?” Atsushi’s voice was innocent as he pulled on the older man’s sleeve, approaching the associate.
“Nothing!~”
After a walk that felt far too long to be only across the store, Atsushi started.
“Excuse me, sir,” he asked politely as they approached the counter, “would you be able to help us um find the right size?”
“Hmmph,” the man nodded with a grumpy nod of his balding head. Yanking Atsushi not-so-gently into his workspace, the man pulled out a series of tape measures. Atsushi stood awkwardly as the man poked and prodded, forcing an upright posture.
Dazai stood to the side, channeling his energy into evening his pounding heart.
Why was he so—
“Dazai-san, your turn!” Atsushi chimed, happily hopping out with a paper dictating his measurements.
“Pass!” Dazai said with a bright, accosting smile.
“No, absolutely not,” Yosano scolded, “Dazai you can’t keep putting this off. You need a suit and I’m not buying any more excuses.”
Dazai pursed his lips and exhaled in impious annoyance.
“I don’t reeeeeally need a suit, it’s just—”
“Are you scared?” Kyōka interrupted, typical flat cadence.
“Pardon?” Dazai replied with a skeptic edge to his tone.
“It’s okay if you are. I don’t like people poking me either,” Kyōka continued, oblivious to the offended look now painted onto the face of the middle-aged sales associate.
“Oh, no I’m alright Kyōka-chan~” Dazai continued, “I just want to focus on Atsushi first! It is your first time shopping for a suit, isn’t it?” He posed the question directly at his pupil, locking eyes.
“Ah, yeah but—”
“Thus, it must be treated as a special occasion!~” Dazai’s sing-song voice floated through the air, making Atsushi’s pink cheeks deepen to a dark crimson.
“But, what about your—”
“Ah-ah-ahhh,” Dazai tsked at his younger colleague, “the focus is on you Atsushi-kun! Now, which suit shall we start with? Perhaps the white one?” Before Yosano could threaten to strangle him, the man was skipping off back towards the dressing rooms, far out of sight.
“Uhh, is this on right?” The meek voice from behind the changing stall permeated the anticipatory atmosphere.
“I don’t know Atsushi, we’re going to have to see it on you to let you know!” Yosano laughed.
“Uhhh…Dazai-san—could you, erm—maybe…”
“Say no more, sweet Atsushi-kun,” Dazai skipped merrily towards the dressing room, “your knight in shining armor is here!”
Atsushi opened the door marginally, allowing just enough space for his mentor to join him before promptly shutting the door once more.
The following seconds were filled with grunting and some sounds that could only be described as unusual, before the two emerged.
“What the hell were you two doing in there?” Yosano asked incredulously.
“Why, Atsushi-kun and I were just making—”
“I—uh—” Atsushi stammered, voice cracking, “don’t listen to him!”
“Don’t worry, we won’t,” Yosano sighed as Dazai placed a hand on his heart in a melodramatic reply.
“Your admonishments cut me like a knife!”
“You look funny,” Kyōka commented, making eye contact with Atsushi’s reflection in the mirror presented before them.
“Uh—what do you mean, Kyōka-chan?” Atsushi asked, tugging at the collar.
“It doesn’t suit you,” Kyōka replied. Dazai giggled at the unintentional pun.
“I have to agree with Kyōka-chan on this one,” Yosano replied, “something about the cut is just too…sharp.”
Atsushi stared at his reflection, taking in the light gray suit that clung uncomfortably to his slim figure. It didn’t fit poorly per se, but as Yosano mentioned, the cut wasn’t quite right. The lapels were narrow and sharp, giving a look that resembled that of a business c-suite executive rather than a teenage boy at a gala. His fingers nervously toyed with the neatly folded sleeves as he contemplated.
“So maybe, instead something like…” fiddling between the pile of suits they had pulled, Dazai reached and brought out another option, “this one?”
The outfit he presented was the same light gray of Atsushi’s current choice, but overall took a softer, lighter approach. Less of a slim fit, leaning more towards the traditional end.
“Yes, exactly!” Yosano exclaimed with an excited cheer.
“Okay, I’ll give it a go!” Atsushi happily took the suit from his mentor and made his way back to the changing room.
His attempt at suit number 2 was short-lived. Followed by some more grunting and even stranger sounds, an embarrassed, weak voice rang through the air, asking once again for assistance from his mentor.
That was how Dazai found himself helping Atsushi properly button his shirt, vest, and rearrange the lopsidedness of his half-dressed attire.
Had it been any other person, Atsushi would have felt uncomfortable. But this was Dazai, the man who was there for him through thick and thin. A mentor who half-resembled a guardian.
The family he never thought he could have.
Atsushi liked being around Dazai. Liked spending time with him even when it meant putting up with erroneous suicide attempts and seductive conversations with attractive baristas to convince them into a double-suicide. Even with his quirks, he held the man in venerable esteem.
Being around Dazai reminded him that someone in this world looked at him and all his baggage, all his helplessness, and decided this boy’s life is worth something.
Dazai helped Atsushi find his purpose in life, to save people. The silver-haired boy looked down at his feet, solemnity sliding into his features. If only there were a way to help Dazai see that his life, too, was worth something.
So, so much something.
“What’cha thinking about Atsushi? You feeling okay?” Dazai asked, instantly attuned to his pupil’s forlorn shift.
“Oh, no, I’m fine!” Atsushi flailed, making it increasingly difficult for Dazai to help straighten his clothing. “I was just wondering…you don’t go shopping too often, do you, Dazai-san?”
“No, not really,” Dazai replied, tying Atsushi’s tie.
“Why not?” he prodded gently, “You solve the most cases out of anyone in the agency—well, besides Ranpo-san. Don’t you think it’s nice to treat yourself when you get a really good paycheck?”
“Hmmm?” Dazai hummed in consideration, “Not particularly.”
“Oh,” Atsushi paused, “why not?”
An awkward silence stretched forth, only to be cut off by Dazai’s sigh.
“When you plan on dying, buying new clothes seems pretty pointless, doesn’t it?”
Atsushi’s bit his lip hard, preparing to interject—
But the door was flung open before he had a chance to utter a sliver of a protest.
“Behold!” Dazai cried, gesturing to Atsushi as if he were the star of a magic trick. As if mere moments ago he hadn’t been talking about his plans to die young.
“I like it,” Kyōka said, “but not the color.”
“Same,” Yosano agreed, “the cut looks much better, but the jacket is a little big on you.”
Atsushi nodded, doing his best to shove his mentor’s ominous remarks out of his thoughts.
“How do you feel in it Atsushi-kun?” The man asked with a devilish gaze.
“I like it—I think,” Atsushi mumbled, “but uh, it’s a little…boring.”
“Blue!” Kyōka squeaked suddenly, catching the crew off-guard.
“You think he’d look good in a blue suit, Kyōka-chan?” Dazai asked, amused. The girl nodded and he began to rummage back through the pile. “Light or dark?”
Kyōka pondered, placing a hand under her chin, “Light I think.”
“Perfect~”
Atsushi circumspectly acknowledged Dazai’s impish smirk.
“I have a bad feeling about this…”
Ten minutes later, and Atsushi could confirm with 100% certainty that his instincts were warranted, as Dazai took the opportunity to dress him in the frilliest powder blue suit he could find. His typical button down was replaced with a ruffled blouse and over-the-top bowtie. Atsushi blushed in an embarrassed fury, only agreeing to show the others after Dazai guilt-tripped him, inducement primarily being Kyōka’s excitement.
Of course, the minute he stepped in view of them, the distinct click! of a camera startled him, as Dazai saved a photo on his phone. The dark-haired man resembled a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, yet continuing to pull out and eat the cookie anyways. His cheeky gaze and tongue sticking out was enough to make anyone swoon, or commit murder. No in-between.
“Dazai-san!!!”
“Relaaaaaax Atsushi-kun~” The man smiled with ease, “This is only going to one person on my contacts list, I swear!” Dazai scratched his chin, then amended, “Okay, maybe two.”
Atsushi moved his lips to protest but was again cut off by his entourage.
“That’s quite a look you have there, Atsushi,” Yosano said, giggling through her attempt at a straight-faced expression.
Kyōka didn’t laugh, but her eyes grew wide with intrigue as she tilted her head to the side like a newborn animal, a reaction that was more than enough for Atsushi.
“OKAY HA – HA – HA. VERY FUNNY,” his voice cracked as the embarrassment finally, truly got to him, “I’m getting changed!” He muttered under his breath, making a mad-dash for the dressing room, where Dazai had hung a simple, sleek dark blue suit with black velvet lapels. The suit was different than all the others, unique in a way Atsushi almost appreciated, had he not been experiencing residual rage from the monstrosity he was ripping off his body.
As Atsushi changed, Dazai continued wandering about.
“Dazai-san, you should try the one Atsushi-kun didn’t like,” Kyōka remarked.
“That hideous thing? No thanks,” he trilled.
“The first one,” she corrected, “I think it would make sense on you.” Dazai chuckled at her odd phrasing, then shrugged.
“Perhaps.”
As their conversation finished up, the door crept open and Atsushi emerged. The suit fit him well, so well in fact that it looked like it was practically made for him. The cuffs lined up in just the right places and the cut complemented his slim physique without overpowering. Though, the docile smile he wore was the most flattering part of the attire. His face glowed in a way none of the other outfits had managed to accomplish.
“Wow, that looks great!” Yosano remarked, thoroughly impressed by how naturally he pulled it off.
“You’re quite the looker, Atsushi-kun!” Dazai agreed with a massive smile that held more truth than almost all his smiles from the day combined.
“Ah! Thank you!” Atsushi stuttered, “W-what do you think, Kyōka-chan?”
The little girl stood up and approached him. She moved perturbingly fast, inspecting each and every corner of the suit down to the last stitch until finally stating, “I like it.”
“I guess we have our winner then,” Yosano smiled, standing up and taking a large stretch.
“Uh—it’s um… It’s a little expensive…” Atsushi murmured awkwardly, afraid to make eye contact in fear of his colleague’s reply.
Dazai stepped in to put his mind at ease, “Don’t worry about it Atsushi-kun. Like I said, the President had Kunikida budget for this exclusively, all that matters is that you feel good in it.”
The silver-haired boy smiled at the reassuring words, eyes lighting up.
“O-okay then! I really like it!”
His companions clapped alongside his final approval and the boy returned to the dressing room change back into his street clothes.
“Alright, it’s your turn Dazai,” Yosano remarked casually, eliciting a groan from the man-child who was hanging upside down from one of the lounge chairs.
“But senseeeeeiiiiiii!” he whined in repulsion.
“No but’s!” She scolded, “Expect for yours, getting over there to get measured. Scoot your scrawny butt over before I drag you by your ear.”
Dejected, Dazai hung his head low, walking pitifully slow to the counter where the older gentleman sat.
Let’s just get this over with.
He huffed as the man prepared his pen, paper, and tape measure. None of this was fair, he had actually been having some fun but of course they had to go and ruin it!
Biting the inside of his cheek, he let the man move his body parts as though he were a doll.
What a familiar feeling.
To be just a doll, a thing that lacked consciousness.
Always at the ready to be molded and maimed in anyway its owner decided.
A plaything.
His eyes were glassy, glazed in numbness and numbers and—
Fuck.
It was starting.
The feeling he shoved deep down from the minute they entered the store, it continued to rise until his chest was constricting and breathing felt like an unbearable task.
By the time the man had finished, Dazai was worlds away.
He saw the paper.
The numbers.
Measurements.
They confirmed everything he already knew but fought furiously to forget. To force out.
Heart frozen like the rest of his limbs screaming to move
To run
To rip each piece of skin and meat and bone apart until there was nothing left
Until the numbers got smaller and smaller
Until he threw up everything he’d ever consumed
Until
Until…
--
“Are you okay Dazai-san? You look pale,” his mentee asked, eyes narrowed in deep concern.
There was no answer.
“Um… Dazai-san?”
Demeanor flipping faster than the flicker of a lightbulb, Dazai flashed a hollow smile.
“All good!”
Atsushi shifted his weight, fiddling with his suspender, “Are you…sure?”
“Of course!”
The answer came too fast to supersede suspicion.
He paused, forcing his heart rate back to an acceptable pulsation.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Locked in the dressing room was arguably the worst place to face the peremptory panic seeping through his veins.
Arms shaking and eyes twitching.
A sheen of sweat across his brow and his limbs curled up tightly in a ball, as small as he could possibly be.
He rocked on his heels, dark eyes clamped shut, nails digging into the arms that hugged himself too tight. Uncomfortably tight. Suffocating on the outside exactly as he felt inside.
Why why why why why why why why why—
Breathing was insufferable. His mind was a cloud of fog, too dense to see beyond the haze of inadequacy. Of failure.
It wasn’t that he was big, or that he wasn’t thin.
Or that he had gained a lot of weight.
It was neither of those things.
Nothing extreme. It was the normalcy.
The normalcy of his size. Of his new found, almost-average.
Average.
The word stung him in a way words shouldn’t affect him.
No longer the smallest size on the rack.
Still quite small but…
But it wasn’t…
It wasn’t
It wasn’t
It wasn’t
And he needed it to be
Because if it wasn’t it meant he had failed
And that he wasn’t trying enough
Hard enough
Which implied he, at one point, had tried harder
Almost hard enough.
But instead he was getting “better” but getting better in the sense that made him feel worse and instead he wished to be the type of better that meant getting worse because he’d rather get worse than live with being better if being better felt as awful as this.
Unthinking and longing for eternal disappearance
To go back to his suffering
To that time where everyone knew something was wrong
Everyone including himself, despite irrepressible denial.
He let them think about it and be concerned and wear worry in their eyes like gloves in the snow
the only way you could protect yourself from the iciness in his heart while doing your damndest to reach it
the smallest, most miniscule sob escaped his lips, quiet enough to hide, but loud enough that his spiral deepened
worsened
he didn’t want this
he
didn’t
because—
--
She knocked, gently.
She had a feeling this would happen.
“Dazai? Are you alright in there?”
Yosano’s voice was smooth and sweet. Soft and quiet.
He hated it.
Not the sound, nor the cadence.
How it made him feel.
Like he was sick
Except obviously he wasn’t.
Because being sick wouldn’t be an average fucking suit size
Being sick wouldn’t be eating more than half a meal a day
How dare he claim the title, the role, the entitlement of a sick person.
How fucking dare.
How bold.
How disgustingly, irrevocably wrong.
“I’m fine, Sensei!”
Yosano was worried.
“You’ve been in there for a while. Can I come in?”
He shook his head, realizing midway she had no way of observing the nonverbal gesture.
“There’s no need,” he hummed. Less strained, but again, lacking in joviality.
She sighed on the other side of the door, pointedly lowering her voice.
“We can take a break if you want. You don’t have to—”
Something in him snapped. The warmth, or perhaps the empathy that came off as pity, making his skin crawl with loathe.
“Just shut up, sensei.”
The baneful harshness of his words escaped unintentionally, before he could forcibly form any other, appropriate, respectful response.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Furious was one way to describe how Yosano felt.
Furious, yet deeply concerned.
Intertwined complexities of rage and understanding convulsed within her, insinuating a cruel game of emotional tug-of-war over her heart.
While his words angered her without a doubt, his tone left something to be considered. Underlying desperation woven messily like a quilt.
Panic.
Dazai was panicking.
Dazai was panicking and probably had something sharp in his pocket, and all Yosano could do was wait.
“Dazai—”
“I apologize for my behavior, Sensei,” his voice was quiet and childlike. “But please leave me alone.”
She nodded to herself at the apology, better than nothing, she figured, though frustration lingered.
“We’re right here if you need us.”
There was no reply.
When Chūya found out Dazai was at the mall, the little executive was livid.
Because Chūya too, was at the mall.
And Chūya, too, needed to shop for a suit.
And today of all days, was the one day he had adequate room allotted to complete his shopping in time with his relatively full schedule.
Of all fucking days. It’s as if he planned this shit just to torment me.
Unbeknownst to Chūya, this was, in actuality, an instance of coincidence unplanned by his Soukoku counterpart.
Chūya grumbled complaints to himself, seriously considering ditching the mall to shop elsewhere. Unfortunately, he hadn’t received Dazai’s patronizing text message with the child-size suit until after he had arrived. At which point, it would be more of a hassle to turn around and walk out then just get it over with.
Besides, it wasn’t as if Chūya hated Dazai nearly as much as he claimed.
Sighing theatrically, he marched into the shop and began searching.
Unlike his counterpart, Chūya was constantly shopping for new clothes and other extravagant things. Likely a direct result of the immense pride he felt for his salary after struggling in poverty for the few years he could recall of childhood, namely alongside the other impoverished orphans of the Sheep. Each expensive piece of clothing or overpriced object was a reminder of how far he had come.
Was it dirty money? Sure.
Cleanliness was never the goal.
So long as he had a roof over his head and food on the table, it didn’t matter to him.
With precision reserved for an expert, Chūya navigated row-by-row, finding his favorite cuts and colors in his size.
Granted, he often needed his pants tailored, but that was beyond the point.
Now all I have to do is avoid shitty Daz—
All hopes and dreams were dashed, as he noticed the weretiger, agency doctor, and the younger girl ex-mafia sitting directly in front of the dressing room.
Maybe they won’t notice me—
“Nakahara-san? Is that you?”
His luck was clearly nonexistent.
Damn Agency assholes!
“What are you doing here Nakahara-san?” the weretiger added in hesitant confusion.
“Trying on suits. Duh.”
Chūya’s voice was flat, brimming with insolence.
His relationship to the agency was… well, unusual. There always seemed to be a rocky truce floating in and out between the groups ever since Dazai’s public re-emergence and the presence of new, bigger threats than the Port Mafia in Yokohama.
The executive didn’t know any of them particularly well, but had more than one encounter with Yosano, typically on Dazai-related principles.
As much as they acted in unremitting dissension, the Agency knew Chūya and Dazai shared a special relationship. One that no member could fully grasp, though as of late they wondered more frequently than not, the nature of said relationship.
“Oh…” Atsushi replied to Chūya’s sarcasm unintelligently.
“You’re friends with Dazai-san?” Kyōka asked. She and Chūya had known each other in her mafia days, but not too well considering she was trained by Akutagawa. That said, both being under Koyou’s care meant the two had run into each other on more than one occasion. His primary feeling towards her was indifference.
“I wouldn’t call us friends,” he grit out, clenching his fists, left eye twitching indiscriminately.
“Oh. Okay.”
That was something he appreciated about the younger, she wasn’t one for small talk or to pry unnecessarily. Though it led to the eruption of an eerie discomforting silence, spread like fire to a log cabin.
Without so much as a goodbye, Chūya turned and went to the second dressing room, shutting the door a little too forcefully. Atsushi grimaced as the wood of the door splintered under the weight of his gravity.
Calm down, Chūya willed himself, undressing from his usual attire.
Try as he might to focus, he couldn’t help but mentally replay the interaction that just occurred.
Did Kyōka need something from him? Is that why she asked about his friendsh— er… ex-partnership with Dazai?
Where was Dazai anyway? The most likely answer would be that the man was changing into another suit, or potentially wandering the store as the agency waited for another one of their colleagues. If Dazai had been nearby, he would have made himself known the minute Chūya’s footsteps entered the facility. He was a pest like that.
So he must be elsewhere. Probably trying to kill himself by eating cat food or something equally stupid.
Lost in thought while unbuttoning his vest, a curious sound encroached.
He froze, ears acclimating quickly to his environment.
The sound was…familiar.
No.
It couldn’t be that.
He continued undressing
The sound impinging, all the more insistent despite its quiet trepidation.
Freezing again, his brow furrowed on its own accord as he listened close.
He couldn’t take it
He couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t he couldn’t
It was pitiful how much it hurt
How scared he was of a piece of fabric
Of fucking fabric.
The stark, outlandish fear that accompanied thoughts of his own body.
Taking off clothes meant facing the mirror meant seeing everything, despite the bandages and scars that acted as paint on his improper body of a canvas, covering up the pure gesso layer beneath.
He couldn’t take off his clothes because then he have to look in the mirror and then—
So, he sat. Curled in a ball, on the ground.
Whispering to himself to keep the demons at bay.
Endeavoring, struggling, failing to preserve the dwindling remains of ever-unraveling sanity.
Stuck, lost and unmoving.
He was helpless in the most inconvenient sense.
If he went outside without the suit, they’d know something was wrong.
If he stayed inside, they’d know something was wrong.
God fucking damn it, it was his only choice. The only remaining option.
Scratching at bandaged skin with dark eyes of masochism, he furled further into himself.
Then, with shaky hands and closed eyes, he peeled off each layer of clothing one-by-one.
With each gesture, he felt bile rise to his throat.
A surprising and unconventional, comforting reminder.
The resonating empty that reminded him he did prepare for this.
Skipped meals were getting harder to hide at the agency, especially since he’d began putting effort into actively eating and trying to keep it that way. Part of his behavior was for his own “well-being”, if one could call it that, while the larger part of the improvements stemmed from his influence on the younger agency members.
After being scolded one-too-many times by Yosano and Kunikida for his ghastly lack of self-care and how it set a poor example for the younger ones, Dazai had resolved towards marginal improvements. His bad habits weren’t going anywhere, but considering this one was the hardest to hide, it became a priority.
And to his dismay, he actually liked food more than he realized. Not enough to say he loved it, but enough to realize what he was losing with a restrictive disorder. Giving himself permission to eat was unending in its trying nature, but did come with various rewards.
Along with a myriad of anxieties and unwanted side effects.
Though, could the side effects really be worse than those he experienced in the absence of nutrients?
But the second Fukuzawa told him he’d need a suit for the gala, Dazai had found his reason to stop.
Again.
According to the numbers on his size chart, he didn’t stop soon enough.
It was sickening, wasn’t it? To long for the size of his emaciated teen-self.
But, God, he abhorred the feeling of his skin.
His bandages helped to an extent, but even under their thick layers, he could feel the way the suit pants rubbed against thin legs and soft thighs. The fabric of a shirt on his taut tense stomach.
Everything felt gross, he was gross. He twitched and curled in on himself again, immediately regretting the action as he felt his stomach rub against the closure of his pants, rub against the knees he pulled up to his chest.
He wanted to scream. He needed to scream, he needed to—
--
“He’s been in there for a really long time… should we check in on him again?” Atsushi asked, nervously fingering a loose thread on his belt.
“Hmm,” Yosano pondered, “Yeah. Maybe.”
“I’ll try—” Atsushi said, making his way to the door when it opened, unprompted.
Dazai emerged, clad in the same sleek suit Atsushi had worn previously. Though, unlike Atsushi who had tried it on in gray, Dazai was dressed in matte black.
Kyōka was right, the suit looked really good on him.
The black fabric complimented his dark hair, making amber eyes stand out on porcelain skin. The shape was slim, showing off his thin physique, accentuating his long legs and respectively proportional torso. The jacket fit without bunching or tightness and the pants looked as natural as his khaki ones.
Dazai cleaned up far better than any of them had imagined.
Any trace of distress from his prior spat with Yosano dissipated, leaving behind only dull eyes and an empty smile.
“Thoughts?” The man asked, voice cheery but succinct.
“Wow! Dazai-san that looks really great on you!” Atsushi gaped.
“I like it,” Kyōka nodded in agreement, the tiniest of smiles sneaking onto her visage.
Yosano’s lavender eyes narrowed. The suit did arguably look incredible on him—but there was an edge she couldn’t shake. Something felt wrong.
Maybe it was because he was often covered in a billowing jacket and all sorts of layers, but he looked suddenly so small. Lithe and delicate, as if he could blow away in the breeze.
She knew he was eating at least somewhat, even if less than ideal, it was more than he had in the two years he had been at the agency prior to Atsushi’s joining. Then again, she hadn’t been paying all that much attention to him this past month, having trusted in his apparent progress.
Is he really still this thin? She wondered. Of course, he was naturally a stick, but jauntiness of his limbs and hollowed in crevices beneath unadulterated cheekbones felt unnaturally so.
“You don’t like it, sensei?” Dazai asked, scrutinizing her gaze, eyes hard and unfeeling.
“No, it looks great Dazai,” she replied with a firm tone, “how do you feel in it?”
Oh God.
What a question!
He could laugh!
He did.
With absolutely no control, he laughed harder and harder, until he was doubled over and receiving an array of dirty and confused looks from nearby patrons.
“Uh—Dazai-san…” Atsushi asked, quickly snapping his mentor out of the laughing spell.
“Sorry,” Dazai muttered, voice suddenly dark.
“I hate it.”
Chūya was at a standstill.
A bypass. A fork in the road with no fair rite of passage.
He hated this. The nagging that he should be there for him.
Because he knew exactly what was happening.
And as soon as he heard that laughter—
Unsolicited memories flashed through his mind. Bullets hitting a deceased corpse. Screaming in bathrooms with bloody wrists at 2 AM. Nooses and pills and knives and every flavor of self-destruction, lined up neatly in an alphabetized schematic.
“Shit,” Chūya muttered to himself.
It was a blatant lie to say he didn’t care about his ex-partner.
An even bigger one to say he wasn’t curious and even a little turned on by the prospect of Dazai in a suit other than his Port Mafia garb.
It was this lingering care, the residue of what once was and perhaps what might still be, that coaxed him to follow after the slam of the dressing room door. Chūya rebuttoned his street clothes, abandoning his shopping, and bolted out of his stall. He looked around, noting Dazai’s now-empty dressing room and the concerned faces of the Agency idiots.
“Which way?” he asked, abruptness taking its place in lieu of underlying care.
“Uh—wha—” the weretiger began to reply, cut off by Yosano.
“He went out the front and said not to follow him.”
“Course he did.”
Without a second thought, Chūya headed towards the store’s entryway.
“Nakahara-san.” Yosano called out, triggering the pause in the executive’s step, “Check the roof.”
Dazai stood at the ledge, teetering.
“HEY! SHITTY-DAZAI!”
Chūya’s vociferations pierced the vast empty, as his adept landing brought him only inches from the nullifier.
“Chibi’s so loud,” Dazai replied softly, no attempt at malice, real or imaginary, present in his tone.
“Yeah, well how else am I supposed to get through that thick skull of yours!”
Before Dazai could take the final step that would seal his fate, he was yanked back and dragged across the roof in a borderline comical display. Being shorter, Chūya had forced Dazai to stoop to his height as if on a leash. The role reversal brought a momentary smirk to the executive’s face, as he shoved his counterpart to the ground.
“Sit,” he barked.
“I’m not a dog,” Dazai sighed, “unlike somebody.”
“Shut up,” he growled, strung-out patience deteriorating.
“Don’t feel like it.”
“Fine,” Chūya pinched the bridge of his nose, “then tell me what the fuck is going on with you?”
Dazai’s eyes twinkled.
Chūya couldn’t care about him. Didn’t.
Shouldn’t.
And yet.
“You’re such an idiot,” the redhead sneered at the overwhelm of silence that hung with threatening prominence.
“Likewise.”
“What’s wrong?”
Dazai curled in on himself for what felt like the umpteenth time that day, looking impossibly small for someone of nearly six-foot.
Chūya sighed and knelt down to join his—whatever-the-fuck Dazai was to him—on the ground. Blue sparkling irises glimmered in intense sunlit silence.
“You’re not eating again,” the tone was stern, but gentle. “Right?”
Dazai blinked.
“You don’t want to have this conversation with me, Slug.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Chūya admitted with a huff, “I really don’t.”
“Then why are you—”
Chūya interrupted, “Ya gonna talk to any of those Agency brats ‘bout this?”
Scoffing, “Of course not.”
“There’s your answer.”
The two men looked more like boys, reminiscent of their teen-hood; waltzes on ledges, married to death and gore and all the post-traumatic stress that came with it.
Too young to hold a lifetime of bloodshed and toxic coping mechanisms.
And yet.
“You know, I never got it. Got you,” Chūya commented, intercepting silence before it could take claim. He scuffed new shoes against the concrete rooftop, not caring enough to preserve their unused sheen. “I mean, the suicide shit I know I’ll never really get. But you hate pain. So why—” he stopped, looking off to the distance, “why do you keep doing this to yourself?”
Dazai shrugged, resting the side of his face on his knees, despondent eyes averted.
“Dunno.”
“Bullshit,” Chūya’s retort was soft, but held weight.
Tucking his head between his knees, Dazai glued his gaze to the dirty rubble beneath.
“If I…” he began, shaky like the wounded strays he detested so much, “Say I tell you what’s wrong. Or, rather, what upset me. Then what? It’s not like you can do anything to fix it.”
Shaking his head, Chūya gently prodded Dazai’s foot with his own, not quite making physical contact, but making a clear physical sign that he was there.
“I might not get it, and yeah, I probably have no fucking clue how to handle it. But I’m not gonna make fun of you or anything.”
A painful breath escaped the dark-haired man’s trembling lips, still hidden by his bent knees.
Silence stretched and stretched and stretched until—
“Okay. Just this once.”
Chūya nodded, taking the admittance for the victory it was, no matter how small it seemed in the grand scheme.
Dazai shut his eyes tightly, refusing to look up as he spoke.
“I saw my measurements and they changed.”
Chūya’s brow furrowed.
He expected something… different. More dramatic, maybe? Not that he really knew what to expect, Chūya himself dealt with many insecurities but didn’t experience the same as the other half of Soukoku, so the list of possible triggers was an unknown to him.
“What do you mean?” He asked, plain in curiosity.
“When they…they took my measurements, for the suit, right?” He hissed, “And they’re not… they’ve changed.” He stopped, his voice short as he abruptly lifted his head. Empty amber eyes glistening with inner turmoil that Chūya rarely witnessed.
“Well, yeah,” Chūya nodded, still confused by the man’s anxieties over something he perceived as entirely normal, “of course they did. You’re not a teenager anymore.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters, it’s unreasonable to, what—expect your body to stay the same way it was when you were a teenager? That on its own is fucked up, but you were also literally attempting suicide by starvation back then.”
“So?” Dazai asked, an aggravated glean to a silver tongue.
“So, you’re not doing that anymore. Right? You’re not trying to kill yourself by starvation?”
“…” Dazai pondered, confused at the turn their conversation had taken, “…no. Not actively.”
“Why?” Chūya challenged.
“Because it sucked,” Dazai admitted with a disheartened sigh, “it didn’t make for a fun or painless suicide. And it was inefficient.”
“Right!” Chūya cooed excitedly, though followed swiftly by the uneasiness that came with enthusiastically discussing efficient suicide. “When you were in the Mafia, you were emaciated. You fucking passed out on battlefields and had seizures—”
“Technically, they were non-epileptic, psychogenic seizures,” Dazai butt in, quickly shut down by Chūya’s insistence.
“Okay, fine, but they were still scary as hell and triggered by malnutrition, right?”
“Sure.”
“And now you’re not doing that anymore. So, it’s only logical that the numbers change. They should change, it’s a good thing—”
“But I hate that!”
His sudden passion was overwhelming and Chūya couldn’t fathom why Dazai was growing frantic.
“I hate that! I hate how this feels I hate how my body feels I hate that I can’t get rid of it—that I have to keep existing, that I—” his breathing sped up and he clenched his eyes tightly in attempts to prevent the oncoming panic attack.
“I have this cavity, in my chest, you know? The one that’s been there since forever. And I thought it was, I don’t know. Going away or something. Getting better.” He chuckled a humorless sound that came out more pitiful than anything else, “A foolish thing to think, really. Then I saw those numbers, those stupid numbers. Physical proof that I’ve changed and my body, this stupid thing I can’t escape—it’s still here. And it’s bigger. I’m still alive when I should be dead, and now there’s even more of me and I can’t—”
His voice cracked, thin hand clenching into a fist, a feeble attempt to quell the shaking that overtook.
Calloused, tan fingers were steady and calm as Chūya reached out, not touching the shaking fist, but hovering nearby.
Hesitation swam, but Dazai fell for deep blue ocean eyes and let his trembling fist fall into Chūya’s hold. Chūya held Dazai’s fist in his own two hands, bringing it up to pink lips and brushing it softly, barely, numbly.
“Thanks for telling me,” he murmured into the dark-haired boy’s ear. “I know how much you hate talking about that stuff. And for the record, there isn’t that much more of you. You’re still a gangly beansprout.”
“Yeah, but I’m—”
“Save it.” Chūya grunted, “Of course there’s more of you. You’re with the agency and actively trying to do things in life. Sure, you still try to kill yourself all the damn time, but you know—”
Before he could continue, Dazai’s arms acted on their own touch-starved accord, tugging Chūya’s small frame close to him like a child with a teddy bear. He buried his head in Chūya’s chest as he shook silent tremors in borderline hyperventilation. Chūya shushed and stroked his hair gingerly, as if it were a delicacy. Dark locks curled beneath the tips of his fingers, he noticed how thick and soft his hair was. Healthier than it had been in his mafia days. Everything about him was like that, not quite healthy, but healthier.
Dazai’s head was decorated with light kisses, careful and considerate in their placement. “You’re so beautiful, Dazai. And I’m sorry you got stuck with a stupidly genius brain that won’t let you see that for yourself. I’m sorry being on the ‘good’ side can’t fix this for you.”
The empathy Chūya unabashedly poured out for Dazai time and time again never ceased to startle him.
Though, his shaking slowed imperceptibly and the tears that never came receded further back into himself. His breathing evened, deepening at each inhale-exhale.
“I’m fine now,” Dazai whispered, pulling away and back into himself.
“You sure?” Chūya asked with a small, crooked smile, “You don’t look fine.”
Dazai shook his head no, but stayed far from Chūya’s offers of comfort. The redhead respected his nonverbal boundary, but stayed in arm’s reach.
“It doesn’t matter,” the tremor that had been present just moments ago was carefully schooled out of his dry tone.
“It does matter if you’re going to try and starve yourself ag—”
“No, it really doesn’t matter,” Dazai stood up abruptly, pushing Chūya away physically and metaphorically. “None of this matters. It’s just another weakness that needs to be eliminated before it’s exploited.”
This was a concerning turn of events, Chūya noted as Dazai began to sound more and more like his former Demon Prodigy self.
“I can fix this. I am fixing this,” he assured them both, though it did nothing to quell Chūya’s blossoming alarm. Chūya had a dreading sense of what needed to be “fixed” in Dazai’s apathetic eyes.
“You can go now,” his voice was unnerving, detached and impassive.
“No,” Chūya argued, firmly standing his ground, “I’m not leaving you like this.”
“Like what?” The younger spat, “I’m fine.”
An epiphany, clandestine recollection swelled in Chūya’s mind as he realized what was happening.
It was just like when Mori used Odasaku to push Dazai out of the mafia. Cruelness to cover up fear.
When you’re about to lose, you push the hardest.
The voice in Dazai’s head that fought so hard to keep him sick was losing, even though it felt contradictory. The harsh words were used to force compliance, to assert dominance and take back control.
Implying that control had been lost.
Implying that the desperation that gnawed and grasped and clenched and tugged with all its might was the result of healing.
It felt warped and wrong, but Chūya knew deep-down, it was truth.
Slowly, gently, Chūya closed the gap between the two. He stood on his tip-toes and whispered into the younger’s ear.
“I’m proud of you, Osamu.”
The Agency sat in uneasy silence, awaiting Dazai’s return. Yosano had purchased Atsushi’s suit and kept Dazai’s on-hold, following a phone call from Chūya who explained he would be watching over (read: babysitting) their colleague for the foreseeable evening. Though, he said they would try and make it back to the Agency headquarters if Dazai was feeling up to it.
It was kind of him and made Yosano wonder, as she often did, what it would take for such a secretly kind person to leave Mori’s vindictive clutches.
The atmosphere was tense, as everyone had gone home save for the Yosano, Kyōka, and Atsushi. It was an unspoken agreement that they would linger until Dazai’s return. They had considered going home and leaving it alone until the morning, but Ranpo had remarked that it’d be worth sticking around.
So, they did.
A few hours of silence passed before a welcome disruption launched itself into the room.
“Ah, if it isn’t my lovely colleagues!!” An overenthusiastic Dazai sang out as the door slammed open. The brooding redhead shook his head and sighed, following him into the space.
“Dazai-san!” Atsushi cried out, standing up running to his mentor. He wrapped the taller in a tight hug, a physical act of affection that filled Dazai with terror, anxiety, and a warm sensation that seemingly overpowered both.
“Nice to see you too, Atsushi-kun,” the joking air had left his voice, as Dazai spoke with serene sincerity, allowing his mentee to hug tighter.
Atsushi breathed in his mentor’s lack of a scent, curling his fingers around the fabric of his signature tan coat.
When the boy pulled away, his eyes were red and glassy.
“Geez Atsushi-kun, you’re acting like I’ve been away for a year or something~” Dazai chuckled.
“I’m sorry—” Atsushi mumbled, rubbing absent-mindedly at his eyes, “I was just… we were really worried that—that you might—”
“No need for that,” Dazai said with a light smile. Atsushi returned the grin with his own small one, for once reassured by his mentor’s dismissal of the concern. It wasn’t the ordinary dismissal the he was used to; when Dazai spoke, his voice was firm and rang true. He really was feeling better.
“Dazai-san?” Kyōka’s small frame stood up as she walked over to him, pulling lightly on his coat the way she did when they first met.
“Yes Kyōka-chan?”
In that moment, her cobalt eyes swam with flecks of gold, resembling the same expression Chūya wore just hours ago. She took her small hand and grabbed Dazai’s pale one in turn. She opened his palm and placed a lollipop in it.
“What’s this?” he asked with a light chuckle. In response, she pulled harder on his sleeve, gesturing for him to bend down.
“A lollipop,” she whispered in his ear, as if sharing the secrets of the universe, “Yosano-sensei gives me them after I get a check-up. She always says I did really well and that if I eat it, I’ll feel better soon.”
The teeniest of smiles ghosted Dazai’s eyes and lips as she pulled away from him, no longer whispering but still quiet.
“It’s watermelon flavored. I don’t know if you like watermelon, but they don’t make crab lollipops so I just chose the prettiest one.”
Chūya snorted at that, earning a confused look from the little girl, who shuffled back to her desk.
“Thank you Kyōka-chan! How sweet,” he eyed the lollipop fondly before tucking it into his pocket.
“Dazai,” Yosano spoke up, “I wasn’t sure if you wanted the suit, so we left it on hold at the store. I can pick it up tomorrow if you changed your mind?”
He shrugged, sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaving Chūya to stand awkwardly by his side, shifting his weight from left to right.
“Sure,” he said nonchalantly.
“Really? Are you positive?” Yosano asked, surprised.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” Dazai said, refusing eye contact. Chūya joined him on the floor, discreetly rubbing small circles on his tan coat with a single finger.
“I thought you said you didn’t like it, Dazai-san?” Atsushi asked cautiously.
Chūya bit back a snide remark, wishing for once the Agency brats would just take the damn answer and drop it. But as expected, Dazai handled their questions in the most Dazai-way possible.
“I say a lot of things, Atsushi-kun~” he trilled in reply, plastic smile back in place. “Oh! I almost forgot,” a wicked look entered his dark eyes, “you can expect a phone call in about 3…2…”
Sure enough, Atsushi’s cellphone rang loudly as an unknown number appeared. Suspiciously, Atsushi eyed the phone, looking back at Dazai who nodded his head in approval. Atsushi answered the phone, placing it on speaker.
“WERETIGER.”
“Akutagawa!??” Atsushi’s voice cracked as he hissed the name. “How did you—”
“How dare you disgrace Dazai-san’s name with that hideous outfit. You’re even more stupid than I thought!”
“Okay, what are you talking abou—”
Atsushi stopped mid-sentence. He held the phone away from his mouth as he glared up at his mentor.
“You said you were only sending the picture to one person and Kenji already made fun of me for it!”
“Remember? I changed my mind~”
“I can hear you weretiger! Stop harassing Dazai-san.”
“I’m not—”
“I swear, if you dishonor Dazai-san’s name by showing up to the gala in that, I’m going to kill you right then and there.”
“How would you even know what I’m wearing to the gala!?” Atsushi cried doubtingly.
“Because I’ll be there, of course. You really are an idiot.”
Atsushi’s eye twitched as the rest of the Agency, and Chūya, laughed.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’LL BE THERE—”
“Well, I think we better leave the lover’s quarrel so they can kiss and make up~” Dazai chimed, standing up and pulling Chūya with him.
“WE’RE NOT LOVERS—” both Atsushi and Akutagawa screamed together, a surprising feat considering the speakerphone didn’t so much as lag, aligning their protests in perfect unison.
“Bye Atsushi-kun~!”
At that, Dazai dragged Chūya out of the room, holding his hand as they made it to the bottom of the stairs.
“You’re an absolute menace, y’know that?” Chūya smirked.
“Yeahhhh, but you love it,” Dazai smiled placing a quick peck Chūya’s lips as they skipped off and back to Chūya’s penthouse for another night of skipped missions in favor of warm cuddles.