6xbrii's lab.

It was no murder. It was no case of missing persons. No, the matter was akin to either one. And indeed, one would be forgiven for believing that a simple threat scarcely deserved the attention of the greatest detective in all of Yokohama—in truth; Ranpo himself had denied the job foremost. Yet wealth has ever possessed the odd ability to persuade where logic alone might fail. 

The client of this peculiar affair is one blessed with staggering prosperity, renowned for his business acumen, and social standing. Though his name is not wholly unfamiliar to you, your knowledge of him is all but limited—and what remained with you is one noteworthy detail; he governs one of the largest tech companies in the city.

More importantly still, he had, according to Kunikida, "specifically requested our best detective to identify the author of the threat."

To which Ranpo had said; "Hmmm, nope! Indeed I'm the best detective he could ask for, but tell him I'd rather not waste my time."

"Please reconsider, Ranpo! His offer to find the hacker and author of the message is enough to cover the Agency's expenses for the whole month."

The matter succeeded in capturing very little of the Great Detective's interest. Kunikida, meanwhile, had called upon every ounce of patience his soul could have possibly sought to provide. "Ranpo, ple—"

"Don't wannaaa!"

"Just this once—"

"Nope! I said I don't want to!"

"Oh?" Dazai perked up from where he had been neglecting his calling of paperwork. "Sounds like an interesting case. We should take it, wouldn't you agree (y/n)?"

"Huh? Oh, I mean, sure. It does sound like a breath of fresh air compared to the other gruesome cases we just handled."

And upon the interference of both yourself and Dazai, Ranpo proved remarkably easy to convince. His prior disinterest vanished with such abruptness that one might have questioned whether it had existed at all, as though it is but a ghost retreating, with its desire to haunt suddenly deprived.

"Alright, fine!", caved the great detective, adorning a pout of which you'd argue to be the most adorable. 

Such was the conclusion of the debate.

Thus it was upon the following morning that you found yourself standing before one of Yokohama's most prosperous technology firms with the company of your two partners, each with their own brilliance.

It within your ability to recount only paltry fragments of the case itself, the details had long since been lost to you for they held scarcely any importance to be kept in your memory. The problem proved itself to be rather childlike in its simplicity, disappointingly lacking any complexion it ought to possess. At the very least, it seemed so to Ranpo. And as one might expect from the suicidal brunette, he contributed very little—nothing but his charm was appreciated.

It went as usual. Dazai interviewed the members of the staff with a manner so beguiling that it left you and Ranpo irritated (and jealous, but that we shall not address). Ranpo deduced, but complained just as much.

And throughout the entirety of the affair, the client remained unwavering in his commitment to causing you irritation as though determined to lodge himself as a thorn persistently present by your side. The man had introduced himself as rude right from the beginning, beneath sterile fluorescent lights of a lounge you now dread to step within. The lounge itself was comforting to one's skin, offering soft chairs and uplifting pottery, yet it failed to bring the same solace to your soul so restless. It was when Dazai was raving about a new suicide method that the client had walked in.

"Detectives, a relief you're finally here."

"Yeah yeah, let's make this quick so me and my partners can drop by a pastry shop after.", said Ranpo.

"Yes, of course. I value your time as well, Great Detective." The business man chuckled, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth said everything that his mouth itself never ought to. "And also Dazai, right?"

"Wow. I'm surprised you know me at all!", said man stood up from where he draped himself. "Could it be that I've finally earned myself the reputation of our genius Ranpo?"

"I'd argue you're known for the wrong reasons, actually. Like remember that one time you tried hanging yourself on the tree at the park and that other time you-" says you, though interrupted in an inconsiderate manner.

"Yes, yes. Useless semantics can be saved for later." The businessman had not even troubled himself to acknowledge your presence, his attention passing over you as though you belonged to the furniture adorning the chamber rather than one of its occupants. "Why don't you make yourself useful and get us some coffee?"

You appeared about to object his will, yet the words met their end before they became verbal. There existed no sufficient reason to oppose the request, no? Why not make yourself useful, indeed? "Yes— Yes, of course. Right away, sir."

Such was the first indication that the day would prove a miserable one. Thereafter, the hours dragged themselves forward with excruciating slowness, whilst you were directed here and there as though you belonged not to the Agency, but rather to his personal staff. Had you been wiser, you would have fled the scene. Although you hadn't been wise enough, and thus lingered long enough for him to belittle your presence further.

The client had made his doubt of you known. "Let's leave the theories to the professionals.", said he the moment you've shared your thoughts.

To which you replied; "I suppose so, mhm. Sorry for interrupting!" Unbeknownst to you, there exists details you've failed in regarding—Ranpo's brows furrowed, and the ever present smile Dazai wore faltered only the slightest of degrees.

Amid the occasions wherein you expressed confusion, the client would often respond with a dismissive; "Must everything be explained to you?"

And this, you knew this accusation as something mistaken, yet some unfortunate fragment of you agreed with it all the same. Under the circumstances, complying with his words—however piercing to your heart—is only appropriate. Thus you offered no objection, believing it more proper to endure the wound than contest its existence.

It is within your ability to recall the moment wherein Ranpo abandoned his languid position, rising at last when the client crossed a boundary he ought to never have approached. "Enough. Osamu, (y/n), you two can wait for me outside. I'll solve this now, ten seconds max."

"You've figured it out already?", says you.

"Ten seconds?" Dazai tilted his head, "You're  getting slow, dear Ranpo~"

Ranpo smiled, one soft and boyish. The Great Detective looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Nine, then."

Thereafter came the touch of bandaged hands, steering you quietly from the area with a gentleness that felt almost at odds with the day's accumulated frustrations. Yet even whilst Dazai guided you away, your eyes remained fixed upon the raven-haired detective. It was only when the door of ebony closed between you that your gaze was finally compelled elsewhere.

Now outside, Dazai leaned against the wall beside you carrying the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the passage of time.

"Ranpo can solve it in five," you began, "why did he say nine then?"

Dazai offered a paltry hum, "An interesting question, my dearest. Perhaps our great detective is doing something much needed.", says he as you perceived the weight of a hand coming to rest upon your head.

"What exactly?"

"Hmm," hummed he once more, placing the slender fingers of his free hand beneath his chin in an exaggerated display of contemplation. "Actually, I  have no idea!" He refused to elaborate thereafter. Yet Dazai knew perfectly well what those additional four seconds had been spent upon, the thought of it dragged from him a grin.

The client had, after all, requested the greatest detective specifically. A decision he most likely regretted the moment Ranpo began speaking.

For while the great detective had indeed identified the culprit in mere seconds, he had also identified several other things throughout the course of the investigation—and not all of them pertained to the mystery at hand.

Thereupon, nine seconds precisely, the mahogany structure swung wholly upon it's hinges—from it, there emerged Ranpo bearing a countenance that could only ever be portrayed as smug, as victorious. "Well, another mystery solved by the Greatest Detective." says he upon walking closer to the two of you. Whereas, you and Dazai decided to meet him halfway—you at Ranpo's left, and Dazai at his right. 

"Good work, Ranpo." you started, this time your speech went uninterrupted. "I bet it was really easy for you!"

"Obviously! It was elementary. I'm sure even you could solve it without my help," said he while crossing his arms, to which you denied.

"You're joking, right? I mean, I couldn't possibly—I'm sure anyone else can."

Ranpo clicked his tongue, "Stop that." said he, his annoyance made itself evident.

"Stop what?"

It appeared the detective was about to retaliate, though abruptly interrupted by a third persons voice.

"There, there. We'll miss our train back if we continue to loiter around here." said the bandaged brunette. You catch sight of him resting a hand unto Ranpo's shoulder. "Ranpo, what do you say we continue this there, hm?"

Dazai had cut between the two of you cleanly. The remainder of the journey toward the station passed in relative peace.

Ranpo's sole contributions thereafter consisted of lamentations concerning the state of his energy and the regrettable absence of sweets within his stomach. Fortunately, such complaints had been anticipated by you beforehand, and a packet of chips was soon given to him, earning from him no small amount of gratitude Dazai appeared occupied with thoughts of his own. And you, relieved to have finally escaped the confines of that dreadful client, foolishly believed the matter finished.

Before long, the train came into view.

And shortly thereafter, so too did your mistake.

For it was only upon settling into your seat that you realized you had placed yourself between two detectives. Ranpo occupied the seat beside the window, idly rolling a marble across his palm, whilst Dazai had taken residence at the opposite end of the booth—precisely where one might otherwise make their escape. A truly unfortunate position.

"Twenty-one?" suddenly said Dazai.

You had merely blinked in confusion.

Beside you, Ranpo frowned. "Twenty-four."

"Oh, was it?" Dazai tilted his head. "My mistake then."

"What are you guys talking about?" said you, a poor soul completely given no context about the conversation at hand.

"The number of times somebody said something unkind and you accepted it."

"Oh. It wasn't something to take count of, really!" the words felt as though they possessed a profound difficulty to voice, "He was under the stress of a threat so it was totally fine."

"It wasn't fine at all." Ranpo's response arrived with such haste that it scarcely appeared to have undergone the process of thought at all. The peculiarity of this alone compelled you to look his way.

"What?"

"Exactly what he said, (y/n)." said Dazai. "Not okay in the slightest."

"He and the company were all just frantic—"

"That doesn't mean they get to treat you poorly." Ranpo butted in. "And you shouldn't have agreed to anything he said. Like that's just stupid, what's up with that?"

"But he wasn't exactly wrong." said you, "And arguing would have just made him more uncooperative. I'm sure it was for the best."

"You know," Dazai mused, a smile gracing his features, "you never seem to have trouble defending other people. Even when they don't deserve it."

“It’s not like he said anything I haven’t heard before,” you say with an awkward chuckle that doesn’t quite hold its shape. “People like that... you get used to them eventually.”

"You seem to think becoming accustomed to something makes it acceptable." The response came from Dazai.

"It doesn't bother me."

"That's not what I said." His gaze softened.

"Who cares what they think?" Ranpo scoffed. "They met you for, what, ten minutes? Not enough to be right in what they say, you know."

Silence had taken its dominion of the space thereafter, and perhaps it stayed long past due time. Your fingers were still curled slightly in your lap.

“...I didn’t like it,” you had said.

"Of course you didn't." Dazai had said, and you felt the familiar pressure of a bandaged hand rest atop yours. "After all, who would?" The contact offered you comfort.

From the other side, Ranpo leaned closer scarcely. "Finally admitted it." said he, "It was getting annoying that you just kept accepting it."

To no ones surprise, the two stayed as such the rest of the train ride. Outside the train window, the city continued its endless procession of lights and passing buildings. People boarded. People departed. Conversations emerged and faded in equal measure.

The world persisted in its motion, wholly indifferent to the peculiar little moment unfolding within a single train carriage.

aeons were you an embarrassment.

sunday was staring at you, flanked by dan heng and welt, with slightly furrowed brows that could only spell concern or even perturbation. the vidyadhara was a little more open with his disturbance, a grimace perfectly shown on his face, while the older-looking male was awkwardly coughing into his fist and pushing up his glasses as to avoid you seeing his expression.

okay, so maybe it was best not to talk about miss robin in the way that you did, considering her brother’s feelings since he’d left her to travel with the express, and the fact that he.. clearly did not understand certain lingo.

therefore taking things quite.. literal.

in other words — you might as well have shot yourself fifty seven times, cuz maybe that would have felt less humiliating.

“i meant uh- i mean that you know, i would never do all of that to miss robin! i wouldn’t put her in a bag or say cunt in the same sentence with her name in a derogatory way!” you quickly tried saying, attempting to salvage the situation by explaining the pickup line.. though it only seemed to bring two hands to your shoulders, with slow head shakes from their owners — march and stelle.

..where was the nearest post for you to bash your head in?

as you snuck glances for a potential contender, sunday seemed to straighten himself out, offering a strained smile. “that’s quite alright- i suppose i’m just.. not entirely used to this type of speech as yet,” the family facilitated a rather proper environment with good etiquette, after all. “but i thank you for clarifying.” he finished, tipping his head forward before brushing past you and the girls on either side of you.

and just like that, he was gone, along with dan heng and welt — who seemed like they didn’t quite want to be a part of the.. talk, for lack of better wording.

a few beats passed before you let out a sigh, shoulders drooping as you hung your head low. “guys, i’m actually a lost cause.”

offering a strained smile, march rubbed your shoulder gently. “aw c’mon- it could’ve been worse! right stelle?” she then glanced at the taller woman, pinkish-blue eyes pleading for backup. you needed a pick me up, which meant everyone had to be on board!

and although the woman in question was hesitant, she supplied her own smile, nudging you lightly. “march’s right — i mean you could have killed the guy, but you didn’t- so i think everything’s fine.. mostly." kind of.

despite your friends' attempts at encouraging you, ultimately you found yourself groaning in defeat, throwing your head back as you looked up at the ceiling of the parlor car. "i'm never gonna be able to talk to him normally, am i?"

it was strange, really. with everyone else you seemed to get along just fine, with little to no hiccups- even when it boiled down to meeting new people on your travels. but with sunday? from the very beginning, you were just a babbling idiot that didn't know how to speak.

talking to robin was easy- she made it that way- which was surprising given her status as a celebrity. any normal person might have overreacted talking to her, rather than her withdrawn older brother. but no, as fate had it- it was the withdrawn older brother that you had trouble speaking to.

gosh, you could still feel the pang of humiliation from your first meeting, where the words just formed complete and utter gibberish, as though you were a kid falling in love for the first time and being unable to process let alone convey that feeling. it was a miracle you hadn't thrown something at the guy and run away.

though you supposed a literal train was thrown at him at some point during the penacony escapade.

so maybe there was really no miracle at all, actually.

sharing a glance with each other, the girls on your flanks attempted another reassuring look before letting you go after a squeeze. "i'm sure you'll be able to talk to him- maybe you just need to be with him one on one! or.." march paused, glancing to stelle with widened eyes, as though lightbulbs had gone off in her head. "actually, i might have an idea- but it's.. gotta be handled by stelle and i! just meet outside my room when i give you the signal!"

stelle, equally as lost as you were, only got a noise of confusion in before she was suddenly being dragged by the pink haired girl down the hall towards her bedroom, leaving you with a rather.. puzzled look yourself.

okay then.

scoping the area to find yourself left alone, you opted for retreating to the party car where the bar was, hoping to grab yourself a drink at least to take the edge off. maybe a smoothie or milkshake might help with that, unless a cocktail might do the trick. either way- you needed something.

even though the guys had headed in the direction of the party car, you found that it was empty, save for the bartender. truthfully, for the best- you weren't sure if you were ready to see the halovian man after that display about his sister.

eugh, you were such a loser.

the drink you ordered thankfully didn't take all that long to prepare, but it wasn't really anything memorable either once you kept sipping at it. rather than allow it to drown out your thoughts, you more or less found yourself marinating in it instead ( metaphorically speaking ). well, so much for attempting to silence your thoughts, but you weren't about to get shitfaced drunk.

what would you wind up saying to sunday, then? probably something exponentially worse, unless it was one of those cases were you could actually talk to him while being under the influence.

but it was.. best not to test that out, and that also felt like cheating. this was something you needed to overcome, especially if he was going to be staying on the express for a little while.

immersed in your own thoughts, you almost failed to pick up the buzzing in your pocket when you neared the final sip of your beverage, sluggishly fishing it out to see if march and stelle had finished.. whatever it was that they were doing.

puzzled, you could only squint down at your phone with growing skepticism, thinking to yourself what might go horribly wrong this time around, before ultimately relaxing your features. whatever it was that march had planned with stelle.. it was worth giving a shot. hopefully.

rising from the stool you’d been on, you gave your arms an overhead stretch before thanking “shush” for the drink and making your way towards the direction of your friend’s room. keeping march waiting was never any good, and you weren’t about to leave another person feeling soured for today — bestie or not.

just as you’d left it, the parlor car was empty, and the hall to the rooms of the older express members was just about the same. even stelle’s little trotter was not to be seen roaming the space, but perhaps it was just in her room.

pausing in front of the pink haired trailblazer’s room, you were about to slide the door open as you would any other occasion, but your hand froze before it could do so. march said to not come in, for whatever reason.. maybe knocking would do? it seemed silly to text outside her door — that would have been more applicable if it was outside of an apartment complex or something, where you would have needed to be let through some passages first.

so your fingers curled in, shifting away from the handle to gently knock. “march, i’m here like you asked,” you began, taking a step back to give your friend space when she opened up. “can i come in yet, or..?”

a few beats seemed to pass after that before muted rustling could be heard, followed by the careful pad of footsteps. too meticulous to belong to stelle, let alone march.

was someone else in her room?

“march..?” you called again, tempted to knock once more- but there wouldn’t be much use since you already knew someone was there. they’d heard you speak, and the gentle clap of your fist against the door.

so then, why weren’t they opening up yet?

“miss march went with miss stelle to get something- they.. mentioned they would be returning momentarily — it should not be too long from now.”

nearly freezing up on the spot from the voice beyond wood and steel, your eyes widened just a twinge before you rubbed them for good measure. were you hearing right? march had a guy in her room?

a guy that sounded.. strikingly familiar.

but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

“oh-! well.. that’s weird, she just told me for come by,” you spoke up, lifting a hand to rub at your nape. “not sure why she would text me to come here if it’s just to wait outside her door for a ménage a trois..” considering stelle was also returning.

“..what was that?”

blinking from your stupor, you staggered back a step, feeling your cheeks burn up. fuck- why did you say that out loud?! “n-nothing! i was just voicing my thoughts! pretend you didn’t hear that, and if you guys are doing anything then- um!” aeons, it just kept getting worse and worse — the only person that was able to make you get that way was..

oh fuck.

“sunday..?” it was worth a guess.

“yes?” albeit a very correct and unfortunate guess.

maybe you could fling yourself out the window before he discovered your identity, or retreat into dan heng’s room — but he would know if you left. fuck, what was march thinking??

sliding against the door in defeat, you let your forehead meet your knees, a long sigh leaving your lips. “aeons, i keep fucking up with you today — i don’t understand why i can’t speak to you normally.” you spoke up, pursing your lips together. “not matter what i do i keep on saying all of the wrong things whenever i’m around you.”

it was awhile before your head anything from the other side, but the soft thud against the door made you think that maybe he was leaning against the other side.

or at least, you wanted to believe that he was.

“i think this is the most natural i’ve heard you speak, when you asked for miss march and stelle- i.. truthfully failed to recognize that it was you.” he finally said, soft and collected. “for that i apologize- it was.. not my intention to startle you in any way, or make you feel awkward. i understand that not every express member feels as comfortable around me as mr. yang for example does.” and they had every right to feel weary of him. “so i cannot fault you for having trouble speaking to me.”

but that wasn’t the case — your issues stemmed not from being uncomfortable around him, but rather that you just.. couldn’t speak to him normally. that your words came out jumbled, or completely different from what you wanted to say. it was not like that at all, and you didn’t want him to go on believing that it was. “it’s.. it’s not that — none of this is your fault, sunday..” you tried saying, willing your words to cooperate just this once. “i just, get nervous around you, not because i’m afraid or skeptical, but because i..” gosh, what was the least corny way to convey your feelings. “fuck- this feels like i’m attending a confessional..” even the layout felt that way.

that seemed to weirdly get a laugh out of the halovian, a genuine one — and not the forced, sheepish kind. “i guess old habits never die, i.. used to do something like this on penacony.” he confessed, letting out an amused breath. “so feel free to speak your mind — no matter what you say, i won’t judge you. besides, this is.. the first i’m hearing you speak in the way that you do with the others — so i..” he stopped, feeling his cheeks warm just slightly. “i don’t want this moment to end just yet.”

you weren’t quite sure how to take that. it sounded like the kind of things lovers said to each other, and you guys — weren’t exactly that.

but you didn’t mind if it came to that someday.

well, if you could get your speech in order.

you wet your bottom lip out of nervous habit, attempting to recompose yourself. he was asking so nicely, creating such a safe space to speak.. you could not possibly let his efforts go to waste. “i guess i get nervous because you.. make my heart feel a certain way — i get y’know, and call me corny for saying this, but i get butterflies whenever you’re around.. and they make it hard for me to remember how to act around you.”

pursing your lips together, you allowed your hold to loosen just slightly on your legs, leaning your head back against the door. “so i have trouble bringing my feelings across in a, y’know.. not so off putting way.” at least, based on the vibes you got whenever you heard yourself speak.

sunday seemed to let out a soft hum only when it was clear that you had finished saying your piece, sliding down against the door. “and is this feeling that you get something.. positive?”

was, for lack of better wording, a crush positive?

“i.. think so? i mean- it depends on how you feel about me, which in that case.. well- if you feel disturbed by me and want nothing to do with me, then they’re probably negative and i should..” you paused, drawing in a breath before dispelling it slowly. “most likely work towards getting over them.” it would only do harm, otherwise.

sunday seemed to let out another contemplative noise, and for all of a minute you worries that he was agreeing with you.. but then he didn’t. in fact, quite the opposite. “i’m rather intrigued by you — and if we’re able to have conversations like these, maybe without the door to separate us.. then i would very much like to get to know you better, and see this side of you that hasn’t quite been presented to me until now.” he confessed, unable to suppress his smile. “you’re rather charming, even when you struggle to get your words across. i quite admire that you try, which is better than not trying at all.. right?”

you could almost feel your heart slam against your ribcage the more he spoke, and if biology could have it.. steam might have been erupting from your ears. was this really how sunday had felt about you all this time?

well, you supposed there wasn’t any way of knowing between fleeing after your exchanges or watching him go. so maybe.. maybe it was.

“you’re not saying that just to be nice, are you?” because most people probably would — say what others want to hear.

and maybe sunday would have done that in the past.. but now? here on the express? “a while ago i might have, but i mean this with my entire heart.” he affirmed, bringing a hand over his chest. “rest assured that you have my word on the matter.. and that i would much like to have further conversations like this in the future with you — if you would allow me to.”

failing to hold back your own smile, you brought your knees closer, lowering your chin to rest upon them. “i think i’d like that, yeah.”

notes. this took longer than expected- the dottoposting spiked up because of the archon quest, as you might have seen.. but i wanted to get this sunday post out at least before his banner ends! it’s lengthier than i had planned for but hopefully that compensates?

tysm for reading! consider leaving a tip if you enjoyed<3

“You can talk to me anytime, bella!” Dazai sang one day after noticing you were bothered by something. You two have been friends for a bit, not terribly long, just roughly around the time he joined the agency. You had been there already, and he definitely made work way more interesting the moment he stepped over that threshold. The only thing you didn’t understand was why he called you “bella” — that’s literally not my name. Then you heard him call any other woman that gave him the slightest ounce of attention “bella” and it dawned on you he was just a man whore.

You never really took his offer on venting to him, mostly because he just didn’t seem the serious enough type to actually listen to anything you had to say, especially since you see him constantly messing with Kunikida or dicking around with Atsushi, then blaming the others for “distracting him” if he gets caught slacking off. The only one that ever seems to keep Dazai covered for his lack of motivation to do his paperwork is Ranpo, the only other detective in the building who also doesn’t do his paperwork. Who exactly is going to question the head of your agency if he says that Dazai doesn’t need to do anything while they’re giggling to each other over mangas, sweets, and whatever other junk they can get their hands on?

You also can’t take him seriously enough about dating advice because, even though he’s crawling in options and has mentioned on multiple occasions about “having a girlfriend” you found out he was never talking about the same girl each time. Oh, not just a man whore, but a womanizer. Got it. He won’t ever really begin to understand the things you struggle with, even if they’re minor inconveniences in your life, because he doesn’t take anything seriously. Ever.

The both of you hang out often outside of work too, a newish development from your “work bestie” relationship to standard “besties”. Dazai is… odd. He likes bothering and pestering you, fascinated by your emotions and taking the extra mile to see what really makes you tick, which is another reason why you haven’t gotten around to seeking him out for comfort on your issues. He barges in on your place, drags you by the shirt collar to his place, shows up self-invited wherever you go after mistakenly texting him your location, and joins in on your family get togethers, absolutely hitting it off with everyone easily, and you’re left wondering how in the world he wormed his way into your life so easily, and you still can’t bring yourself to vent to him.

Until there was one day you couldn’t control some loose tears, using a crumpled tissue from the bathroom to carefully press under your eye at work, avoiding ruining your makeup because it was still too early in the day for you to be a mess like this. You were in the break room, quietly sniffling, able to stay under the radar from others, but then Dazai came trotting in, as he does, with a big smile on his face to see you.

“Bella!” He cheered, jumping to your side, and it startled you so much your hand slipped and knocked over your mug of coffee across the counter. “Oh, shit, lemme help. Did it burn you?” He didn’t see your face yet, hands already moving to grab the paper towels in the drawer, carefully wiping up your drink, but you just stood there silently staring at the mess. “Want me to buy you a new one instead? The coffee shop a bit of ways down is way better than what we have here.” He joked, the offer sincere, his smile wiping clean from his lips when he saw your expression. He didn’t know what to do, finish cleaning or console you, his hands slowing down and hoping he wasn’t making anything worse.

“Oh, damn, bella, I didn’t mean to…” he glanced at your toppled mug then back to your red eyes, and he rushed to finish getting everything cleaned up while you were standing there trying to keep yourself calm, ignoring the couple of tears rolling down your cheek. “Hang on, I got this.” He said, rummaging around more for wipes to make sure nothing was sticky, then wiped his hands clear so he could cautiously guide you to the couch. “Would I be silly to assume you’re upset about the coffee?” He carefully asked, sitting down beside you, leaning over some to be in your space, awestruck by your tears. He hated seeing people, especially women, cry, but he was equally fascinated by the prospect of people crying over stuff that he wouldn’t deem worthy of tears — like spilled coffee. Her eyes sparkle more when she cries though, how pretty.

“Uhm,” you swallowed, finally speaking, clutching the distressed tissue in your clenched fist, and you did feel a little silly, but it definitely wasn’t over your lost drink. “I uhm… I went a date with someone last night, and it just… it just didn’t go well.” You vaguely explained. “He was nice, I guess, but when I wouldn’t go back to his place, he uhm… he got mad, I guess, and deserted me on the sidewalk to get home alone.” You rolled your eyes, primarily to yourself, remembering how stupid the whole situation was, and you didn’t like how it made you feel.

“Why didn’t you call someone to help make sure you got home?” He asked, brows furrowed, and irritated someone had the audacity to do that to you. “You could’ve even called me.”

“I wasn’t thinking about it, Dazai,” you huffed, avoiding looking at him. “I didn’t know where I was, so what good would that have done?”

“I’m really good at directions. You could have gotten hold of me,” he shrugged, and this wasn’t really doing anything to help you. Though, he thought it perfectly logical, and I would have had the chance to console you while you cried. “Plus, you know you don’t owe anyone anything after a date. You should have slashed his tires.” This is pure gold coming from him of all people.

“Yeah, I’ll remember that next time when I get ditched to run after their car with my pocketknife,” you shook your head, getting to your feet and taking off toward the hallway, leaving him confused on the agency couch, watching you vanish around the corner, and he remembered your spilled mug.

“You… you still want me to get you coffee?” He called out after you, and you waved him off without another word as you went back to the office to sit down at your desk.

The next time Dazai caught you looking bothered, he cornered you again into confessing you were upset you didn’t have your license yet and wanted to be able to drive instead of relying on others or public transportation.

“Kunikida and I could help you study,” he offered. “Kunikida is good, he could even let you use his car. Though, public transportation is far more convenient. We live in walkable cities, so I’m not sure what you need a car for.” You rolled your eyes and walked away from him, once again deserving him in a state of confusion at the side of your desk. I dunno why she is worrying over something so silly, but it’d be nice to have her drive me around when we go places.

He found you sitting in the cafe alone one day on your lunch, doom scrolling on your phone, and the frown was visible in your brow as well. He sat down beside you, helping himself to some of your food, as the freeloader does, while he asked what was wrong.

“Just getting bullied by some people online. It’s so childish,” you sighed, the message now opened so he could read it. His eyes scanned the words, having to fight a snort at how ridiculous the insults were, especially since they clearly bothered you. I heard better insults from a five-year-old, but who the hell do these assholes think they are bullying my bella like this? Part of him, the bad part he tries to keep shut away from you, made his fingers flinch toward your phone to snatch it up and send insult after insult that would bring whoever that loser was behind the screen to tears — maybe even suicide, but he had to refrain.

“Bella, these are random strangers on the internet that don’t know you,” he shrugged, navigating to the person’s account then clicking block. “There, problem solved!” He beamed, proud that he had such an easy task to handle and make you feel better; however, you glared at him sidelong instead, locking and turning over your phone then shoved your plate toward him while you pouted in your seat. He took slow bites, staring at the side of your face, and once again not understanding what the issue was since he essentially fixed it.

Another recent instance you were having troubles with is some emotions that were stirring up, realizing that you had caught feelings for Dazai — despite knowing his reputation. You two had grown close over the past couple of years, continuing to see each other outside of work since he made it his mission to bombard you, spending quality time together, hanging out at his dorm or in your apartment. He’s met your family — against your will, and you were told about his late friend he cared so much about. The only thing that stopped you from pursuing anything was he lacked the understanding that you didn’t need a solution to all of your problems. You wanted someone willing to lend an ear, and he just… didn’t make your issues seem validated. He didn’t console you like you wanted. He’s just such a guy.

“Hey, there’s my darling bella,” he croons, sitting down in front of you at the mall food court. He wears his usual impish grin, mischief in his sparkling eyes, and he has his cheek propped on his fist. You glance at him, eyeing his street attire, and you have to hide your small swoon. He always looks better off the clock, to you, at least. “What’s got my girl down?” Your heart flutters in your chest at that, the first he has ever called you that, and you weren’t sure if he is toying with you or being serious.

“That obvious?” You force a small smile, fingers messing with your fries before shoving them toward him, and he gently shoves them back.

“You wear your heart on your sleeve,” he observes. “You also don’t eat much when you’re upset.” He nods toward your abandoned food and drink, cup sweating immense condensation from leaving it sit. “You can talk to me, you know that.” He remembers all your previous reactions to his advice and solutions, how you never looked pleased, but still offers anyway. He likes when you confide in him, it makes him feel more useful and helpful to you — it makes him feel closer to you.

You sigh, shrugging, hating that he is right about your behaviors. “It’s kinda stupid.”

“Nah, I’m sure it’s serious,” he can’t help snagging a couple fries anyway, munching on them as he watches you closely. You haven’t looked him in the eye yet, your texts weren’t your usual buoyant happiness, and he hates to admit he was a little worried you told him to meet up with you to have a friendship break up. Hearing you say the issue is “kinda stupid” lifts his spirits that you want to keep him around. You shrug again, hugging yourself while you lean back in your chair, and stare off in the distance at nothing in particular.

“You can’t act weird if I tell you,” you murmur. His head cocks, grabbing another handful of fries to occupy his mouth from saying anything stupid. Act weird? He nods, urging you to continue. You pause, inhaling, then slowly let it out before your gaze drops down to the table. “I think I have a crush on this guy, and I wanna tell him, but… I dunno. I think we wouldn’t do well together, ya know?” You’re treating this like it isn’t anything serious, but Dazai feels as though his entire world just came crashing down on him. He’s able to control his features, nodding slowly at this, then clears his throat. He wants to ask you so many questions, like what is this guy like, what does she see in him, who is it — anything he can learn to track them down and make them disappear, then steal all of his qualities. Calm down, don’t take it too far; she said they won’t even work! No need to panic… yet.

“Yeah? What makes you say you two won’t work out?” He asks, nonchalant, shifting some in his seat, his baggy jeans now suddenly extremely tight to his body.

“He isn’t that great with emotions,” you say, for lack of better words, and you’re certain with Dazai being so arrogant and fairly confident he's not into you, he’d never catch on that you’re describing him. “Like, I’ll talk to him about my issues, and he just… he doesn’t just listen. He offers me solutions, and it’s so annoying!” You sit up straight, finally feeling a weight lift from your chest to complain about him to him, indirectly addressing the problem on your own terms, and he's clueless. He stares at you, a brow raised, and chews slowly on another fry. “Maybe I don’t want solutions! Maybe I want him to say, damn, I dunno, like he’ll hit someone with his car!” His jaw stops, mildly taken aback by the statement, and now he's wondering who the hell would make a threat like that. Car? Who do I know has a car?! Kunikida has a car — fuck does she like Kunikida?! That would be quite the combination, to say the least.

“You want this guy to, instead of give you a solution, threaten violence?” He speaks slowly, looking at you a bit strangely, and wonders if you would have liked him better if he stayed in the mafia. That’s a weird thought; let’s not go there.

“Well, no, not exactly,” you roll your eyes. “Like… okay, I was getting cyber bullied, and when I mentioned it, he told me to just block them! I mean, hello, I just said random strangers on the internet were being mean to me and all he thought to say was ‘block them’? Not, something like, ‘gimme their at, I’ll blast them all over the internet so everyone can point and laugh at them instead’. Or, ya know, whatever else.” You sigh, saying this out loud making you feel even sillier about how unsatisfied you were with all of his previously useless attempts at "making things better". Damn, that does sound like something Kunikida would offer as a solution. Idiot. He mentally rolls his eyes and laughs, knowing his colleague wouldn't be able to handle someone like you, not in the way I can, at least.

“Man, this guy sounds so stupid,” he shakes his head, and you aren’t sure if you’re happy or dumbstruck he hasn’t caught on this is about him, and he's basically insulting himself.

“Right,” you agree, wondering if this conversation is going to get in his head so in the future, when you complain, he offers you fellow sympathy instead of a way to fix it. Alas, you continue. “And then there was another time I told him that I wanted to learn how to drive. He told me I don’t need to drive because we have public transportation! Like, dude, that is not helpful.” You are getting riled up, and he cocks his head, remembering these are some of the same things you’ve told him, and was wondering why you went back to Kunikida about this. Kunikida doesn’t use public transportation much unless he’s with me. Dazai's fingers twist a fry gradually dropping to room temperature between his fingers, not letting you see the gears begin to fire up.

“This guy sounds emotionally inept,” he shrugs, agreeing with you that “this guy” is just the worst — still unaware he’s trying to deter you from liking him. “If it were me, I’d totally offer to hit someone with my car. Well, you know, if I had one.” He snaps his fingers, eyes suddenly lighting up, and he grins. “I’d tie ‘em down to the subway tracks and go full speed ahead!” Your face freezes, blank, looking at him for a long period, wondering why now all of a sudden he is just saying any old thing regarding your issues when you needed that in the moment of spilling your guts.

“That’s very sweet of you, Dazai,” you smile slightly after a few more seconds of staring at him. “But, I don’t know, I don’t think he understands what it means when someone is just venting. If I wanted actual help, I’d ask. Otherwise, I want him to listen and agree with me, and he can’t seem to do that. I’m… I’m not sure why.” Your fingers rake through your hair, sighing heavily, and you shake your head. “Maybe I’m overreacting, but he’s just such a guy sometimes.” He eyes you, wondering what exactly it is you see in Kunikida if he’s upsetting you so much, until your last statement. His partner doesn’t act like “a guy”, not in the sense you’re explaining anyhow, he’s just clinical and practical — any problems you have, he has a solution or will work to get one for you. Wait when has she ever hung out with Kunikida?

“Can I ask who this person is? Or what he’s like?” Dazai tests, to see if he can pull any other information out of you, but you don’t seem to be budging on sharing much information. So smart, yet so dumb, a typical guy.

“He’s just someone I met a while ago,” you tell him, keeping it vague. “He’s great to talk to otherwise, and I love spending time with him, I just wish he’d be a little more on the empathetic, or even sympathetic, side when I talk to him.” He is getting antsy, wanting to know who this person is, because he wants to stalk them on the internet and find a way to get rid of him — I thought we were moving away from our mafia persona? Ah, who am I kidding, I’m just like this.

“You want me to tie him down on the subway tracks?” He blurts. “I’ll borrow Kunikida’s car and run him over.” He says all this without thinking, and you stare at him with your face scrunched in judgmental confusion.

“Dazai, you don’t know how to drive.”

“It’ll take me a couple tries, but I really think I could get him on the third or fourth,” he shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll get him on all the attempts.” You blink at him, sitting back up straight, and you’re not sure how he could be so intelligent but so dumb at the same time.

“No, it’s fine, you don’t need to do that.”

“Want me to scare him?” He offers. “Oh, therapy. Emotional intelligence. Understanding women.” His fingers wiggle as he makes his sounds, really only doing this so you can smile, and it pulls a bit of a smirk out of you.

“Those things scare you,” you inform.

“Well, yeah, I’m a guy,” he shrugs then stops, staring at you while your brows raise, and the gears in his brain start clicking. All the issues you rattled off are ones he’s highly aware of, ones he offered solutions to, and you definitely never looked pleased after the conversation. He’d like to think he’s good company otherwise, spending almost all of his free time with you, and you’re just looking at him as if you’re waiting for him to figure it out. Did I threaten to run myself over with a car multiple times? That is definitely a painful suicide.

“Thank you for offering to handle the situation. Did you scare yourself enough?” You murmur, giving him a coy grin as your chin rests on your palm. He doesn’t do or say anything else, wide-eyed as he wonders if he’s too stupid for you, too “emotionally inept”, and his heart is racing in his ribcage. “You alright?” You ask, fingertip coming out to lightly tap the back of his hand.

“I can do better,” he abruptly tells you, leaving you taken aback some. “I-I am so good at shit talk. I could never offer you a single solution ever again unless that’s what you want. And if you wanna drive, I won’t stop you! Public transportation's overrated, anyway! Too many people and no proper air conditioning. I’ll help you pick out the color!” He rattles all of this off, subconsciously leaning across the table as he looks at you with desperation and pleading for a second chance, despite the first chance wasn't ruined, and you are caught off guard since you didn’t think he had any romantic feelings toward you whatsoever, pleasantly surprised but bemused all the same.

“Dazai, slow down—”

“Shit, I’m offering solutions,” he realizes, hand covering half of his face as he grimaces. Your hands are raised, frozen in the air, not sure if you should stop him, not seeing this side of him before. He’s typically calm, cool, collected, and suave, nothing getting to him, effortlessly flirtatious and capable of getting whatever he wants with the snap of his fingers and pretty smile. Seeing him pretty much crash out in the middle of the mall food court is jarring.

“‘Zai—”

“I can be a good boyfriend!” He laments, standing to his feet and palms pressing into the surface, earning multiple different stares and heads turning in your direction. “Your family already loves me! And I think they’re great too! And your friends think I’m cool! And we already do everything together! I can be emotionally intelligent, I swear!” Your eyes are huge, gawking up at him as he is hovering above you, laying all of this out in front of you, and you have no idea where any of this is coming from. Is it because I said we wouldn’t work out? Your lips part, him staring down at you, waiting, impatience prominent behind his eyes, and his eyebrow twitches.

“Osamu,” you gently say his first name for the first time since knowing him, and his brain short circuits. Everything comes to a screeching halt, and he stares at you, bewildered, and he doesn’t really know how to react to that. She said my name. “Calm down.” You coax him to sit back down, but instead of across from you, he decides to take the seat at your side, and the brief mania seems to have worn off, dwindling down into realization that everything you said had been about him. I'm just a guy?! “What’s gotten into you—”

“Am I too much a guy for you to think we really wouldn’t work?” He whispers, eyes downcast, and he actually looks upset. “Emotions aren’t easy for me, I’m trying, but it just… my brain functions differently, I guess. It makes more sense to me to have problems solved than to dwell on them.” You listen to him, surprised he is confessing this to you; you did already know he wasn’t great with deep emotions, struggling constantly with others’, mentioning a few times reasons he ran off from previous lovers is because they felt more deeply than he could handle, and it wasn’t what he wanted.

“You can be,” you tell him, cautious, resting your hand over his. “But I think you just showed me that you’re capable of feeling things when you’re around people you’re comfortable with.” His hand flinches, hesitating, then lacing through your fingers, holding it tight. The sensation’s foreign, but in a good way, and he kind of likes how it looks holding your hand. "Plus, I do know how you are. I have spent a lot of time with you and have had to learn how your brain works." Your fingers come up to gently tuck some strands away from his face, his teeth momentarily biting down on his bottom lip and slowly dragging them over the flesh while he works through all the negative things you said about him, and it breaks his heart a little bit. Until he remembers who he is.

“I really can be better,” he tells you again. “I’ll always have my moments, but the next time you have a problem, I’ll just threaten violence. That’s very easy for me to do, by the way.” He tilts his head, brown irises shifting some in the light pouring in from the skylights, and you could have sworn they tinted red in a flash too quickly to let you linger on it. Your brow raises, and he winks. “I’m a bit crazy, darling. Didn’t I tell you?” You nod slowly then your mouth turns at the corner in a playful smirk.

"I think I missed it, actually."

masterlist | requests: closed.

divider from chrisssiren here on tumblr

©GHXST likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated <3 do not repost, copy, change/alter/edit my works, and do not use it to feed generative ai.

The party is too much.

The music is loud, invading your eardrums, turning all thoughts into a jungled mess. Your skin is crawling, an uncomfortable itch settling over it, begging for you to ease it with the blunt edges of your nails.

You never should've listened to your therapist.

Your chest is tightening, breath shortening, why did you think throwing such a big event for your birthday would do you good?

'Most of my patients and myself included, at your age, throw a big party with their friends and acquaintances or rent out a bar —after all, you only turn 18 once. It's a big event!'

Bullshit, you think, turning your gaze to where Himeko, your senior, is drinking copious amounts of champagne in an attempt to win a competition among some of your shared friends.

Your head is spinning, hands shaking as you too try to lift your cup to your lips without spilling any of its contents. Once the alcohol touches your tongue, you resist the urge to retch.

This isn’t going to work.

With tensed shoulders and unsteady steps, you weave your way through the dense crowd of people. Do you even know them all? There isn’t any way you'd be that sociable and yet hardly manage to remain calm in such an environment.

How absurd, the birthday girl having a panic attack at her own party.

Familiar faces turn, sending you joyful smiles and knowing eyebrows, thinking you're drunk rather than struggling. You don't correct them, quickening your pace as the swarm of people parts around you, hands landing on your shoulders, cups placed in your hands and 'happy birthday's yelled into your ear.

The kitchen is not as empty as you'd wish: Caelus and Dan Heng are slobbering all over eachother against the counter, a few groups of two or three speaking in hushed tones, you recognize some of them while others seem completely foreign. Perhaps strangers had snuck in.

Oh, Aeons, what if they steal something, poison someone?

Your heartbeat spikes in your chest, tremors running through your hands as you grip the sink and spill your drink in it. Clear tap water filling it, the cold feeling numbing against your burning skin. You stare as it rushes over your fingers and disappears down the drain.

In.

Out.

In—

Your breath catches halfway. The room is still too loud.

Laughter erupts somewhere behind you, sharp enough to make you flinch. Glass clinks against glass, someone brushes your shoulder on their way to the fridge, muttering a half mustered apology —you don’t even register it.

The kitchen suddenly feels just as suffocating as the living room.

Your therapist had taught you grounding exercises for moments like this.

'Name five things you can see'; the flickering kitchen lights, Caelus's hand tangled in Dan Heng's hair, condensation dripping down abandoned bottles, your own knuckles —pale from how hard they're gripping the sink, the window above them.

'Four things you can touch'; cold water, the metal edge of the counter, your sleeves, the pulse hammering beneath your skin.

'Three things you can hear' ; music, talking, your heartbeat—

Too loud, everything's too loud.

Your lungs refuse to fill properly, your throat burns as a muffled sob tears it's way through. Heat crawls up your neck. You can already imagine how you look — wide-eyed, clammy, trembling like some frightened animal cornered under bright lights.

Someone laughs again.

For one horrible second, you're certain it's about you.

"Hey, birthday girl, you good ?"

You jolt violently at the voice. One of your classmates stands near the doorway, brows raised with mild concern, though the lazy grin on his face tells you he probably assumes you're drunk out of your mind.

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

"I-"

Humiliation crashes over you immediately.

Your classmate's expression shifts awkwardly. “Uh. You want water?”

Water.

Air.

Space.

You nod quickly, then, shake your head just as fast. No, no, if he comes closer you think you might actually fall apart.

"I just need—"

Your throat constricts around the words.

Outside.

The realization hits you suddenly.

You need outside.

Not the kitchen. Not the bathroom with people inevitably and constantly knocking on the door. Not another room filled with noise, bodies, and eyes.

Just out.

Without waiting for a response, you push yourself away from the sink. Your shoulder clips the doorframe as you move past him, muttered protests fading behind the ringing in your ears.

The hallway sways unpleasantly beneath your feet.

Too hot, too crowded.

Someone stumbles into your side hard enough to nearly knock you over. A curse slurs past your ear before another sound follows it, wet, violent retching.

You freeze.

A girl you vaguely recognize from one of your literature classes is hunched over against the wall besides your favorite potted plant, one hand braced against it—nearly knocking it down, her other hand shakily pressing against her mouth. Her friends gather around her urgently in various stages of horror and amusement.

"Oh my God—"

"Move her hair back!"

"She’s gonna puke again—"

The girl gags, your stomach twists violently in response.

'Help her,'

The thought invades your brain immediately, automatic and sharp.

'Get water, tell someone, do something! That's what normal people would do, right?!'

Instead, your body locks in place.

The sounds are unbearable, gagging, shouting, and music bleeding through the walls, laughter from another room totally disconnected from this moment. Your pulse pounds so hard your vision flickers at the edges.

Move.

Why can't you move?

The girl coughs again, and one of her friends finally notices you standing there.

"Birthday girl!" he calls, waving you over with a crooked grin, completely at odds with the situation. "Your party's getting dangerous!"

Several heads turn toward you at once. Heat floods your face and your lungs constrict painfully.

For one awful second, all you can think about is how everyone is looking at you waiting for you to react, to laugh, to take control, to be eighteen and fucking functional and normal—

Another retch cuts through the hallway.

Something in your chest snaps.

You turn away before anyone can say anything else and push blindly through the crowd, ignoring confused voices calling after you as you make a break for the back door, desperate for air before the walls close in entirely.

Cold air.

Please.

Your hands fumble with the handle.

For one terrifying moment it refuses to open and panic surges so violently you think you might scream—

Then the door jerks loose, night air crashes into you.

Cold.

Sharp.

Real.

You stumble out onto the porch, your grip on the railing hard enough for your fingers to ache, lowering your head as you force another breath into uncooperative lungs. The music is muffled out here but still audible through the walls. A distant, pounding thing that makes your pulse stumble every few seconds.

In.

Out.

Your hands won't stop shaking.

“You're going to splinter the wood if you hold it any tighter.”

The voice nearly startled the very soul out of your body, your head snapping upwards instantly.

He sits near the far end of the porch steps, one leg bent, the dim porch light catching his pale hair and gold-tipped eyes. A cigarette carton resting loosely in his hand, thumb pressing against the edges as if he'd been about to open it.

Sunday watches you quietly, your humiliation spiking instantly in answer.

"Were you—" your voice comes out unsteady, embarrassingly strained. You clearly you throat, trying once more with more so better results. "Were you here the whole time?"

"For a while."

Of course he was.

Wonderful.

You look away immediately, your pulse thundering against your ribs, of all people to witness this.

The sound of the cigarette pack snapping open makes you glance back just in time to see him slide a cigarette halfway out—

Then stop.

His gaze flicks briefly toward you.

A sigh.

Slowly, he pushes it back in. The motion so casual you almost think you imagined it.

"You hate the smell," he says simply, as if it answers all the questions swarming your mind. Something in your chest twists painfully. You open your mouth to insist he can smoke if he wants to, but your breathing catches halfway through the attempt. Air refuses to settle properly in your lungs. Tears flood your eyes once more.

Sunday is on his feet before you fully realize you're struggling again.

The movement isn’t rushed, but there's a certain urgency to it. He approaches carefully, measured steps quiet against the wood until he stops beside the railing, leaving enough distance so you don’t feel cornered.

"You're having a panic attack."

It's not phrased as a question. Your face flushes a darker shade.

"I know that," you snapped weakly.

A pause.

Then, surprisingly—

"I would be concerned if you didn't."

Pause. What?

You blink.

The faintest hint of amusement softens his expression, gone almost immediately.

"Look at me," he says gently. "Can you tell me five things you can see?"

You nearly laugh.

Your therapist had tried this countless times. Aeons, you tried it just before and failed miserably.

Usually it only irritated you. Still, something about his voice, low and even and impossibly steady, made it incredibly hard to refuse.

“The streetlight,” you murmur.

“Good.”

“The trees.”

A nod.

"The stars."

His attention never leaves your face.

"The porch."

Your throat tightens slightly.

"You."

Something flickers in his expression, brief enough that you almost miss it. But his next words come much softer.

“Very good.”

Your heartbeat is still erratic but less violent now. Less consuming.

“Four things you can touch.”

“The railing.”

“The fabric of my sleeves.”

“The cold air.”

You hesitate before the last one, he notices, naturally. And without a word, he offers his hand.

You stare at it for a second before placing your trembling fingers against his warm, steady palm. It closes around you carefully, like you're something fragile enough to bruise with simple touch alone.

"Three things you can hear," he continues.

"The music."

"A car passing."

You swallow.

"Your voice."

Silence stretches for a beat.

"Two things you can smell."

"The alcohol."

"And?"

You glace pointedly towards the cigarette back, peeking from his front pant pocket. A soft exhale leaves him in answer, not quite a laugh yet uncontrolled as one in equal measure.

"You say that like it's a personal failing."

"It is."

"There," he says quietly."You're thinking clearly enough to insult me again, that's progress."

Despite yourself, your mouth twitches.

The panic is receding now, dissolving slowly beneath the rhythm of his voice and the grounding pressure of his hand around yours.

“One more.”

Your eyes lift to his again.

“One thing you can taste."

Your brain stalls.

“I don't…”

Sunday kisses you before you can trail off any further.

Gentle. Careful. Like he was trying not to frighten you.

The world goes impossibly still.

His thumb shifts slightly against your knuckles as his lips move softly against yours, warm enough to steal every coherent thought directly from your head.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far.

You stare at him in stunned silence.

Sunday's expression remains composed with almost terrifying precision, though his voice lowers just slightly when he speaks.

“Better?”

Your face burns.

“You can't just—”

“I can,” he replies calmly.

A pause.

“Apparently.”

You make a strangled sound somewhere between outrage and embarrassment while he finally releases your hand.

For the first time since stepping outside, your chest no longer feels like it's collapsing inward.

Sunday reaches into his pocket again, removing the cigarette he never lit earlier.

He holds cigarettes the way clergy held candles.

That's how you know.

You ask still.

“…What are you doing?”

“You're eighteen now.” His gaze settles on you, strangely warm beneath the porchlight. “That should warrant some sort of ceremony.”

“You are not making me blow out a cigarette.”

“One must adapt to available resources.”

Despite everything, a startled laugh escapes you.

The corners of his mouth lift immediately at the sound —small, fleeting, but real.

Then he raises the cigarette slightly closer, holding it between his fingers like the world's most pathetic birthday candle.

"You're unbelievable."

"Mm." The faint curve of his mouth lingers. "And yet you're still entertaining this."

The cigarette hovers between you beneath the dim porch light.

"C'mon, make a wish."

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then, feeling strangely breathless all over again, you lean forward.

Sunday watches you the entire time.

Your lips part softly as you blow against the unlit cigarette, the paper fluttering faintly beneath your breath.

A quiet silence follows.

Then Sunday lowers his hand.

“Happy birthday.”

See, when you were about, let's say 11, the tiny little allowances you collected over the years gathered up to be enough money to buy a DVD from the store and put it into your device. You played the visual novel "Please don't bite me, Mister Vampire!" With startruck awe at the artstyle. Only now do you realize little you's blaringly bad game choices.

Seriously, what was wrong with this game?!

The random gore that just popped out of nowhere, extremely horrific visuals that brought every 11/13 year olds the terror of their lives, generally boring plot. Sure, you did skim through the content warnings, but the creators of this fucking visual novel purposefully made the cover all cutesy and rose pink as a false sense of security, if only to search for more little girls tricked by the sight. Hey, at least no incest or rape! A really low fucking bar, but a bar nonetheless.

Truly, you only picked this up, dusty and musty and covered in cobwebs, to take a trip down memory lane. Make fun of the plot, the characters, so on and so forth. Heck, when you found out it had a manga and anime, you binged that too. Somehow they made the anime even worse, and your hope for humanity was already low, but the rate of which it dwindled would have any businessman who looked at the graphs in visceral pain.

You hadn't meant it when you fell asleep scrolling through all the scandals that went on while you were out of that phase. Hadn't meant on missing your mom's phone call while sleeping, hadn't meant doing anything other than rest your eyes for a while.

Of course, of course, that is the exact moment when life decided that it didn't like you, not even indifference. Pure, despicable hatred.

You know that when the first thing you see isn't the ceiling of your bedroom, something is seriously, horrifically wrong.

Sterile white paint stared back at you instead of the various fandom posters that you usually had. The bed was in all forms of lumpy and uncomfortable, and you could practically feel the wood of the frame from the mattress. The blanket was thin, poorly stitched like a cheap rag, and most of all-

You weren't in the clothes you slept in.

The material was completely different, instead of the comfortable cotton that you've grown used to, it was those scratchy, cheap fabric that had you urging to peel off your skin from the unbearable itchiness. It also, wasn't a t shirt and sweatpants that you slept in- no it was a night gown. The long sleeved ones scrunched up at the hem of the sleeves. Instead of shorts, the fabric touching your legs felt like a bunch of folds crumpled together to make one semi- coherent pant-set up, and you swore that when you picked up the long top it looked frighteningly similar to bloomers.

Bloomers. The horrifically old fashioned pants that women used to wear underneath their skirts when bicycling in the 20th (or was it 19th?) century.

What the actual fuck.

You shot up like a bouncy spring, nearly falling off of the shitty mattress that did nothing to cushion you when your muscles strained for a bit. Scrambling to the hardwood floors (another red flag, your floor was of concrete), the dim lighting of the moon did little to slow down how frantically you paced across the room in less than a minute.

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck-

Okay, pause. Calm down your breathing or whatever. Were you kidnapped? No, you don't think there are any signs that that the potential kidnappers well, kidnapped you. Your wrists and feet were free to move and didn't have that distinct red print that indicated rope burn. No signs of any drugs in your system either, even if exhaustion was stabbing into your head like an annoying prick you felt lucid enough to know that there were no drugs intoxicating you.

And besides, what fuckass kidnapper would put you in a nightgown and bloomers? Maybe it was a weird fetish, a thought that you didn't want to focus more than 2 seconds on. And besides, any cosplay items for bloomers were expensive. This poor quality could not have ever been sold anywhere in the market.

You also really hoped that your mom was at least concerned enough to wonder why you haven't answered the calls (at least, you think she called you) and began searching your disappearance. To take another look at the room, it didn't look like a basement or cellar like you usually would've thought you'd be in, but strangely enough, a medical facility.

What medical facility didn't keep IVs and other patients and nurses on staff was beyond you. But blinking away the heavy weight of sleep in your eyes this place looks strangely familiar...

Well, no time to dwell on that. You might as well explore the tiny room.

There were two doors leading to two different areas, and from one of them you could hear the distinct hollowness of it that indicated a hallway of sorts. Which. Nope, you weren't that big of a risk taker to stumble right into a potential unknown variable. So, second door it was.

You could feel the rust of the copper when you turned the knob into.. not a bathroom, surprisingly enough. A giant mirror overtook your sight, and instead of the basins and sinks, it was just a long wooden table with an old fashioned first aid kit tucked away in a corner, a pile of old looking nurse uniforms, and most of all, when you looked at the mirror-

Your haggard reflection stared right back at you.

Your cheeks were hollow and sunken in, as if you hadn't eaten for days at a time. Your nails were black, grime and dust and dirt stuck underneath them instead of the usual decent presentation you made yourself look like, your hair was in all forms out of the place (and was that a piece of scrap fabric on your hair?), of course the nightgown and bloomers looked all the more out of place. Your skin looked greyer, far more desaturated, and you looked like a dead woman.

A dead woman...

Immediately you checked your pulse. Was this just your vivid hallucinations before death?

But it remained its usual pace, slightly beating faster at your panic.

So, you had now idea where you were, why you're here, what was going on or how you were going to get out of this place. When you tugged at your collar, however, you were met with a scar that looked like someone had dragged a knife across your skin. But it was too jagged, too accidental to look like a kidnapper did it or whatever. In fact, with the small cuts branching out from the main gash, it didn't exactly look like what one would expect from any normal weapon.

"Oh dear! Miss (Name) is out of bed!"

You froze. Who the hell was that, why did they know your name, how why-

The sound of their footsteps echoed throughout the floor, and your feet silently moved without your permission. Untying the rag on your hair, you tied it again around the knob of the door. There wasn't any chair that you could've used to lodge it into place, but it would have to do. Now to find a weapon...

Your eyes locked onto the first aid kit. Well, it should have antiseptic that would burn the eyes, or at least a needle.

Nimble hands unzipped the bag and rummaged through the whole stock of supplies. Your ears perked up when you heard the struggle of hand against metal, and you furiously messed up the casing to find at least something. At last, a needle pricked your skin, and ignoring your gasp of sharp pain and the blood trickling down the wound, you gripped it taut against sweaty palms even as it threatened to slip.

Not exactly the best of weapons but maybe you could poke someone's eyeball out with it-

The door kicked down with a large thump and you were met with the sight of a woman with a bun in her hair, ginger curls framing her face, and wide green eyes staring back at you. Her posture was relaxed, no doubt used to the sight of people threatening her with a needle somehow, and her frown at the sight of the blood dripping onto the floor surprisingly reminded you of your mother.

"Ugh! I can't believe as soon as you'd wake up you'd go to the vanity room like a bloody maniac! How did you even get your hands on that needle? Maybe the crash affected you more than expected..."

But the only thing you could think of right now was-

"Who the fuck are you?" And you swore that you've never seen color drain from someone's face that fast in your life.

A pink system screen floated behind the doctor's head, and you had to carefully curate your face so as to not scowl.

Right, pause, rewind and play. There was no reason for you to get ahead of yourself when you were barely lucid in the first place- with how much your heart was racing and how frantically your brain searched your thoughts.

Case in point, it was a good idea to read and watch all those Isekai villainess fiction, because now you're sure that you've somehow magicked yourself into a shitty dating sim. Not even a popular one in fact, so you didn't even know of any secret Easter eggs that might've helped you.

Maybe you should've listened to your gut that taking a trip down memory lane wasn't as good of an idea as you thought.

You're not sure how you're taking all of this so well, maybe that was a testament to just how numb you've gotten when changing dimensions doesn't even phase you anymore. Don't get you wrong, you still wanted to find a way home but-

Maybe you just needed a hot minute to process this, when you forced your emotions bubbling in your throat down and had to forcefully encounter the doctor who was checking your pulse and the prick on your fingerprint.

"How do you feel, Miss (Name)?"

The doctor was a green haired man, with weirdly enough a snake wrapped around his neck. He looked professional enough, but you weren't sure how long you could rely on a medical system made by an otome game, and most importantly of all, in the past. His name was b-somethimg that you've ultimately decided that learning the name of was pointless.

"Numb I suppose, doctor."

"Oh please do call me Baizhu," he chuckled into his hand, and you had to force your eye not to twitch in irritation. You've been sat on your ass on this stupid lumpy mattress long enough to feel like you were going to rip your nerves off of your body if you didn't take a move around. But of course you couldn't. Calm down (Name)! Couldn't let yourself give into your own impulse and kick the doctor away when he checked your pulse for the millionth time. Just had to be a polite little lady for the game system to lower their guard, allowing you to punch the shit out of that stupid pink screen.

In fact, in a font that you've forgotten the name of, the whole system was showering you with congratulations on "making the transfer correctly without any adverse effects!" And how they're "so glad to have another player in their midsts!" Which, another? The fuck?? Does that mean that other poor people got trapped by this malicious ai or whatever?

"Hmm, the memory loss is unfortunately something expected with the trauma of the accident. Though I didn't quite expect you to forget everything, we'll try our hardest to accommodate your circumstances."

Right, so fun fact about this world's "you", you were apparently a maid for a wealthy and influential family and were going to get some supplies, when suddenly a nobleman's car crashed into you, causing all of those scars on your torso and forehead and your supposed "memory loss". Looks like rich people were assholes in every universe, though you aren't sure what to make with that when the male lead was a nobleman himself.

One things for certain though is that you weren't every going to follow the system's plans. No following every rule like an obedient dog just because you had a perfect blank canvas to follow people around with.

"I'll come around for another check up again, Miss (Name)."

Ah you zoned out, that must've been the cause for that unnerved exprsession on his face. The doctor and his creepy ass snake left the room, and as soon as he did so you flopped onto the uncomfortable mattress and screamed into the horrible cushioning. Actually screamed. Screamed so hard in fact it felt like someone used a cheese grater in your throat in various positions to scratch it raw, leaving your vocal chords absolutely feeling like shit. You were sure that the various nurses entered the room in concern, but none of them became close enough to interrupt your frustration. Which, good, or else you'd bite their hand off.

You didn't even realize the tears in your eyes until you lifted your head from the off white sheets.

The nurses refused to leave you alone after your crash out.

Majority of them just brought you your porridge throughout the day, making sure to add on a glass of warm water for your evidently hoarse throat. Even then, at least one of them kept you company to talk about all the happenings going on in the city. A huge relief, your memory about the visual novel needed to be refreshed anyway.

The doctor came sometimes, gave you pills and asked you to perform some motor exercises for your shoulder, with the giant scar there after all. One day, he gave you a sheet of paper to read, and when you did so he muttered under his breath about how "she couldn't read as long as I could tell in my files.." which, oops? What was one even supposed to say to that except acknowledging with a careless shrug?

It had been a week since you've gotten here, but now you were starting to get ansty.

It started small. You'd look into the mirror sometimes and note how different you looked from the other universe to this one. You were definitely malnourished, vitamin deficient, and definitely lacking in the growth sector. You got tired more easily than you did before, which, gods how shitty was this life that you just felt miserable for the whole time you've been here?

Then it got more serious. You picked at the callouses of your palms, drawing blood and watching the dried skin peel off and the wound stinging with pain. Your nails were effectively trimmed and any and all sharp objects were kept out of your vicinity.

Then you spent time observing the maids and nurses. You'd note their different hair colours, body types, the number of freckles on their cheeks. One time, you had asked a nurse if she had worked in a match factory before by staring at the state of oxidized phosphorus underneath her nails, but she only gasped in horror at your observation and ran away as soon as possible.

You never saw her near you again after that.

Eventually, the number of nurses willing to look after poor old you dwindled, and you were only met with the sight of the ginger woman who you saw earlier. She was currently feeding you the porridge, which, rude. You could handle eating by yourself just fine.

"So," she began, dabbing the corners of your mouth with a handkerchief, "I heard the butler of your old workplace wants you back into working with them."

You paused. She only shrugged.

"Well, I don't mind going back to working," if only to find a way to stop this system from being so cryptic. Seriously, what were you supposed to do when it kept blaring messages to go back to the manor, you couldn't even escape your own sterile room without a staff member running down your tail.

"Are you sure?" Somehow you knew that she wasn't talking about your physical capabilities. You've already done great progress on stretching the muscles of your shoulder, but come on! Just because you were bored one time doesn't mean you were going to do it again! The bandages on your palms weren't even for a serious reason, despite the blood coating them.

"Positive."

"Well..." She dragged off. You had already finished your meal by now, gulping down the glass of water with much fervor. "I mean, I suppose I can't do anything about it if the patient agrees, but are you sure you'll be okay? You just experienced a traumatic memory loss."

"I'll be fine," you had to stop yourself from sounding too annoyed. She didn't know that there was no chance for you to get triggered and recall your memories again.

"... I'll ask the madam to arrange a meeting of sorts." Aand you didn't even realize she left your room, carrying away the trays with a contemplative expression.

At least you had your thoughts to yourself. You brought the candle to your face and blew it out, emitting any light entering the room. Alas, thinking would have to be in another day, you have to go through a job interview tomorrow.

"The doctors said you would be discharged by the end of this week, would you like to return to the manor by this time?"

The man in front of you remained concise and cohesive, yet exuded an air of minute friendliness, and just by staring at his uniform you could tell he was the head butler. You hummed into your cup of tea, scrolling through the magazine pages whilst hoping he doesn't notice your apparent anxiety. The pink system screen was blaring with multiple warning signs about how if you failed in this whole thing you would be "discarded of" or whatever. You didn't want that of course, heck you had no idea what being discarded of even meant. But who were you to question a system that could make your life (or death) more miserable than it already is?

"If you will allow me, I know that the sight of me restless at the hospital with no memory in sight is not the most convincing but I assure you that I won't let you down. Or at least I'll try not to."

The butler only looked contemplative. Jeez, if you thought your nerves with the doctor was bad, this was even worse.

"I heard you somehow learned how to write despite your files indicating that you were illiterate."

You winced. Yeesh, straight to the point then.

"I don't know... It's just something about pattern recognition you know? I have no idea who I was in my past life," you had to stop yourself from cracking a small smile at the irony of it all. "But I do think that we can only strive forward for the future."

You made sure to keep some of your whimsy in your tone, just to show how hopeful or easy to mold you were to be accepted back into working. Who cares about being called bipolar? Blaming everything on memory loss was the easiest thing in your life.

"Hmm. Do you suppose you could write? How well can you move your arms and fingers?"

"Ah doctor said my physical therapy was coming along nicely. I'm not sure about writing though..."

Well this was going to be hard. Feigning being a novice in writing, especially when you wrote fast with terrible handwriting was nerve wrecking, to say the least. But then you had to remind yourself that lying was going to save your guts if you continued on staying in this virtual reality simulation or whatever for like a week or something.

"May I check?" Aand he began taking out the notepad in his briefcase. Still, you nodded nonetheless, gulping down the bile in your throat in exchange for making sure your hands looked shaky, artificial as it may have been. Or maybe it could've been real with your own paranoia.

You made sure with utmost care that your grip on the charcoal pencil was weak, uncertain, the strokes of dye against cheap paper floundering about. You're not sure how fake it may have seemed to the man, but luckily enough with his hums of slight disappointment yet begrudging approval he definitely didn't notice anything odd.

"Well, we can always work on your writing but I'd say you've got a good grasp on it." The internal cheering in your head only grew louder. "I, of course, can't in good conscience make you do all this menial labour with your injuries but it wouldn't be so bad to work on the documents with the other workers no? Lord knows we need the help with how incompetent the others are."

"I suppose... It wouldn't be so bad. I'm already a bit restless from staying here for so long," the system at least stopped crashing out, you noted. The butler only nodded, before picking up his briefcase and leaving the room.

"Get well soon, Lady (Name)."

You didn't respond, only plopping down back into the bed and pulling the covers over your head.

When the gates of Raiden manor greeted you in all its glory, you couldn't suppress the twitch in your eye.

His announcement reaped no response, no reply at all— the air trapped within the walls remained unbearably still, accompanied by the lack of any reaction, as though there was no other soul in this space other than the executive himself. But that wasn't the case, Chuuya knew better than such. The silence stretched on as he treaded further, his footsteps nearing the living room.

And that's where he found you, seemingly limp from where you lay on the couch. The television was muted despite being visibly turned on.

"Alright, enough of this crap." you heard him scoff, followed by the sounds of his soles heading towards you on the couch. The cushions sank for he now occupied the blank space next to you. "You know I don't like it when you're all upset. So? Talk to me, love." His gloved hand settles against your thigh, thumb tapping impatiently.

"It's just something stupid.... Nothing to fuss about, really."

"It's obviously something for me to fuss about if you're gonna be all pouty with me." Chuuya clicks his tongue, a habit of his in which he frequents when his frustration is not to be vented with fists. You perceive the familiar texture of his gloved fingers take ahold of your chin before you can look away again, tilting your face toward him with surprising gentleness. "Out with it, who or what pissed you off?"

".. Someone in your squadron.."

The concern etched across Chuuya's face sharpens into something far less gentle, a faint scowl settling onto his features as his expression darkens. "Who?" the words leave his mouth in a low mutter, his irritation evident in his vocals.

"No idea. Didn't catch his name."

"Tch. What'd he say?"

Silence lingers for a second too long before you finally answer.

"He called me your weakness." you mumbled so quietly he had barely heard the phrase. "Said I was dragging you down and that you'd be better off with someone stronger. On top of that, he had the nerve to call me a bitch."

"What kinda bullshit is that? That asshole— I swear I'll give him what he deserves." His hand slips away from your cheek, only to find your own not even seconds later. Chuuya intertwines your fingers without wait, grip secure and reassuring in a way only he could ever manage, in a way only he could ever sought to provide. For reasons you can name, his touch always carried a quiet promise of safety— as though the moment he held you close, nothing else in the world could truly reach you.

"You really let yourself get all bummed out over that?" the pads of his lengthy fingers glide against your knuckles as he continues- "Don't listen to idiots who don't know a damn thing about you. And if you even dared to think that I would agree with him, you're so goddamn wrong."

"But what he said was true in a way, I'm not saying that—"

"Listen to me, doll. What he said will never be true, get that?" The irritation lingering in his expression softens the moment your eyes meet his, dissipating to mutate into a kinder shape. "You're not some burden I'm dragging around, drill that in your pretty little head." he mutters, brows drawing together.

A beat of silence passes, you could only smile gently. "Thanks for easing my worries, Chuuya."

"Don't thank me yet, doll. What do you say you come with me at work tomorrow? Point out the dumb bastard who said all those things, yeah?" a smirk creeps onto his features, a telltale of the schemes in his head. "I'll hold them down with gravity so you could get a good punch, or two."

Osamu Dazai

An impudent fool, one must be if one ever assumes they have the set of skills to delude the Osamu Dazai. And an impudent fool, you certainly are. A fool to believe you've successfully hid your worries from the gawking pair of eyes, a particular specimen of doofus to believe he had never noticed.

A desperate attempt was made to drown out his question, to have it blur into the background of clacking keyboard keys. "You knoooow," his words were drawled, "you've been awfully mopey ever since you came home, it's personally affecting me!" He remained unmoving from his location in the room, a place somewhere behind you that you don't dare to pinpoint.

A response, he did hope to get, but what reached his ears was the mere hum of a troubled mind. You offer nothing more than a pathetic excuse of a reply, an incoherent sound that leaves him sighing. With your eyes so stubbornly fixated upon the luminated laptop screen before you, it was easy for Dazai to slip his slim fingers around your wrist, gentle but demanding as he pulls away your hand from the keyboard. 

The rapid typing gradually tapers off until silence settles across the room, broken only by the soft sound of Dazai breathing beside you. You tilt your head upward to meet Dazai's gaze, the chair beneath you creaking softly as he stands at your side beside the desk. Towering over you from where you sat, he leans down just enough for strands of dark brown hair to fall into his eyes, his attention fixed solely on you with an intensity far gentler than his teasing tone suggested.

"Now then, can we finally discuss what's gotten you all sulky? Hm?" Before you had the chance to voice out a disagreement, Dazai beat you to it. "Ah, ah— No denying it. Let me pry at your brain, kay, my belladonna?" His free hand slips around your remaining wrist before you can retreat back toward the safety of your keyboard. With a dramatic sigh, Dazai gently tugs you upright from the chair, guiding you away from the desk and toward the bed with an ease that leaves little room for protest.

The mattress dips beneath your weight the moment he settles you atop it. Only after making sure you're seated comfortably does Dazai lower himself beside you, close enough for his shoulder to brush against yours. One arm stretches lazily across the bed behind you while the other remains loosely wrapped around your hand, thumb absentmindedly tracing slow circles against your skin as though attempting to soothe thoughts you hadn't yet spoken aloud.

"There. Now, would you care to tell me what's bothering you?"

And just like that, you break. The composed façade you've manufactured, easily does it crumble in the face of your partner. All resistance fades away into the abyss beneath the warmth of Dazai's touches. "Osamuuuuu..," Your breath hitches softly as you lean toward him on instinct, forehead nearly falling against his shoulder. "I want to quit my job at this point...!!"

"Quit? Why would you say something so dreadful like that?

"My boss keeps giving me absolute bullshit! She's just so..!" The earlier softness of yours sags away to be replaced by irritation at the mere thought of her. "She's so mean to me, y'know that? Keep dumping workload after workload onto me, and always scolding me for getting things done sloppily! She's doing this on purpose, and she knows it!"

"Samu, I swear I didn't even do anything to her," you mumble miserably, leaning further into his side. "She just kept going on and on about how I'm talentless and annoying and—"

Your voice falters slightly.

"I dunno... it just got to me, I guess."

Dazai exhales quietly through his nose before tugging you closer against him. "Belladonna," he murmurs, resting his chin atop your own head "you do understand that none of the things that she says about you is true, right?" he chuckles, and somehow, manages a smile. "Do you want me to provide her a much needed scare? I can handle a bossy bitch, ask Kunikida about that!" 

"No way. She'll just say I'm hiding behind my boyfriend."

"How distasteful! She's just jealous of you. People like hurting things they envy, and I don't blame her for envying you. Ah, my belladonna is just so perfect, just so utterly amazing!", says he with a cheery tone. It manages to sow a chuckle out of the depths of your throat. "You're nothing like what she says you are, remember that or I'll have to drill it in myself."

"Mhm, thank you so much, Osamu."

After that conversation, it takes less than a week for your boss to disappear from the company entirely. Dazai offers no explanation when you bring it up, merely smiling into his cup of coffee with an expression far too pleased to be deemed as innocent with the matter.

Ranpo Edogawa

A benignant, and good-natured person— is an incarnation that you have always toiled towards. You weave through every action of yours with such an ideal in mind, aiming to perform the warmth of a million suns, striving to provide a place of pleasantry. But sometimes, people possess a peculiar talent for dismantling your self-restraint piece by piece, until all that remains is the ugly edge of irritation.

The world you've been so kind to was not in the mood to reflect such a kindness back. Ranpo understood the scene the moment you returned from your case. To the detective, piecing it together was hardly more difficult than watching a murder unfold through a clear lens in real time. 

It was painfully obvious to anyone who has the equivalent of three braincells. Every twitch of your expression, every upset sigh that left your mouth in secrecy, each and every pout of yours— Ranpo treats them as if they were evidence to a bigger picture, all of it laid itself bare before his emerald eyes with an embarrassing ease. The picture came to light in no time at all.

There was no mystery to solve here. Or at least, it was already unraveled the moment you walked through the door.

The master detective bided his time until the shine of dusk seeped into the Agency's office, with not a soul present except you and him. Everyone else has already finished their designated reports, excluding you for the simple rationale that your spirits are in the gutters.

"Ughhh, can you stop being all sad now? It's starting to disrupt my mood too, ya know! Really, can't a man eat peacefully without the atmosphere souring?" the man exclaimed from his signature spot behind his desk, one hand fraying in an exaggerated manner, whereas his other was buried deep into a packaging of chips. Not far from his own station, was your own desk— which is why you couldn't possibly comprehend the need to say such a thing with excessive volume.

The sound of aggressive typing dies down at last, leaving only the rustle of plastic coming from Ranpo's package of salted crisps. A sigh came from your own lips, one can say you've been anticipating this confrontation from the genius all along.

"I'm sorry if I'm bothering you, Ranpo. Let's go home after this report so you can rest—"

"Ah tut-tut-tut!" The raven-haired man arose from the comfort of his seat, abruptly so, the chair groaned with how forceful he stood up. Wearing an inconvenienced expression, and with his hands folded, he treaded to your side from where you're sat. "I didn't ask for an apology, did I? Clearly, you're not the problem here. So don't even think about uttering a word of apology!" Ranpo jabbed a finger in your direction, placing himself on the wooden surface of your desk.

"It was your client from today's case that got under your skin, wasn't it? Don't let him get to you, he's a real pain to handle, even Fukazawa is hesitant to provide him service." 

"Come now, fess up. No point in lying."

You release a breath you didn't even know you were taking ahold of. "He just... He just kept talking to me like I was incompetent. Can you believe that?! He treated me as if I was lower than him as a human, Ranpo!"

"I know. The man's just really set back in intelligence.", says he, and you feel your hair being toyed with by his worn fingers. 

"I don't think I can handle another case from him. He called me stupid right to my face, who even does that to people?"

"Huh?! How much of a moron is he capable of being!" Ranpo stares at you for a long moment before making the most offended face imaginable. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard! Did he hit his head or was he born with half a brain? Unbelievable, I say!"

You stare up at him where he is looming above you, his leverage rooting from his position on your table. Evident through his movements, his disbelief, as well as annoyance. His next movements are as listed;

Ranpo reached forward without warning, fingers pressing into your cheeks until your face was awkwardly squished between his hands. The motion forced your gaze upward, leaving you no room to avoid him as he tugged you closer with surprising insistence. Then, leaning down just enough to invade your space, his narrowed eyes searched your expression with shameless scrutiny. His eyes are wide open to unveil the treasure of green hiding beneath his eyelids.

"Don't listen to people who are obviously less intelligent than me. Which is almost everyone, actually. And in no universe are you, (y/n), stupid! You being my beloved should already say so."

"Yeah— it's not like I believed him on that part.. But, I appreciate it, Ranpo. You're the best."

"...Haha! Of course, I'm just that great with this stuff. All in a day's work, really. So? Anything else you have to say to the greatest partner ever?"

"Oh, shut it."

Ryuunosuke Akutagawa

The mission had already ended roughly twenty minutes prior to the current time. Crimson spills had long since dried into ugly brownish tinted stains upon the fabric of your clothing, yet the evident scent of iron tickles your sense of smell nevertheless— blood and cruelty still stubbornly linger amidst the air between you and the pale man, clinging to your conscience with nauseating persistence.

The life of the city continues regardless.

You trail half a step behind Akutagawa as the two of you walk through Yokohama's quieter streets— accompanying you two, nothing but the faint howl of the wind, and the rustling of leaves. The moon shone upon the asphalt pavement with a mystifying, gentle gleam, granting the night and your path illumination. There were also streetlights flickering faintly overhead, but they fail at bringing forth the same beauty the moon does.

Despite the mission's completion, the words uttered by your target refused to leave you in peace, replaying themselves over and over with suffocating clarity.

Weak, he said. 

A liability.

Nothing more than dead weight beside the renowned Akutagawa Ryuunosuke of the Port Mafia. Your dread roots from the fact that what he said is not so hard to believe. 

A bullet had long since been embedded within the man's skull, yet the words he uttered before dying remained painfully alive within your own. Akutagawa still walks ahead, dark coat fluttering behind him. Normally, you'd sped up and closed the distance by now. You hadn't, and Akutagawa ends up noticing even if it were against his wishes to do so.

His footsteps halt their collision with the pavement, they stop completely. "You allow the ramblings of an already deceased man to bother you." He turns around to face you fully. "The words of a man like him are worthless. You should know there is no reason to dwell any further."

"Huh? I'm totally fine, Ryu! I do appreciate it though."

“Don’t lie.” His voice remained flat, almost unimpressed. “You’ve never been particularly good at it.” Akutagawa stepped closer afterward, the distance between you shrinking when subjected beneath the weight of his stare.

"Tell me, did you truly believe what he said for even a second?"

Silence answered him.

No reply came forth from your lips, yet the hesitation lingering within your expression was answer enough. Akutagawa clicked his tongue quietly at that, irritation flickering briefly across his face before vanishing just as quickly beneath his usual cold composure.

The insult left his lips with no genuine cruelty.

He stepped closer afterward until the suffocating weight of his presence settled directly before you. Black fabric stirred faintly at his side, Rashōmon shifting like a living shadow in response to its master’s displeasure.

"That man died groveling in his own blood,” Akutagawa continued coldly. “And yet you allow his final words to linger within your mind as though they hold meaning.”

"The opinions of the weak hold no value. He is the weak one, not you." A pause, as though he might regret his next words. "Why else would I value your feelings if I hadn't thought so in the first place? You're strong. Hearing it from me should be enough." Without another word, he reached down to take your hand, the gesture stiff— almost unfamiliar— coming from someone like him.

"The next time someone's phrases bother you, they'll be met with Rashōmon's blade. Have I made myself clear?"

Michizou Tachihara

Smoke curled upward before dissipating into the cold twilight air, the bitter scent of nicotine lingering faintly against your senses. It was not a habit you often permitted yourself to indulge in, cigarettes had always been more of an occasional vice than a genuine addiction— yet tonight felt deserving of small exceptions. The exhaustion settled neatly beneath your limbs. The condescending insults of a prideful man who you wished would be lying dead several streets away gnawing unyieldingly into the back of your conscience.

You crushed the burning end of the cigarette against the ashtray resting atop the balcony railing, watching faint embers crumble into mere ash. Leaning upon said railing, you feel the cold wind hit your face. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps. From the confidence in the stride, you're able to deduce exactly who's soles are hitting the floor.

“Yo—” Tachihara grimaced faintly as he stepped out onto the balcony, one hand shoved lazily into his pocket while the other rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Ugh, hey there, pretty.” His gaze flickered toward the cigarette between your fingers before settling properly on your face. “You okay?”

"Kinda not."

"Yeahh, I'd guessed as much. You don't smoke unless you're upset.", uttered he whilst stepping into place beside you. "So..? You wanna talk 'bout it now or..—"

What reached his ears first is a sigh, then the words— "Some asshole kept screaming at me during the raid mission earlier. Damn bastard kept yelling about how I was just in the way."

“That asshole serious?” The irritation in Tachihara’s voice is immediate, though it softens slightly the moment he notices your expression. “C’mon,” he says, bumping his shoulder lightly against yours. “Don’t tell me you actually listened to that bullshit.”

"Of course not... But—", your voice stammers. "I-i don't know."

Tachihara clicks his tongue. The gleam of the moon endowed his stature with an elegance you've never witness him adorn. "Hah? The guy was obviously a prick, (y/n). People just start barking the second things get messy." You barely had time to react before his fingers closed around your chin, turning your face upward with surprising care hidden beneath the roughness of the gesture.

"I'm sure you did great, yeah? Trust me, if you were actually useless, I’d be the first one saying it." His grip loosened slightly, though he made no move to pull away entirely. Instead, his thumb brushed once against your cheek in absent thought before he seemed to realize what he was doing. It was only then did his touch leave your skin.

The cigarette remained untouched between your fingers, ash threatening to collapse at any given moment. Ironically enough, the supposed comfort you sought through nicotine had begun to fade the instant Tachihara stepped beside you.

Perhaps escapism had never truly existed within the smoke curling through the air.

Perhaps it had been standing next to you all along, clad in a military green crop jacket that has beige fur around the collar.

You giggle, "I think I'm starting to prefer this comforting side of you."

Tachihara snorted immediately at that, though the faint redness creeping onto his face betrayed him almost instantly. He looked away with an annoyed click of his tongue, one hand coming up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck.

"For real?" he scoffed. "You think you'd like me even when I'm beating up that son of a bitch you're talking 'bout?"

"Hmmm," You pretended to think for a moment before straightening slightly from the railing. "I think I'd love you more."