j.

Chuuya Nakahara

Osamu Dazai

Ranpo Edogawa

Atsushi Nakajima

Ryuunosuke Akutagawa

"Geez, you really have a coffee problem." She said, stepping closer until she was right at your side, her presence warm and familiar.

You didn’t answer, too distracted by the machine finally finishing your drink. You took your usual oversized mug into your hands, feeling the comforting heat seep into your palms, the rich aroma curling up and settling your nerves. You took a sip with a relieved sigh, eyes fluttering shut for a second, almost like your life force was slowly being poured back into you.

Yosano watched you with soft eyes, a quiet fondness settling in her expression. She noticed more than she let on. Her gaze would drift to you throughout the day, subtle, almost instinctive, checking if you were alright. The moment she saw you stand up from your desk earlier, she already knew exactly where you were going and why.

In your satisfied haze, you failed to notice her properly at first. It was only after another sip that you finally looked at her.

"Hey—" you started, blinking once. "Is that my shirt?"

"Huh?" Yosano glanced down, then let out a small, amused breath as she realized. "Oh. Yeah, I guess it is." She smiled, completely unbothered.

"You can't do that!" You complained, but there was no real bite to it. If anything, your body felt warmer now, and it wasn’t just the coffee.

"You take my stuff all the time!" She countered immediately.

"I do not!"

"Yes, you do! You're wearing my boots right now!"

"What?" You frowned, then finally looked down.

Sure enough, there they were.

You were so caught up in everything you had to get done that you hadn’t even noticed.

"Oh" You breathed, almost laughing under your breath. "I didn’t even realize."

"See? You steal my things, I steal yours." She leaned in a little, her voice lowering just enough to feel intentional. "It’s a relationship based on balance."

She grinned, and something in your stomach flipped in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine.

"Shut up." You nudged her shoulder lightly with your free hand, but it did nothing to actually create space between you.

She knew you so well it was almost unsettling sometimes. Not that you didn’t know her just as well. After working together for so long, you’d grown close, closer than you ever really stopped to think about. When she wasn’t around, you felt it immediately, the absence of her voice, her presence, even the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the room. Her strange habits, her sharp humor, the way she carried herself with that quiet confidence you’d come to rely on.

You were friends, yes, but the way her eyes lingered on you, the way she noticed every little change in your mood, the way she missed your touch when it wasn’t there… it went beyond that, even if she didn’t say it out loud.

What you didn’t know was that she felt the same.

"You look nice today." Her voice softened slightly, the teasing easing just enough to let something more honest slip through.

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at her, really looked, taking in the small details you’d grown so familiar with without even realizing it. Then, slowly, you found your voice again.

"Maybe I could look nicer if I had my shirt." You took another sip of your coffee, eyes still fixed on hers, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"Oh, quit whining!" She straightened up, placing her hands on her hips, but there was a hint of a smile she couldn’t quite hide. "Next time I’ll steal your pants too."

You laughed, the sound coming easier than anything else had all day.

She could do that so effortlessly, pull you out of your own head, make everything feel lighter. For a moment, you almost forgot about the stack of work waiting for you.

Dazai is over three hours late to work, but in his defense, it’s his birthday, and not even Kunikida is cruel enough to scold Dazai on his birthday. Still, he very much expects dirty looks from the man, and maybe a few loud comments about his terrible work ethic, but that’s just Kunikida. If he wasn’t giving Dazai dirty looks and making loud comments, Dazai would be concerned.

Which is why when he steps into the office at half past twelve and is met with dead silence, Dazai knows something is wrong. He shuts the door quietly behind him and looks around warily, trying to figure out what’s going on. There’s no sign of forced entry or any fighting—there’s an untouched stack of papers in the waiting area that he assumes are from a new client, and a hot coffee still steaming next to it. 

It’s all so unassuming, it’s what he expects coming into work, but it’s too quiet. He can’t hear Naomi bothering Tanizaki, he can’t hear Yosano complaining about the stick up Kunikida’s ass or Kunikida promptly scolding her for her language, he can’t hear Kyouka, Kenji, and Atsushi chatting away whenever Kunikida is pulled away by something. There’s no furious typing from the clerks as they fix all of the mistakes in the reports being filed, and there’s no sighing when they think they finish, only to realize that there’s another report, likely one of Dazai’s, waiting for them to edit.

It’s too quiet, and that’s how Dazai knows something is seriously wrong.

When he steps into the office, he almost expects nobody to be there—maybe they were all called out to some emergency mission, and Dazai is going to have to race to catch up with them. 

What he doesn’t expect is finding his coworkers all sitting stiffly and silently in their seats, and a heavy Port Mafia presence all over the room. Hirotsu is leaning against the far back wall, a cigarette dangling between his lips, Gin is hanging over Haruno, carelessly playing with one of her knives, and Tachihara is trying to convince Atsushi to play a game of cards with him as if Akutagawa isn’t looming right behind him. 

If it were just the Black Lizards, Dazai thinks that they’d probably fight back, but naturally, the red-headed slug is here too, leaning up against the wall with Hirotsu, arms crossed and a bored expression on his face. Dazai’s eyes narrow when Chuuya gives him a smirk that’s far too smug, but the insult on his lips dies when his eyes land on the last person in the room.

You’re sitting on top of his desk, a pretty smile on your lips and a glitter in your eyes that promises no good. You look beautiful, and Dazai’s chest feels all warm and fuzzy—he hasn’t seen you in a few weeks now because you’ve been abroad dealing with pressure from some foreign organizations, and he didn’t think you’d be back for his birthday. He’s so enamored by the sight of you that he almost doesn’t catch the glint of metal on your lap or the way Kunikida is sitting tense at his desk next to where you’re lounging.

“Hey,” you say easily, like there isn’t a gun in your lap pointed at his coworker, safety off, finger firm on the trigger, ready to pull it at a moment’s notice. “Happy birthday.”

“What-” Dazai starts to say, baffled, but flinches when he feels something prick his neck, head snapping to the side to focus on a vaguely familiar figure now standing at his side—your new subordinate, Dazai can’t remember his name. 

Whatever he injected Dazai with works fast, because he’s instantly dizzy, his gaze blurring, and his head all woozy. Just as his knees start to give out, he feels the kid grab under his arms to make sure he doesn’t hit the ground, and he hears you say proudly: “This is a kidnapping.”

---------

In your defense, you really did try to talk things out peacefully with the Armed Detective Agency before resorting to this. 

You weren’t planning on kidnapping Dazai, but you knew he probably didn’t call out of work, and the last thing you needed was to be scolded by Mori for causing any more tension between the Armed Detective Agency and the Port Mafia if they realized that you were the reason Dazai didn’t show up to work. 

Things have been rocky on both sides since the failed transfer—the Agency because the Port Mafia dared to take one of their own, and the Port Mafia because the Agency reneged on their deal and took their member back—but you can’t afford for things to be rocky when things are still incredibly unstable. So instead of just picking up Dazai and leaving for a few days and possibly pissing off the Agency for not giving them any forewarning, you decided to do the right thing and tell them before disappearing with one of their detectives.

Except the President of the Agency isn’t in town. So, you were stuck dealing with that bullheaded blonde who clearly still holds a grudge over the incident with Pushkin and he decided to act on his grudge by making your life as difficult as possible. 

All too smugly, he refused to give Dazai leave for the week because they have an emergency case that needs all hands on deck, and when you offered up Klaus to replace him, much to the boy’s abject horror, he refused. Then you offered up Klaus and Akutagawa, and he still refused. You even proposed giving them Chuuya for the week, and that wasn’t enough, so that’s when you realized he was just being difficult to be petty.

And you doubt the man actually would’ve forced Dazai to miss out on time with you on his birthday, Dazai is his friend and he’s not that much of an asshole. He probably would've okay'd it as soon as Dazai showed up to the office, but he was clearly just trying to be a pain in your ass. And well, you didn’t take that kindly, obviously, so all thoughts of preserving the fragile peace went out the window as you quite promptly demanded all hands on deck for a possible conflict because you were not going to let Kunikida Doppo keep that smug expression on his face for a second longer.

Was Chuuya happy about it? No, you could tell when he gave you a side eye after he showed up, but you knew he wasn’t going to sit by and let the Agency get one over you. So, he was content to stand there as a looming threat, because you were pretty sure that the Black Lizards weren’t going to be enough to scare the Agency into backing down, but the threat of Nakahara Chuuya splattering one of their own against the wall so that there was nothing left for their doctor to revive was more than enough to keep them down.

The Black Lizards and Akutagawa didn’t have the authority to question your orders, and Klaus was more than willing to spill blood at any given moment, so the only thing you have left to worry about is Mori, and you’ll deal with that once you get back from your getaway with Dazai. If Chuuya’s feeling nice, he’ll probably handle it for you, but you don’t think he’s pleased with how you offered him up like a bargaining chip to the Agency.

Your lips curve up into a smile when Klaus tosses Dazai over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Was drugging him unnecessary? Probably, but you didn’t want to deal with his smug ass making comments about the lengths you go to so that you can steal him away for the week the whole way up to the house you and Chuuya bought on the coastline of Hokkaido. It wasn’t just for Dazai—it was your own pride on the line too, it was the principle.

As you motion for Klaus to bring Dazai out to the car, you rise to your feet and look down at Kunikida. You place your gun under his chin to tilt his head up so that he’s looking up at you; he swallows thickly as he glances down at where your finger is still resting on the trigger, throat bobbing before he glowers at you. You give him a too-sweet smile.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” you say, very pleased with yourself. You look back at Chuuya, signalling him to come with you as you put your gun away and start to make your way out of the Agency. You lift your hand in a lazy wave before saying, “I’ll bring him back in a few days.” 

It’s only when the door to the Agency shuts behind you that he finally speaks to you, hands shoved in his pockets as he says dryly, “Mori specifically told us not to antagonize the Agency over the next few weeks.”

“The Agency antagonized me,” you reply airily. “It would’ve been a terrible look for us if we let them walk all over us and come out unscathed. There are already too many rumors circulating in the East about us being weak after the Guild Incident, and now, Dostoevsky, the failed transfer, and the Clocktower—preserving our reputation is more important than relations with the Agency.”

Chuuya barks out a laugh. “You can twist anything to fit your narrative, can't you? If you weren’t an executive, you’d make a great lawyer.”

You raise your eyebrows, unfazed. “It’s not twisting if it’s the truth.”

He scoffs, muttering something under his breath before shaking his head as he holds the door to the cafe open for you. “Right. Next time you decide to ‘preserve our reputation’ through a diplomatic disaster, at least give me a damn warning first.”

“There’s no fun in that,” you say with an easy smile. “Will you deal with Mori while I’m gone?” 

“You’re shameless,” Chuuya tells you flatly. “No, I’m not dealing with Mori. You just tried to pawn me off to the Agency like a fucking mule. You can deal with him.”

“Please.” You flutter your eyelashes at him, pushing your lip out in a pout that has him rolling his eyes. You scowl and then offer, “I’ll take over your mission in Sapporo when I get back.”

“Deal,” Chuuya agrees immediately, reaching out to open the car door for you. You slide inside, and he shuts the door behind you; you immediately roll the window down. He gives you a sharp smile, resting his arms on the car door and leaning in. “I would’ve dealt with him either way.”

“I know because you’re a sucker,” you reply, raising your eyebrows and giving him an equally sharp smile. “I just thought I’d be nice and offer you something in return.”

Chuuya clicks his tongue sharply as he leans back. He stands up straight and gives you a side eye. “Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s a fond smile on his lips. “Enjoy your week with that bastard, you’re gonna be in for hell with Mori once you get back.”

“You don’t need to remind me,” you say dryly, turning to the side as Klaus opens the door to toss Dazai into the car. Literally. “Jesus, Klaus, be a bit more careful with him.”

“No.” Klaus says and then sneers down at Dazai before slamming the door shut behind him.

You shake your head and adjust Dazai into a more comfortable position. He should be out for at least two or three hours—you aren’t quite sure, he’s always had a freaky metabolism, but you don’t know if it’s gotten faster or slower in the four years he was gone. You rest his head in your lap, brushing his hair out of his face. You’ve missed him a lot; you’ve barely been able to see him at all the past few weeks because you’ve been so busy, and your chest aches just at the sight of him in your lap. You turn your gaze back up to the window to find Chuuya staring at you in disgust. Klaus is there too, scowling.

“What is your problem with him?” you ask the boy, giving him a weird look. “You’ve hardly even met him before now.”

“I don’t like him,” Klaus replies, raising his chin.

You stare at him in disbelief, but Klaus only huffs and stalks off, likely to cause chaos elsewhere. Chuuya snorts in amusement, trying to muffle a laugh as he turns his face away. You roll your eyes and fling your hand up dismissively. Klaus has always had something up his ass about Dazai, you never understood why. You’ve learned better than to question what runs through that boy’s head.

“You should get going,” Chuuya says, stepping back from the window. “The jet’s waiting for you.”

“Right,” you agree, stretching your arms and then resting your hand on Dazai’s forehead, fingers carding absently through his hair. “Thanks, Chuuya.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies dryly, turning his back to the car to walk over to where he’d parked his motorcycle. He lifts his hand up in a lazy wave. “See you next week.”

“See you next week.”

---------

Dazai wakes up to the whole world shaking. His heart rate spikes as he shoots up, disoriented and confused. His hand flies to his head, blinking hard to try to clear his blurry vision. He doesn’t even really remember what happened. He remembers waking up late for work and feeling smug because Kunikida couldn’t scold him because it’s his birthday, and he remembers…

Oh.

You.

Dazai glances around, trying to figure out where the hell he is. He’s laying on a white couch in a small room… or, this isn’t a room, is it? There’s a window next to him. Dazai squints at the sudden bright light that blinds him, but he shifts closer to the window so he can look out of it.

He is in the air.

Dazai blanches when he realizes that he’s in a plane. It must be close to landing because the ground is much closer than he expected. He doesn’t recognize the area—there doesn’t seem to be any big cities nearby, only forests and the ocean, so he’s not really sure where you’re bringing him.

He pushes himself out of his seat, stumbling a bit before he catches himself. Whatever you injected him with was strong, but at least now he has something he can whine and complain about. Maybe he’ll be able to convince you to make him the sweet buns you tried baking a few times back when you two were teenagers. You never liked the way they came out, but Dazai had been obsessed with them and was thoroughly upset when you refused to make them every time he asked. 

He salivates a bit at the thought and decides to get a head start on his guilt tripping, making his way over to where you’re sitting. A smile unconsciously pulls at his lips when he sees you sitting a few seats away. Your back is facing him, but he can see you’re focused on your computer, typing furiously with earbuds plugged in your ears. He stumbles once more before kneeling on the seat behind yours, draping himself lazily over the back of it to rest his chin on the top of your head.

His lips part to make a complaint when he pauses, gaze focusing on what exactly it is that you’re doing on your laptop.

Are you on a… video call?

Dazai stares at the screen blankly, recognizing the several faces staring right back at him. Leo Tolstoy looks unbearably amused when he sees Dazai in the frame of the camera, hiding a smile with his hand. An older man who Dazai realizes is Carlo Goldoni raises his eyebrows, lips twitching. Mishima Yukio casually rubs at his lips, pretending he’s not smiling. There are three others, two men and a woman who Dazai doesn’t recognize—they must be new allies of the Port Mafia.

Well, Dazai thinks awkwardly, staring at the screen as he realizes that he just interrupted a meeting between you and several mob bosses. He doesn’t bother moving now, they’ve already seen him, and you don’t seem bothered, considering you don’t immediately shove his face out of view of the camera.

“I’ll contact you all when I’m available again to speak next week,” you say after a moment. “Thank you for meeting.”

You exit the call without waiting for them to answer, taking out the earbuds from your ears. Dazai lifts his chin when he feels you turning your head to look up at him. He gives you a sheepish smile. 

“Did I interrupt?” he asks quietly. 

“No,” you reply. “We’re almost here anyway.”

Dazai shuffles around to sit across from you, resting his arms on the table and his head on top of them. He looks up at you, eyes still a bit droopy from whatever you drugged him with. Your lips curl up into a soft smile, and warmth spreads through Dazai’s chest at the sight of it. His cheeks heat up, so he hides them in his arms and peeks up at you. The smile on your lips becomes a bit fonder, you place your arms on the table, mimicking him, and then rest your head down like he did, peeking up at him the same way as he is at you.

It’s a simple action. A nothing action, really. You’re just mimicking him. Teasing him for being flustered. He doesn’t know why his chest suddenly feels like it's about to cave in. He doesn’t know why he suddenly wants to cry. He doesn’t know why he’s so suddenly and violently reminded of how much he loves you. 

Maybe it’s just because he’s missed you these past few weeks.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper. 

A lump that’s shaped suspiciously like his heart forms in his throat as he looks up at you. He hides his smile behind his arms and says quietly, “You kidnapped me.” Then adds belatedly, “Again.”

“I did,” you agree, eyes glittering with amusement. “It’s a bit of a tradition now, don’t you think?”

“Where are we going?” he asks curiously, hand creeping forward to try to grab yours. He pokes your arm twice; you raise your eyebrows before realizing what he wants and putting your hand in his. Dazai’s fingers slide to your wrist to press against your pulse, feeling the familiar, even thrums and matching his own heartrate to to them.

“To a foreign countryside so I can kill you and dump your body,” you say without pause.

Dazai snorts, lifting your hand to his lips so he can kiss your palm, lashes fluttering shut when your fingers brush over his cheekbone. He says dreamily, “A woman after my own heart.” 

“You’re such a freak,” you say fondly.

“Your freak,” he corrects with a flirty smile before setting your joined hands back down on the table. “I can’t believe you kidnapped me again. And drugged me. I still feel a bit woozy, y’know? How are you going to make it up to me?” 

“A one week escape from work isn’t enough?” you ask dryly.

“Nope,” he agrees, popping the ‘p’. “How about you make me those sweet buns you used to make this week? I haven’t had them in ages, I miss them.”

You squint at him, leaning back in your seat but leaving your hand in his. “Maritozzi?” you ask, and Dazai faintly recognizes the name from back then, so he nods. “What flavor?” 

Dazai pauses and then asks, “Strawberry? Or lemon?” 

“Both?” you offer.

His eyes widen slightly. He didn’t expect you to give in so quickly. Back when you guys were teenagers, he’d whine and ask you to make them and it would turn into a six hour argument of him insisting that he deserves them and you refusing him. 

“That was easier than I expected,” he admits sheepishly. 

“It’s your birthday,” you say like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Again, Dazai’s heart flutters, and he squeezes your hand gently. “The first one we’ve celebrated together in four years. We can stop to get the ingredients on the way to the house.”

The house. Where is it that you’re taking him? Dazai’s mind bounces around with potential answers—far enough that you had to take him on a plane, but not so far that he’s just woken up and its already begun its descent. Dazai has a quick metabolism and a high tolerance for most drugs. You know this and probably would’ve accounted for it, but there’s a large margin of error. You don’t know if his metabolism has gotten quicker or slower over the years apart, and you don’t know if his tolerance has weakened, so you probably didn’t want to risk pushing the dosage anymore than you would’ve four years ago.

Which probably puts the time at… four hours after you injected him? Which would make sense from the position of the sun in the sky. Probably took forty minutes from injection to take off between getting him here and getting everything settled. So a three hour flight? About? Where would that leave you guys? Seoul? No, it couldn’t be—there were no cities anywhere in sight. One of the northern islands then?

“You didn’t answer my question,” he whines. “Where are we going?” 

You hesitate for a moment like you don’t want to tell him, but he pouts and widens his eyes in the way that always makes you give in. You roll your eyes at him exagerratedly, and he gives you a sweet smile in response.

“A property up in Hokkaido,” you finally say. Dazai is smug, realizing his deductions were right, until you continue speaking. “It’s near a small village. Pretty. Me and Chuuya scoped it out and bought it a couple of months ago just to have.”

What. Dazai stares at you blankly, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion, unsure why he suddenly closed off. He narrows his eyes at you, willing away the bitterness that suddenly swells in his chest. It’s sharp and sour, and he definitely doesn’t like it, but when he tries to push it away, it only intensifies. 

“You bought property with Chuuya,” he asks flatly. “You’re taking me to a property that you bought with the slug.”

You roll your eyes. “Stop that,” you say immediately. “I’m taking you to a property that I scoped out because I wanted to bring you here. Chuuya jumped on and offered to pay for half because he wanted a place to escape to outside the city.”

Dazai squints at you, and you raise your eyebrows challengingly. He immediately huffs and looks away, stomach lurching when the plane begins the final part of the descent to the ground. He decides to change the subject instead of pressing, maybe he’ll whine about it some more later.

“So,” he says slowly, voice dropping just enough to catch your attention from the way you tilt your head to the side. “You’ve kidnapped me away from the Agency… to bring me to a house in the middle of nowhere… and decided not to tell me about it until now…”

You hum in response, eyes narrowing, and Dazai leans closer over the table separating the two of you, lips curling up into a lecherous smirk that has you rolling your eyes. You already know what’s coming, but you must let him have his fun on his birthday.

“And we’ll be there for… how long again?”

You glance at him from the corner of your eye, seemingly intent on staring out the window. “A week.”

Dazai whistles, leaning back in his seat again. His eyes rove over you—it's been a hot minute since the two of you have been able to do anything intimate. He hasn’t even seen you in a few weeks. And before that, most days, you’re either too exhausted or he’s too in his own head about things to get in the mood. But this… Seven days. No work. No people interrupting. No reason to spiral in his own head. His lips unconsciously pull into another small smile, teeth scraping his tongue as his gaze lingers on the top few buttons of your dress shirt—they’re undone, just low enough for him to see a hint of…

You clear your throat. Dazai’s gaze snaps back up to your face. He gives you an innocent smile that makes you roll your eyes at him again. 

“Pervert,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” Dazai breaths out, voice a bit raspy as he lifts your hand back to his lips. He kisses your knuckles and then the inside of your wrist, gaze flickering back up to your eyes. “I’m going to take advantage of this week.”

The corner of your mouth twitches like you’re fighting off a smile. “Oh, I counted on it.”

Dazai lets go of your wrist when the plane lands. He watches you tuck your hand back into your lap, pulling your phone out to shoot a text to someone before sliding it back into your pocket. His eyes stay on you as the plane rolls to a stop, watching the way the sunlight dances across your cheekbones. You look beautiful—always do—but you’ll look more beautiful tonight when he has you underneath him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you tell him flatly as you rise to your feet. Dazai follows after you, standing too close, and when he leans down to ghost his lips to your neck, you swat at his head, but he immediately dodges and then drapes himself over your shoulders obnoxiously. “Osamu.”

Dazai lets his full body weight rest on you. You stumble forward, trying to walk toward the exit of the plane, but fail miserably because you’re dragging his dead weight with you. His lips curl up into a smile when he hears your frustrated groan, arms tightening around you.

“Get off of me, you freak,” you complain. “Walk on your own.”

“But I’m still so woozy,” he sighs dramatically. “You drugged me, take accountability and carry me to the car before I pass out and hit my head and die on my birthday. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He pouts against your skin, nipping your neck for a second before resting his forehead in the crook of it, right next to the small mark he just left. Vision obscured, he misses the way you motion for the pilot, who had come out to lower the steps to the ground, to grab him until he feels two hands around his waist lifting him off the ground. Dazai yelps and flails, trying to figure out what exactly just happened, and blanches when he realizes he’s being held princess style by a grown man.

“Watanabe-san, please make sure Osamu makes it down the steps safely. We wouldn’t want him to pass out and hit his head and die on his birthday, would we?” you say with a sweet smile.

“Of course not, hime,” the man replies gruffly. 

Mortified, Dazai tries to worm out of the man’s arms, but his grip is too tight. He looks at you, betrayed, but you’re only fighting giggles as you make your way over to the car waiting on the tarmac, leaving him in the arms of this man.

By the time he makes it to the sleek black car waiting for the two of you, Dazai’s face is flaming red. The moment he’s placed on the ground, he throws himself into the car and turns his back to you. You laugh and climb in after him, pressing your lips to his shoulder.

“I hate you,” he whines. 

“I love you too.”

---------

Dazai naps once the two of you get to the house, so you focus on getting everything together to make the maritozzi in the morning. You don’t really like making it—the pastries make you upset. Or, well, it’s not the pastries that make you upset, but the fact that every time you make them, you get this strange, aching feeling in your chest—a sense of deja vu so strong that it nearly brings you to your knees.

Your hands always remember what to do, even when your mind doesn’t. You knead the dough with a practiced ease that doesn’t feel like it belongs to you. You know exactly how much flour to dust on the board, how warm the milk should be, how to press your thumb into the dough to check if it’s ready. 

It’s muscle memory, maybe.

You sigh as you rest your hands on the kitchen counter. You plan to start baking in the morning, but you already feel that… odd feeling spreading through you, both sharp and tender at the same time. A homesickness for a place you can’t name. Grief for people you don’t remember.  It happens every time: a flicker of something just out of reach. A child’s gleeful laugh, a pair of warm hands guiding yours, a whispered promise that isn’t kept.

You lay your head in your arms for a moment, eyes sliding shut. You can never get the maritozzi right, regardless of how hard you try. You don’t know what you’re doing wrong, or even what’s wrong with them at all, but you know it’s not right. You hate making them. Each time, you can’t help the hope that swells in your chest that maybe this time will be different. Maybe you’ll get it right. 

Each time you’re disappointed. 

And yet, here you are again trying.

The things you do for love.

You feel a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind, hands slipping beneath your shirt. Dazai drapes himself over your back, pinning you to the counter. He sighs softly as he kisses the nape of your neck and your shoulder before burying his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you whisper softly, a smile pulling on your lips as you lift a hand to rest it on the top of his head. You feel his heartbeat thrumming against your back, and his fingers tracing absent patterns on your stomach. “You were tired.”

“You’ve been away for a few weeks,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your neck. You feel him yawn before nuzzling his face against your skin, eyes sliding shut. “I wasn’t sleeping well.”

“My apologies,” you say with faux remorse. “How dare I go away for work and mess up your sleeping schedule.”

He hums in agreement. “A crime worthy of capital punishment, honestly,” he says, and you feel him smile softly, kissing your neck again. You let out a breathy sigh and instinctively tilt your head to the side to give him more room. “I had to sleep without my favorite pillow. You know, the soft, warm, breathing one that makes cute little noises when I kiss her neck.”

“Oh, shut up,” you scowl, but the expression quickly fades when you feel him trailing slow kisses up your neck, deliberately lingering just below your ear.

“How are you ever going to make it up to me?” he whispers playfully before he nips your skin. 

You ignore his noise of complaint when you shift in his arms so that you can face him, resting your hands on his hips as you look up at him through your lashes. You give him a sweet smile before saying, “I can think of a few ways.”

“Oh yeah,” Dazai drawls, lips curling up into a lazy smirk as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt again. “Is this the part where you beg for forgiveness?”

“Oh?” you hum, leaning in to ghost your lips against his jaw, kissing slowly to his ear as you murmur, “You want me to beg?”

He lets out a soft groan when you nip his skin. “I want you to convince me you’re sorry for leaving me to suffer all alone,” he corrects, breathing a little heavier when you start to kiss down the column of his throat. His voice catches over his words as you slide down the sweatpants he changed into and lower yourself to your knees in front of him. “Oh, fuck.”

“You poor thing,” you say softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his hip bone. “All alone for weeks. I bet you were just aching without me.”

“I—” His voice breaks into a groan as your mouth trails lower down the line of his ‘v’, lashes fluttering as he rests his hands back onto the counter and glances up at the ceiling before looking back down at you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them before. “You have no idea.”

“I think I have an idea,” you say more to yourself than to him, a teasing smile playing at your lips as you finally lift your hand to stroke his leaky cock. His hips jerk instinctively, he twitches in your hand like he’s already on the verge of finishing, and you lift your gaze. His chest is heaving, pink lips swollen and parted, head tilted back as he looks up at the ceiling again, desperately trying to gain control of himself.

God, you love him. You’ve loved him for years, since you were sixteen, even if you only started acknowledging the depths of your feelings for him when you were eighteen. He was always so flighty and unpredictable, you never expected one day he’d be yours the way he is now. You’ll never let him go now. You’ve missed him these past few weeks apart much more than you realized. 

“I would do terrible things for you, Osamu,” you tell him softly, running your thumb over his tip just so you can hear the way he keens. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” he pants. You’re not even sure if he fully hears what you say, already lost in the haze of pleasure, and you don’t really care. “Please.”

You don’t look away from him for a second as you take his tip into your mouth, flattening your tongue against his slit to lap up all of the precum that had beaded there. He lets out a ragged groan, but you can’t see his face, so you lift your hand to grab one of his and tug to get his attention.

His head falls forward, bangs falling in his eyes as he looks down at you. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he breathes heavily, gaze entirely unfocused as need quickly fogs and dismantles the cogs of his quick brain. Having gotten what you wanted, you try to slip your hand free to hold his hips again, but his grip on your hand tightens, refusing to let go.

You hum softly, entwining your fingers with his instead as you slowly take him deeper into your mouth. His eyes half-roll back when his tip hits the back of your throat and your tongue presses against the vein on the underside of his cock. He almost lets his head fall back again, but your grip on his hand keeps him grounded to you. Even as fucked out as he is with his cock deep down your throat and your nails tracing patterns on his inner thighs, he manages to keep his gaze mostly locked to yours.

“I—haaah, fuck—you feel s’good,” he slurs, free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. He lets you set the pace, and you pick a slow and steady one that you know kills him. You want to see how long he can last before he snaps. “I—so many nights…”

His sentences are garbled and mostly unintelligible. It makes you happy—you’re glad he lets his brain shut off when he’s with you like this. He used to try so hard to maintain control that you could tell it was stressing him out when he was supposed to be feeling good, but he doesn’t bother with the pretenses anymore, letting everything crumble away the moment he has you in bed with him. Or, in this case, in the middle of the kitchen. 

You can’t respond, so you resign to letting out a soft hum of acknowledgment; the vibrations make him whimper, cock twitching in your mouth as he gnaws on his bottom lip, desperately trying not to cum so quickly. You can feel his thighs tense beneath your touch as holds himself back from fucking your face.

Your gaze traces his face, catching sight of the red flush of his cheeks, his wet lips, the way his expression is all twisted—he’s so pretty, so you decide to have a bit of mercy on him. 

Plus, it is still his birthday after all.

You lift your hand to tap his hip twice, signaling to him that he can take control if he wants, and the effect is immediate. His eyes snap open fully, glassy and wild with need, and then he moves. 

His grip on your hand tightens just a bit, and the hand on the back of your head slips down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lips, tracing how they’re stretched around his cock. He rocks his hips forward once—slowly, like he’s testing the waters, worried that you might change your mind, but you stay still and pliant, looking up at him through your lashes imploringly.

“Fuck,” he breathes out again. “Love you. So good to me. Always been so good to me.”

He thrusts again, this time deeper, more sure of himself, and you relax your throat for him, letting him set the rhythm. It's not rough or frantic—not yet—just a slow, needy grind of someone who’s waited for this too long. His hand slides back to cup the back of your head as he starts to pick up the pace; you gag a little on his cock, eyes tearing up, but you squeeze his hand encouragingly, telling him silently to continue. To give you more. 

He does.

He rolls his hips forward sharply, cock thrusting deeper, harder, and you take it, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as your throat stretches around him. His thighs tremble under your hands, breath ragged as he fucks your throat. The noises in the kitchen—his low groans, the way you’re choking on his cock, each wet, sloppy thrust into your mouth—it makes your head all foggy, heat pooling in your lower stomach. 

His free hand comes back to your jaw, thumb swiping at the drool spilling from the corner of your mouth before he squeezes your cheeks gently to feel his cock sliding in and out of your mouth. Your jaw aches, your throat burns, and still, you stay there, tears spilling freely down your cheeks, because he’s close. You can feel it. His thigh tenses under your palm, his fingers tighten around yours, his rhythm stutters and takes a more erratic turn, and his voice breaks on your name, groans shifting into pitched moans.

“Haah,” he gasps, hips jerking. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, please, please, baby, I—I’m gonna—”

Your nose is flush to his pubic hair as he cums deep down your throat—his cum tastes so familiar, too salty, after all of these years, he still hasn’t taken your advice of a better diet. Hazily, you remind yourself to scold him about it later, but right now, you’re too focused on trying not to choke over him, swallowing the copious amounts of cum he spilled into your mouth as he trembles above you violently, still feeling the aftershocks of the intense orgasm.

When he finally pulls out, he drops to his knees in front of you, hands cupping your cheeks as he leans in, kissing you deeply. He kisses you like he’s trying to devour you—claim you, even, like he hasn’t already, like you haven’t been his since the moment the two of you met. His breath is uneven, chest heaving, and there’s a flicker of something wild in his eyes as he pulls back to look at you, eyes roving over you. His eyes slide shut again as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re everything,” he whispers, hands sliding down to your sides as he ghosts his lips against yours. “God, you’re everything. You have no idea what you do to me.” 

You lift your hands to cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his again. You toy with the tips of his hair as your lips slide messily against his, letting out a soft moan when his hand slides to the small of your back, pulling your body flush to his. His hands dip lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton shorts, and you smile against his lips. 

“I’m not fucking you on the kitchen floor,” you say, leaning back slightly. He chases your lips to kiss you again, a hazy smile on his lips as he gives you a half-lidded look.

“It would be hot though,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip before letting out a low groan against your skin, dragging his lips from your jaw to your ear. You let out a shaky breath when his fingers slide down to your panties, pressing his finger down on your clit through thin silk and moaning again. “Have you face down, nails clawing against the tile, pinned between me and the floor—nowhere to go, can only take it.”

“Jesus, Osamu,” you say shakily, eyes sliding shut as his fingers curl into your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss down your neck, kisses wet and lingering as he sucks at your skin. He traces slow circles around your clit, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you try to ground yourself. “Not the kitchen floor.”

“Such a bore,” he complains. “Ruining my fun. It’s still my birthday, y’know?”

Before you can retort, Dazai’s hands drop to your thighs, and you yelp as he rises to his feet, bringing you with him. Sometimes you forget how strong Dazai is—it’s easy when he constantly acts like he’s helpless and drowns himself in long jackets and loose clothes. He used to be able to go blow-for-blow with Chuuya in combat, and although you know damn well he hasn’t kept up his training, you can feel the lean muscles of his biceps beneath his sweatshirt.

Your grip tightens on them; he’s still mouthing at your neck as he carries you into the back bedroom. You whisper softly, “You are so…”

When you don’t finish, Dazai nips your neck playfully and finishes, “Handsome? Charming? The image of your deepest, darkest desires?” 

Usually, you would roll your eyes at him, but this time, you gasp, “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

He nudges the door open with his foot before kicking it shut. He sets you down gently on the bed, pushing you back until your back is flat and hovering above you to steal another kiss. This one is slow and lazy as he settles above you on his elbows, tongue running along your bottom lip, and fingers dragging over your ribs reverently. You think you could kiss him forever and never get sick of it.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his eyes are half-lidded, and his breath is warm against your lips as he looks down at you. 

“Still with me?” he murmurs, thumb circling your hip bone.

“Always,” you answer quietly.

His eyes soften as he looks down at you, lifting his hand from your hip so he can cup the side of your face. You lean into his touch, lashes fluttering shut momentarily as you bask in the familiar warmth of his skin. 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You give him a hazy smile as you look back up at him. “For what?” you ask, voice teasing, but Dazai’s smile only softens even more. He runs his thumb over your bottom lip, and you nip at it playfully.

“Everything.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to question him, leaning down to press his lips to yours again. This kiss is chaster than the last, like he just wants to savor in the taste of you rather than outright devour you. His thumb traces soft circles over your cheek, and his other hand slides down your body to your thigh, hiking your leg over his waist so he can slot his hips between your legs.

He kisses you and holds you so gently that you forget to breathe until your lungs start burning. When you push at his shoulder to get some air, he immediately leans down to keep kissing your neck, sliding your shirt up, and tapping you to beckon you to lift your shoulders so he can pull it off. 

Once he has it off and flings it to the side, he leans back to let his eyes roam your body. His pupils are blown wide, and his fingers are a bit shaky; he slides them down your body, tracing your figure like he’s worshiping it. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers more to himself than to you. “Divine. The kind of beauty that drives saints to sin and kings to kneel. You make the stars look dim, and the heavens seem dull. I still can’t believe you’re mine. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t do for you.”

“My god, Dazai,” you laugh, face heating up at his words. “A bit over the top with the poetry tonight, aren’t you?”

“Not nearly,” he says, voice low and serious as his gaze lifts back to your face. He repeats softly, “No, not nearly.”

Your throat swells as you look up at him, and he runs his knuckles across your cheek before trailing his fingers down your face. His thumb presses heavily against your bottom lip, and you give him a kittish smile before taking it into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the digit as you look up at him through your lashes.

His breath catches, and you hum around his finger when he presses down slightly on your tongue, rolling your hips up to grind against his clothed cock. He murmurs, voice strained, “You drive me insane.”

“Oh yeah?” you press, voice breathy. “Prove it?” 

He kisses slowly to your collarbone, making sure to leave marks on his way down. “Gladly,” he rasps, swiping his tongue along your collarbone before biting over the bone lightly. 

“You’re going to leave so many marks,” you complain, breath hitching when he slowly rocks his hips against yours. He’s already hard again; you can feel him through the thin material of your panties, and you want him desperately. Your walls clench around nothing, and the heat pooling in your stomach has your thighs trembling. “Shit, Osamu, will you just—”

“Good thing I have you to myself all week,” he croons, a smug smirk on his lips as he kisses down your chest to the swell of your breasts. He lets out a shaky puff of air as he pulls back just a bit to get an eyeful of your tits before his lips wrap around your nipple. He moans against you as he rolls it between his teeth, lifting his free hand to grope your other breast. Your back arches up as you press yourself into his touch, a keen escaping your lips. “Gonna mark you up all over, you won’t even have to hide them.”

“Please,” you gasp, head falling back against the pillows. “Please, Osamu, I—”

You choke over your words when you feel him slide your panties down your legs. He pulls his lips off your nipple with a pop before trailing wet kisses back up your chest until his face is hovering above yours. His thumb slips from your mouth so that he can pinch your chin between his fingers, forcing you to look him in the eye.

“Please, what?” he hums insufferably. “C’mon, baby, use your words.”

“You’re so—” You start to reply irritably, only to whimper when he rolls his hips again.

“So what?” he presses, giving you a cocky smile as he taps your cheek twice to get your attention again. “What am I? You’re so cute, I’ve barely done anything, and you’re already so close to finishing.”

“I hate you. I—haaaah, shit—” you moan, but your lashes flutter shut as Dazai slides his fingers between your wet folds. “Osamu—”

He lets out a ragged breath, hot against your skin. “Shit, baby, you’re drenched,” he groans. “All this just from letting me fuck your face? Fuck, I love you. Tell me what you need. Tell me. I want to hear you say it. It’s my birthday.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, lifting trembling hands to cup his cheeks. “Please, fuck me, Osamu.”

“God, I love hearing you beg,” he breathes out, nipping at your jaw before his lips drag hot and slow up to your ear. “Love seeing you all worked up for me. Only I get to see you like this, yeah?”

His teeth graze your ear lobe, and you exhale shakily, shivering under his touch. He laughs softly, infuriatingly pleased with himself, and you can’t even hit him with a snide comment like you usually would, because your whole body shudders when you feel his cock slide between your folds.

“You don’t even know how good you look right now,” he goes on, voice low and smooth as he traces his fingers down your body again. 

The noise you let out is embarrassing, something caught between a whine and a gasp of his name when he presses the tip of his cock to your entrance. Your hips jerk up, desperate for him to sink inside you again, but he holds your hips down. It’s been weeks since the two of you have done anything together, and your body is falling apart just at the idea of having him deep inside you again. 

“Please,” you whisper again, voice coming out more of a whine than anything else. “Osamu, it’s been so long, I—”

Dazai doesn’t let you finish your sentence. The words are knocked from your lungs when he snaps his hips forward, thrusting deep inside you. Your hands slide underneath his sweatshirt, nails raking down his back as you writhe beneath him. His eyes are half-lidded as he looks down at you, and you’re pleased to realize he’s just as much of a mess as you. His lips are pink and swollen, his face is flushed, hair matted to his forehead, and dark eyes unfocused. He looks beautiful.

You love him. You’ve always loved him, but it hits you so suddenly that it makes your chest ache. You surge upwards to press your lips against his, and Dazai moans into your mouth, rocking his hips against yours suddenly as he presses you back down into the mattress, tongues sliding together messily. Each thrust is deep and even, less like he’s trying to chase release and more like he’s just savoring in the feeling of being with you like this again. 

“Osamu,” you beg, and you don’t really know what you’re begging for, but your lashes suddenly feel wet, and he’s lifting one hand to wipe tears you didn’t realize were falling over your cheeks. “Osamu, I—”

Your words break into a moan when Dazai thrusts just a little harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white at the edges. Dazai ghosts his lips against yours, laughing breathlessly. 

“Aw, baby, you missed me, didn’t you?” His voice is teasing as he brushes kisses across your face, deceptively gentle when compared to the way he’s fucking the air right out of your lungs with every thrust. “I missed you too, we’ve both been so busy lately… Didn’t even know if you’d have time today with everything going on.”

Even with your brain fogged with pleasure, you can hear the brief waver of insecurity in his tone. You lift your hands up to cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“Always have time for you,” you tell him softly. “Especially today.”

Dazai’s throat bobs at your words, and instead of responding, he buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin as he picks up the pace of his thrusts. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of skin-on-skin, breathless moans, and his cock driving in and out of your cunt. You gasp his name, hips bucking up to meet his, both of you now chasing release. 

You’re so close that it hurts, abdomen coiled tight and thighs so tense that they’re shaking around his waist. When he slips his hand between you to rub tight circles on your clit, you finally fall apart. His name spills from your lips and your vision whitens at the edges, you let out a ragged sob that he swallows with a kiss as he fucks you through your high, gasping your name like a prayer over and over again. He’s close, too—you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters and how his breath hitches over every chant of your name.

Your walls spasm around him as he chases your high, pleasure shifting into overstimulation as he uses your body for himself now. You hiccup over a sob as your whole body squirms beneath him, but he holds you down, fucking you so hard that your body jolts further up the bed with each thrust. Your vision darkens at the edges a bit, your head feels woozy, and it’s when you really feel the pinpricks of numbness spreading from your fingertips up to your arms, that he finally finishes, burying himself deep inside you as he cums with a low, broken moan of your name. 

He doesn’t move for a long moment, just breathing hard against your shoulder, body trembling above yours. He finally lifts his head, and with a lazy, sated grin, he says, “What a birthday gift.”

You roll your eyes at him, but the smile that curls at your lips is fond.

“I love you,” you whisper, reaching up to caress his face, thumb running along his cheekbone. “Happy birthday.”

“I love you,” he replies softly, eyes sliding shut as he kisses your palm. “Thank you.”

---------

You wake up early the next morning to make the maritozzi for Dazai. He’s still fast asleep in bed next to you by the time you wake up, tangled in the sheets and curled into your warmth. Slipping out of bed without waking him is no easy feat—he’s always clingy in the mornings, even more so when he’s exhausted. You know he hasn’t been sleeping well these past few weeks you’ve been away, and the last thing you want is to disturb the rare peace he’s found.

So, for a while, you stay. You hum softly under your breath, fingers trailing gently through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. It takes nearly half an hour before his grip on you slackens enough for you to ease out of his arms and tiptoe into the kitchen.

You’ve been up for a few hours now. Dazai is still sleeping, surprisingly; you underestimated just how tired he was. Usually, you can slip out of bed, but he’ll come wandering in, looking for you within the hour. His sleep rarely lasts when you’re not in bed with him. 

The pastries are almost done now; though, you just took them out to cool, and you've put together a little basket for when they’re done. You think maybe you’ll drag him outside to eat. He needs to get some sun; all he’s been doing the past few months is rotting away in your apartment or his. 

You hum softly to yourself as you grab a blanket out of the closet, folding it before placing it next to the basket. You need to clean still, too, but—

You jump slightly when you feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist. Dazai’s familiar weight settles on your back as he leans on you, burying his face in the crook of your neck to kiss your skin gently before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Cheater,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “Making my favorite, so I can’t be mad at you for sneaking out of bed. So unfair.”

You smile to yourself, looking to the side so you can see him. He still looks sleepy—his eyes are drooping shut and his breathing is heavy, but the bags beneath his eyes are lighter, if only a little. You lift up your hand so you can cup the side of his face before leaning in to press your lips against his cheek.

“Good morning,” you say quietly. “You slept for a while.”

His eyes slide shut when your lips brush his skin. “Come back to bed,” he whispers. “Lay with me a little longer.”

“I need to finish cleaning,” you tell him, ignoring the way he pushes his bottom lip out dramatically; he looks stupid pouting so hard with his eyes closed. Your chest bubbles with warmth. “It’ll be annoying to clean the cream after it hardens in the bowl.”

His eyes fly open at that, gaze suddenly sharp as he scans the counter. He lights up when he sees the two bowls on the counter in front of you, giving you imploring eyes and a sweet smile. You roll your eyes at him.

“You’re such a child,” you insult fondly, but you do reach forward to scoop up some of the leftover cream onto your finger, lifting it to his lips. Dazai immediately wraps his lips around the digit, sucking the thick cream right off your finger and moaning obnoxiously. 

“Strawberry,” he says approvingly after he pulls his lips off your finger with a loud pop. He gives you a sharp smile before saying, “You taste better though. My favorite type of c—”

“Stop,” you interrupt before he can finish the sentence. He pouts again, but then presses a slow kiss to the back of your neck. You sigh, leaning into his touch despite yourself, and he hums softly as he rocks the two of you back and forth slowly, resting his forehead on the top of your head. You rest your hand over one of his, eye sliding shut and then admit, “I’ve missed you a lot.”

“It’s been a long three weeks,” he agrees softly. “I wish Mori would start sending someone else to handle business abroad.”

“I wish you could come with me,” you say with a frown. “The only time you’ve ever left the country, you were thrown in prison. There’s so many places I want to bring you.”

“You don’t know that,” he says petulantly. “I could’ve left during the two years I was underground.”

“Did you?”

“... No.”

“Do you like arguing for the sake of arguing?” you ask dryly, but you find yourself smiling fondly. 

“Where do you want to take me?” he asks instead of answering the question, arms tightening around you. “Hmm? Tell me.”

Your lips part to list off all of your favorite travel destinations. Paris, the City of Love—Dazai would be horrendously obnoxious there with you, but he would love it, so it would probably be one of the first places you brought him. The Yucatán Peninsula too, you think, and maybe Egypt—he had a whole phase back when the two of you were teenagers where he would spend hours a day researching ancient civilizations, watching people explore old ruins with a pout and complaining incessantly about being stuck in Yokohama. You want to bring him to Zhuhai one day to show him the Chimelong Ocean Kingdom, but Qu Yuan and Cao Xueqin have been fighting for territory there for almost two years now so it won’t be any time soon.

But you don’t say anything, because your gaze draws back to the mess of bowls on the counter and then to where the maritozzi are cooling. More than anything, you want to bring him to a home that no longer exists. A home you don’t even remember. You don’t know why you’ve been yearning so badly for it lately; you went years without thinking of your past before you met Mori, not even once had it crossed your mind in that time, but over the last few months, it's crossed your mind frequently. You swear that you can feel familiar arms wrapping around you, a laugh that makes your chest ache that you can’t quite place; you find yourself looking up at the stars, and you can almost hear whispers of a voice you should know laying next to you, telling you all the stories of the constellations.

Dazai seems to recognize something is wrong, because he lifts his hand to your chin to tilt your face up and to the side so that your gaze lands on his. He frowns slightly, running his thumb over your skin before he says, “Dance with me?” 

“Dance?” you ask, trying to laugh but it comes out too forced. Dazai only gives you a sweet smile in return before he spins you around to face him, one hand resting on your waist while the other reaches for yours, entwining his fingers with yours as he starts spinning to a song only he can hear, dragging you along with him as he dances the two of you around the island in the kitchen. “You’re so cheesy.”

“I prefer romantic,” he disagrees as he spins you beneath his arm, dipping you down slightly and holding you there for a moment so he can lean in and place an obnoxiously loud kiss right on your nose. “Isn’t this romantic?” 

You laugh again, and this one is more genuine as you look up at him. His dark eyes are a warm golden color beneath the morning light, sickeningly soft as he looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters to him. Your throat suddenly feels too tight, and his lips curl up into a soft smile as he places another kiss on your face, this time on your lips.

He lifts you from the dip, and you slip your hand from his so you can hook both of your arms loosely around his neck. His hands settle on your hips as the two of you continue to sway slowly to an imaginary song. 

“Why don’t you like baking them?” he asks quietly. It’s a question you know he’s been dying to know the answer to for years; you’re surprised it took him this long to ask.

Your gaze lowers. “I think… my mother was the one who taught me how to bake them,” you say softly. “I can never get them right. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Dazai doesn’t say anything right away. His hold on you tightens just the slightest bit as he rests his forehead against yours. Your lips press together and your eyes sting with sudden tears. You think about how your hands move automatically through the steps, how your heart always sinks when they come out just a little too dense or the cream doesn’t taste quite right. It’s like there’s a version of the pastry that lives in your memory—light, sweet, perfect—and no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to recreate it. 

Like it belonged to another life. Another version of you. One that was pure, sweet, gentle, and this one doesn’t deserve it.

This version of you has seen too much, done too much. You carry too many shadows in your heart and have too much blood under your fingernails. You were softer then—before the Great War, before Mori, before the Port Mafia.  Every time you make them, you’re reminded that you’ll never be that girl again. The one that exists now… you don’t even know if she can be considered human by most people. The pastries don’t come out right because they’re not meant to. You no longer know how to make something so sweet. You don’t deserve something so gentle.

You suddenly understand why you’ve been thinking so much of your past.

Your gaze flickers up to Dazai as he lifts his hands to cradle your face between his hands. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it can fall. He gives you a small, sad smile before he asks quietly, “This isn’t about the pastries, is it?”

You try to look away but he doesn’t let you. Your voice is barely a rasp as you say, “They’re not right. They don’t—”

I’m not right. I don’t know if I deserve this.

“They’re yours,” he murmurs, cutting you off before you can finish what you’re about to say. He leans in to press his lips against your temple. “They’re perfect to me.”

You’re you. You’re perfect to me.

“It’s not what I want to give you,” you insist. Your voice cracks, much to your horror. You turn your face into his shoulder, not wanting him to see the tears that threaten to spill. “I feel like I’m holding you back, Osamu. That you’ll never be able separate yourself from your past as long as you’re with me, and you’ll never believe in your own goodness when you come home to me every night. I don’t want to be the reason you can never accept that you’ve fulfilled Oda’s last request.”

Dazai’s smile is unbearably soft as he gently pulls your face from his shoulder and forces you to look at him again. His gaze darts up to the basket you started putting together on the table and he asks quietly, “Did you want to eat breakfast outside?” 

You nod, swallowing thickly.

“C’mon,” he nudges you. “Let’s finish getting it all together and go eat. We can talk out there.”

---------

Dazai has never had a reason to live.

The first time he tried to kill himself, he was eleven. It was when his grandfather had started pitting his siblings and cousins against each other, and Dazai first started questioning why he was even alive. He had no ambition for power like his siblings, he had no passion for any hobbies like his mother, and he had no friends, not even his own family liked him. His mother found him slumped over in the bathroom and rushed him to the hospital—she made him swear to never do something like this again. He agreed, but his promise to her died when she did when he was fourteen. 

The second time he tried to kill himself, he was fourteen. His mother got caught trying to smuggle Dazai and his siblings out of his grandfather’s estate. Two of his siblings had already been killed by his cousins, and she was desperate to not lose anymore of her children. She got caught trying to escape with them, and his grandfather ordered his father to kill her. Dazai jumped from the rooftop that very night—that’s how he ended up in Mori’s clutches. 

He’s not sure how many times he tried to die from fourteen to fifteen. More than he can count, and they got progressively more violent and desperate over time. When he met Chuuya and then Odasaku, he found his first friends—although at the time, he’d never been able to fully bring himself to believe that they viewed him that way. Dazai slowed down on his attempts after meeting them; he didn’t fully stop, he just became more… passive with it. Attempts to blow himself up shifted into recklessness during missions; instead of drinking various poisons, he would drink copious amounts of alcohol until his skin was gray and clammy and the room started spinning. 

And then, he met you. 

And then, he met you.

Dazai’s lips curl up into a soft smile as he watches you set up all the stuff you’d prepared for breakfast. He keeps trying to sneak one of the maritozzi buns, but you catch him every time, slapping his hand away and giving him an accusing look. You’re still upset, but you’re a bit calmer now as you focus on something else.

You drove him mad. You drive him mad. You didn’t flinch at his barbed humor or the way he suddenly and irrationally tried to push you away after worming his way into your life. You never gave up when he deflected conversation with a smile or silence. You didn’t recoil from the mess that he was; you just acknowledged it like it was something as simple as the weather, accepting it, him, into your life so easily. You saw through the cocky facade and self-destruction, and you stayed anyway.

It terrified him. He couldn’t fathom it for years—you didn’t lecture him over his self-destructive tendencies, and you never pulled the whole ‘please, stop for me’ shit that he hated so much. You just sat with him. On the nights when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and he couldn’t remember how many bottles he’d emptied, you were there. You didn’t touch him unless he asked, didn’t talk unless he initiated it, and over time, Dazai found himself relying on you in a way that scared him. 

After meeting you, for the first time in maybe his whole life, he started to want things again—small, stupid things, but things nonetheless. He wanted a morning that didn’t start with a hangover so he could wake up early and have coffee with you before you left for your meetings. He wanted to come back from a mission in one piece so he could watch a movie with you before laying down. He wanted to be able to sit beside you and not feel like a grenade with the pin halfway out, ready to take you out with him. Dazai has never believed that he deserved you, and a part of him almost wants to laugh when he realizes that you feel the same about him. 

He thinks back to the conversation he had with you a few months ago when you came back from Rome early to be with him, and he feels so silly.

“What are you thinking?” you ask quietly as you set the basket to the side, finally looking up at him, but only briefly. 

“Do you remember the conversation we had a few months ago? When you came back early from Rome?” 

You raise your eyebrows at him, and Dazai wiggles across the blanket so that he can sit beside you. He nudges your shoulder with his, beckoning you to look at him again. You turn your head to the side, gaze focusing on him. 

“Yeah,” you answer after a moment. “Of course.”

“It’s us,” he whispers. “It’s always been us.”

You look at him, tilting your head to the side. You press your lips together tightly, an expression on your face like you understand what he’s saying, but you think maybe you’re misunderstanding and don’t want to get your hopes up. You set the napkins in your hands down, and Dazai continues, voice low.

“I didn’t understand it then,” he admits quietly. “I think maybe I haven’t understood it until right now, but it’s us. My reason to live—it’s you and me, has been for years. Since we were sixteen. I—”

“Osamu,” you start to say, and your voice wavers. You want to believe him, but you’re scared of being disappointed, like maybe he’s just saying this in the spur of the moment to make you feel better.

He shifts to sit on his knees, grabbing your hands and pulling them into his lap, squeezing them tightly. He can feel your fingers shaking ever so slightly. 

“It’s true,” he insists. “Being with you… it gives me something to look forward to every day. You make me want things I didn’t think I could want. You make me feel things I didn’t think I was capable of feeling.”

He lifts one of your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles and then your palm. His voice is shaking a bit now, but he continues. “You make me want to live. Not just survive. Not just keep breathing because I haven't figured out how to stop. Live. Really live. I want a future with you, I want—”

Dazai’s voice breaks, his grip tightens on your hand. Your eyes are wet with tears, and your lips are trembling, and Dazai loves you. He loves you so much that it makes him sick sometimes.

“I want to marry you,” he rasps. “I want to wake up every morning your husband. I want you to be my wife.”

He watches as you inhale deeply. He can feel your nails digging into his hands and it stings, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t realize just how much he means the words until he says them. And he realizes, a bit belatedly, that he doesn’t have a ring and this isn’t the proposal you deserve, but there’s so much hope in your eyes that he can’t take it back now.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it, Osamu,” you whisper. “Please, don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.” He lets go of your hands to cup your cheeks. He lets out a broken laugh, blinking hard. “I’ve never been more certain of anything. You’re the only thing in my life that’s ever made sense. I want to live, and I want to live with you. As your husband. And I—I don’t have a ring. I didn’t plan this, I didn’t, uh, I didn’t think I was capable of ever asking anyone—of ever wanting this.”

He leans in to press his forehead to yours. He can taste the mint on your breath, and he can’t help himself from stealing a kiss, a brief brush of his lips against yours that makes his chest ache. 

“But I want it with you. I want to be yours in every way a person can belong to someone. And I want you to be mine,” he says softly, hands sliding down from your face to cradle your neck instead. “This—it isn’t me asking, okay? I want to get a ring, I want to do it right, make it special, but I want you to know, because there is no world where you’re ever holding me back. You’re what keeps me going, so whatever silly thoughts you have going on in that pretty head of yours, they need to stop, okay?”

You take in a ragged breath and lean forward, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, and Dazai pulls you into his lap, holding you close, one hand wrapped rightly around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head. He kisses the top of your head and lets out a long breath, a weight lifting from his chest. Your body fits against his like it always has, like you’re made to be here, curled in his arms with the early afternoon light painting you in gold. He shuts his eyes and buries his face in your hair, breathing in the familiar scent of your shampoo.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he finally murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple in a lingering kiss. “I don’t even fully understand it, but I know that I want you. I need you. You don’t have to change for me; you don’t have to be someone else for my sake. You as you are—it’s enough. You’re enough. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted; it doesn’t matter that you’re still with the Mafia and I’m with the Agency. None of that matters to me. What Odasaku asked of me… you being in my life doesn’t change anything. He’d never have wanted me to chase after his last request if it meant coming at the cost of you. Do you even know how many years he spent trying to get me to pull my head out of my ass and make a move on you? I think he was more relieved than either of us were when we finally got together.”

You let out a watery laugh, or maybe it’s a sob, Dazai can’t really tell, but he holds you a bit tighter, savoring in the feeling of having you in his arms. He thinks he could stay here forever if given the chance. Live a quiet life away from everything, just you, him and the rest of your lives together.

Maybe one day.

“I love you,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his throat before settling against him. The tension in your shoulders slowly dissipates, and you let out a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.”

He kisses the top of your head again. “Don’t apologize,” he says. “I love you too.”

The two of you bask in each others arms, relaxing beneath the early afternoon sun. He toys with your hair absently, running soothing circles on your upper back. After a few moments, he glances back on the maritozzi you’d pulled out of the basket.

“... Can I have one now?” he asks, giving you an imploring look when you pull back to give him a deadpan one. “Please. It’s literally been five years, do you know how much self control I’ve had the past hour?” 

Your lips curl up into a fond smile. “Fine.”

Dazai’s hand snatches out immediately before you can change your mind, shovelling the sweet bun into his mouth all at once. Your eyes shoot open in shock.

“Jesus Christ, Osamu,” you say, scrambling for a water bottle when he chokes over it. “What is wrong with you? My god, could you eat it normally?”

His eyes sting with tears, but he manages to give you a thumbs-up between coughs and wheezes. “So worth it,” he gasps, mouth-half-full, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

You hand him the water, watching with a mixture of horror and amusement as he gulps it down. You shake your head when he finally manages to swallow, muttering, “You’re insane.”

Dazai leans back with a dramatic groan, collapsing onto the blanket like he’s completed a Herculean task. He reaches out for your hand, entwining your fingers again and tugging you to lay on top of him. 

“So perfect,” he sighs dreamily, voice still a bit hoarse. He winks at you and gives you a flirty smile and then coos, “Just like the baker.”

“You’re so corny,” you complain, but you’re smiling when you look away from him.

“I’m so yours,” he corrects teasingly, kissing your knuckles.

Your smile softens. 

“You are,” you agree quietly, “and I’m yours.”

Gears clanked to the beat of his footsteps as he climbed a rickety ladder towards the clock room. It smelled of mildew and metal, but it was home. Birds burrowed into corner nests, shielded from the harsh wind outside. It smelled of mildew and metal, but it was a sanctuary to many nonetheless.

The peculiar man was a bit disturbed by his attachment to the place, but now wasn’t the time to pull something explosive. Not yet, anyway.

He had a plan to follow—the very idea sat sticky on his tongue.

But curiosity killed the cat, and perhaps the bird, too.

The ladder squeaked. Footsteps clawed from the floor below. An unexpected guest, much to his delight. He hid behind a crate, watching as a figure opened the hatch. What trick could he play? He snaked in from behind, only for familiar eyes to catch him in their snare.

“Well,” he exclaimed. “If it isn’t my dearest friend.”

“You were quite the hassle to find, you know,” you replied, climbing to your feet. “What happened to meeting at the rendezvous point?”

You winced as he racked a knuckle against your skull. “I knew you’d find me! You’re supposed to keep your mind sharp, remember? The next stage of the plan requires a crafty mind.”

“You and I both know Fyodor isn’t aiming to put our minds to much use. You’ve met some of his subordinates.” You shivered. “Goncharov still gives me the creeps.”

He couldn’t help but agree. Goncharov was able to achieve everything Nikolai had ever dreamed of—but at the cost of becoming Fyodor’s loyal dog. Exchanging one cage for another.

The thought made him antsy.

“Anyways, I’ve got your things.” You heaved a dress bag from the crumpled pile on the floor. “One uniform, fit to your likeness.”

He eyed its contents as a smirk formed. “And how did you happen to obtain such items?”

“Don’t remind me,” you moaned, pushing the bag into his arms. “You’d think we’d have a much easier time getting our hands on one uniform, but apparently they’ve switched materials in an effort to ‘prevent terrorist infiltration.’ Fyodor’s fault, no doubt.”

He pouted—he never did like being the second person to pull off a prank.

“Couldn’t I have dressed up as something different? Something a bit more…unique?”

“After all the work I did to score this?” You huffed. “Absolutely not.”

“And what work was that? I’m dying to know.”

“Guess you’ll have to die then.”

“Ha-ha!” He snatched your arm before twisting you around into a spin. It was either by sheer luck or skill that you didn’t crash into the gears around you. “You’re so fun, you know that?”

“Oh god,” you groaned, stumbling as he slowed down. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Your frazzled expression was priceless, eyes blown wide and mouth heaving. He liked you this way. Settling back onto stable feet, your scowl could stop the clock from ticking. He decided to acquiesce.

“Alright, alright.” He hoisted the bag over his shoulder, sneaking back behind a crate. Only his mismatched eyes poked out from the top. You met eyes, and he screamed.

“Don’t look!”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

The clock’s tick dominated the silence. It agitated the wooden floorboards beneath your feet, growing worse with each passing minute. Nikolai was certainly taking his time. You took the time to plot for the inevitable moment he ripped that damn uniform—only God himself knows how much you’d endured to obtain that thing. More than it was worth, you’d say.

“Boo.”

Your shoulders bunched at the draft of cool air, swallowing the squeak stuck in your throat. The fruitless effort only served to amplify his amusement, showing his new outfit off like a ridiculous peacock.

“What do you think? Blue might be my new color.”

To your dismay, he looked good in blue. Really good, in fact. The color brought out the cool tone of his left eye, always focused on everything and nothing at the same time. His shirt and pants fit his broad frame perfectly. It seemed your hours of tailoring were successful, after all. The only issue was his hair, almost blinding against the dark navy of his police hat. He already stood out in normal clothes, so this could be an issue. But damn, that didn’t mean he didn’t look good.

He chuckled, and you wanted to smash your head into the wall.

You’d been staring.

“Do I really look that good?”

“You look adequate.”

He didn’t seem to believe you—you didn’t believe yourself—and your eyes scrambled to search for a way out.

“Hold on,” you stepped close, pulling his tie. It was lopsided. Like he tried to create a balloon animal out of fabric. “How is someone gonna believe you’re a cop if you can’t even tie this properly?”

You resisted the temptation to strangle him as you retied it. It was difficult, but you managed, and you had to pat yourself on the back for that, at least.

“There.” You patted it down, tucking it back underneath his vest. “Now you look like a real one.”

He remained silent. You frowned, and almost flinched when you saw those sharp eyes zeroed in on you. “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He was rarely a man left speechless.

The brush of your hands alone had his brain stuttering. You didn’t even touch his skin! It was the thought that you’d willingly, and so easily, come near him. Lips pursed as you concentrated on fixing his tie, proud of yourself once you stepped away. It was adorable—and he hated it. Hated the mechanical acceleration of his heart as it beat in time with the clock gears; the act of moving with something, rather than against it.

You were dangerous.

And the worst part was, you had no clue.

He smiled.

“It’s right there,” he said, pointing to a vague point on your cheek.

You wiped the area with your thumb, perturbed to find nothing on it. “Did I get it?”

“Nope.”

You scrubbed harder.

“Now?”

“Not in the slightest,” he replied, before cupping your jaw. Your deer-in-headlights expression was quite a spectacular sight, watching you watch him as he swept the nonexistent smudge from your face. His lips curled as those pretty little eyes remained on him, frazzled as he refused to pull away. “There. What am I gonna do with you?”

Oh, this. This was dangerous.

“You’re so messy, my dear.”

Shaking your head, you swatted his hand away, eyes darting from him to the hatch door.

“Just…head to the police precinct. I’ll see you if you don’t mess this mission up.”

You refused to turn to wave goodbye, but that was all right with him. If you had, you’d have seen the fond look on his face.

He was in quite the predicament.

“I’ll see you then.”

"What can I say? I have standards, even when I'm kidnapped." You gave him your best smile, the one that usually got you what you wanted.

He laughed, sharp and a little manic, and suddenly there was a deck of cards in his hand.

"How about a game then, my captive doll?" He presented the deck of cards with a theatrical manner.

"Only if you loosen this zip-tie. Can't shuffle properly like this." You answered still smiling, raising your hands to show him your restraints.

"And if you try to escape?" He inclined his head slightly in interest.

You leaned forward. "Don't worry, you seem much more interesting than whatever's outside that door."

His grin widened as he loosened the restraint. "Charming and clever! Do you flirt with all your captors?" He exclaimed excitedly.

"Only the pretty ones."

Nikolai actually giggled at that, dealing cards between you with the ease you'd expect a magician to have.

"You know, I could make you disappear right now. Just-" He snapped his fingers, "gone."

"But you won't." You said with confidence. "You're having too much fun." You looked at your cards without changing your expression even once.

"True! Freedom is doing exactly what one wants, and I want to play cards with the pretty detective who isn't afraid of me!" He said, looking at his own cards with excitement that almost instantly dropped to a pout after a few seconds. How easy.

"Who says I'm not afraid?" You discarded a card, drew another. "Maybe I just hide it really well."

"You don't, though." He studied his cards a bit more. "It's fascinating. What does it take to frighten you, I wonder?" He looked up, locking his gaze with yours for a moment.

"Bad card players, apparently. Are you going to discard or just stare at those all day?"

Three rounds later, Nikolai threw his cards down with a dramatic groan.

"This is impossible! You must be cheating!"

"I'm really not." You gathered the cards, let your fingers brush against his as you did. "You're just terrible at this."

"I am a master of deception!" He stated dramatically.

"In magic, maybe. In poker? You're an open book, gorgeous."

He froze for a second, then his grin stretched even wider.

"Did you just call me gorgeous?" He looked as excited as a puppy.

"I call it like I see it."

"While you're tied to a chair in an enemy base."

"The chair doesn't make you less pretty."

Nikolai laughed again, delighted and chaotic.

"Oh, you're dangerous. Deal again!"

You did, smiling as he immediately started humming to himself, arranging and rearranging his cards. He was ridiculous and unsettling in equal measure, but at least he was entertaining.

"You know what your problem is?" you asked after winning the fourth round.

"My devastating beauty is too distracting?"

"You're too expressive. Every emotion shows on your face." You answered.

"Freedom means never hiding oneself!" He simply said proudly.

"Freedom means losing at cards, apparently."

He gasped in mock offense just as the door opened. You glanced over your shoulder, and felt the temperature almost drop instantly. Fyodor Dostoevsky stood in the doorway, dark eyes moving from Nikolai's scattered cards to you, still sitting there like this was any other day. His gaze then lingered on the loosened zip-tie.

"Nikolai." He said quietly, voice soft and accented. "What is this?" You could never tell if he was pleased or annoyed by that voice.

"Cards!" Nikolai announced cheerfully. "I'm losing. She's winning. It's terrible for my ego but wonderful for my spirit!" He grinned.

You turned in your chair to face Fyodor properly, giving him an easy smile.

"He needed the entertainment as much as I did." You said, looking at Nikolai once again.

"She called me gorgeous," Nikolai added helpfully, in a sing song voice.

Fyodor's expression didn't change as he stepped into the room, closing the door with a soft click. He moved with careful precision, each step measured perfectly, the epitome of uneasiness for anyone who was not familiar with this kind of energy. You however, was not one of those people, already used to Dazai and his antics that could easily swith in a second to something darker. Except Dazai would've already made a joke by now.

"You are remarkably comfortable," Fyodor observed, stopping beside the table.

"Should I be panicking?" You tilted your head, studying him. "Would that be more interesting?"

"Most would."

"Most people are boring." You tapped the deck of cards on the table lightly, still confident. "Want to play? Fair warning, I've been destroying your friend here."

"I let you win the last one!" Nikolai protested.

"You really didn't."

Fyodor's dark eyes fixed on you, and you felt the weight of that analytical, calculating gaze. Like you were a puzzle he was already solving, still, your confidence was not fazed.

"You treat this as a game." He observed out loud.

"You treat everything as a game." You countered. "I'm just being more obvious about it." You set the cards on the middle of the table with a light thud.

Something flickered in his expression, not quite amusement, too controlled for that. He pulled out the chair across from you and sat, movements economical and precise.

"Deal," He said simply.

Nikolai perked up immediately, gathering the cards with unnecessary flourish. You watched Fyodor as he accepted his hand, face revealing absolutely nothing. Where Nikolai was all energy and expression, Fyodor was like still water, deep and impossible to read.

"So," you said, arranging your cards, "Do you always play games with your prisoners, or am I special?"

"You are unusual," Fyodor replied, tone clinical.

"I'll take that as a compliment." You discarded two, drew two. "You know, you're much harder to read than your friend here."

"Most are easier to read than Nikolai."

"Hey!" Nikolai looked up from his cards. "I am an enigma wrapped in mystery wrapped in-"

"In a losing hand," you finished. "Again."

Fyodor discarded one card, expression unchanged. You couldn't tell if he had a good hand or terrible one, and that was more interesting than you'd expected.

"You're not afraid," he said quietly, still looking at his cards.

"Should I be?"

"Yes."

You met his eyes over your hand. "Maybe I just don't scare easy. Or maybe" you laid down your cards, full house, "I know something you don't."

Nikolai groaned. "How do you keep doing this?"

Fyodor showed his hand, two pair, and for the briefest moment, something crossed his face. Interest, maybe. Or calculation. With him, it was hard to tell.

"Dazai." he said in a cold tone.

"What about him?"

"You have faith he will come for you." He inclined his head lightly towards you, examining you once mroe.

You shrugged, gathering the cards. "I have faith in a lot of things. Good cards. Bad jokes. The inevitability of Nikolai losing another round."

"I'm right here!"

"I know. Isn't it sad?" You shot Nikolai a grin, and he actually laughed.

Fyodor stood, pushing his chair back with quiet precision. "Your faith is misplaced."

"Maybe." You started shuffling again. "Or maybe you're not as far ahead as you think you are."

He studied you for a long moment, and you held his gaze without flinching. There was no fear in your expression, you weren't giving him anything useful anyway.

"Interesting," he murmured, then turned toward the door.

"Leaving already?" You kept your tone light and playful. "And here I thought I was finally getting you to relax. You should smile more, you know. Does wonders for the whole intimidating aesthetic." You gestured lightly towards him.

Fyodor paused at the door, glancing back.

"You are attempting to charm me." He declared.

"Is it working?"

"No."

"Shame." You winked at him anyway. "Worth a shot."

Something flickered in his eyes before he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Nikolai immediately leaned forward, eyes bright. "You just flirted with Dos-kun."

"I flirt with everyone." You answered without missing a beat.

"He's a demon."

"Are you jealous?" You dealt another round. "Don't worry, he's not as pretty as you, obviously."

Nikolai's grin was sharp and delighted. "You're going to get yourself killed." You didn't answer it this time, knowing not to give enough information.

"Now, are you going to lose gracefully this time, or do I have to keep embarrassing you?" You picked up your cards.

"Bold words for someone in zip-ties."

"Loose zip-ties," you corrected, wiggling your wrist. "Thanks for that, by the way. You're a gentleman."

"I'm a terrorist." He said cheerfully.

"A gentleman terrorist. Very modern."

He laughed, bright and unhinged, and you settled back into the game. Because what else were you going to do? Worry? Let them see you sweat?

He makes a show of considering it, head tilting as he hums thoughtfully, dragging it out just enough to be annoying. But there's a smile tugging at his lips, a rare genuine one that betrays the mask he's always trying to put on for everyone else.

"Well," he says slowly, setting his own glass aside with deliberate care, "When a beautiful woman asks me so sweetly..." He lifts your hand with exaggerated gallantry, bowing slightly as he brushes his lips against your knuckles. "...how could I possibly refuse?" He says, guiding you to the middle of the dancefloor.

You roll your eyes, but there's already a smile showing on your face.

“Just try not to embarrass me.” You say, even though you can already feel the warmth settling in your chest.

"I wouldn't dream of it." he murmurs, stepping a little closer, enough that you can now smell the faint scent of his cologne, and much like all other aspects of him, it was intoxicatingly charming.

Dazai’s hand slides easily to your waist, settling there with a confidence that makes your breath catch for just a brief moment. His other hand takes yours properly, fingers interlacing, with a firm and yet gentle hold, and it makes this feel different from all the casual touches you've traded before.

When he moves, it's effortless, like the two of you dance like this all the time. You’re surprised for a second, but quickly recover, falling into step with him. Your hand fits perfectly in his, your body responding to his lead instinctively, trusting the pressure of his hand at your waist, the subtle guidance of his fingers as he guides you into a slow turn. When you complete the rotation and face him again, you catch the slight softness in his eyes.

Around you, conversations begin to quiet. The shift is gradual, like dominoes falling in slow motion. It looked almost intimate, like a conversation no one else was allowed to participate in.

The music swells, and Dazai spins you once more with fluid motion as his hand releases yours for just a second before catching you again with ease. When you come back to him, you're closer than before, and there's something different in his gaze. He's not performing anymore. He's watching, like he's memorizing every micro-expression, every breath, every tiny tell you've never bothered to hide because this was supposed to be fun, safe, uncomplicated.

"You're full of surprises," he says lightly, but his tone dips just a fraction.

You smirk, letting yourself lean into the next turn, your body impossibly close to his. "Were you expecting less?"

"From you?" He tilts his head, guiding you into another step, and when he pulls you back, you can feel your chest almost brushing his. "Never. I just hadn't decided which kind of dangerous you were yet."

You laugh softly at that, but the sound catches in your throat when you realize he's not laughing with you this time. You trust him enough to catch you in your next turn, knowing he would never let you fall, and that’s when you realise how much that means. How much trust you actually have on him.

The music shifts, building toward something more intense, and he matches it perfectly, leading you through a more complex sequence, a spin, a dip, a rotation that requires absolute trust and perfect timing. There’s no hesitation.

Behind you, somewhere in the crowd of Agency members who have definitely stopped pretending to mingle.

"A-ah, look at them…"

"That's insane! How are they-"

"They're like, actually good."

Atsushi is fully frozen, eyes wide, one hand still holding a half-eaten appetizer that he's forgotten about entirely. Kenji is grinning like he's watching the best festival performance of his life, practically bouncing on his heels. Even Kunikida has paused mid-rant about something or other, his glasses catching the light as he stares in open disbelief. Ranpo, because of course Ranpo figured this out months ago, is eating candy and looking insufferably smug. Yosano leans against the bar, drink in hand, a slow smirk spreading across her face as she watches the two of you move together like you're the only people in the room.

"Oh," she says to no one in particular. "This is dangerous."

Back on the dance floor, you lean in just slightly as the music begins to slow, your lips close enough to his ear that he can feel your breath when you speak.

"People are staring," you murmur, your hand sliding from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the soft hair there.

"Of course they are. I'm devastatingly charming." Dazai's smile is immediate, amusement present in his voice.

You snort softly, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. "That's definitely what it is." Your voice softens as you say it, and for a second you let the teasing facade drop. What a mistake.

Now you’re staring into his eyes and there seems to be no escape. But something shifts, the performance was fading away, and the safe distance you usually maintain is no longer there. And for the first time, he doesn’t break the silence with a joke or look away immediately, he simply stays there, meeting your gaze without the sparkly facade. It 's honest. And then his grip on your waist tightens, just slightly, almost as if he was trying to ground himself.

"...you make it easy," he says, and his voice is quieter, almost absent, like the words slipped out without his permission.

You blink, your heart doing something complicated in your chest.

"What?"

But he's already catching himself, that practiced smile sliding back into place like a mask that's been worn so many times it's become second nature. The walls go back up, smooth and seamless.

"Careful," he says lightly, spinning you once more with that effortless grace, before pulling you back in. "If we keep this up, people might start thinking we're in love."

It's meant to be a joke, a deflection, a return to the safe territory of playful banter that you've both perfected after working together for so long. Instead of going right back, you raise an eyebrow, completely unfazed, and meet his eyes with that same directness that first caught his attention when you met years ago.

"Let them."

That makes him pause. Fully stop, right there in the middle of the dance floor, the music still playing around you but suddenly feeling very far away. His smile falters, just for a fraction of a second, but you notice it immediately, and for the first time in a long time, Dazai doesn't have a clever response. He just looks at you, at the way the light catches in your eyes, the slight flush in your cheeks from the dancing and the champagne and the proximity, the curve of your smile. The way you're standing here, in his arms, in front of half the city's elite and all your colleagues, and you just said let them like it's the simplest thing in the world, without any fear.

He turned his head in your direction, expression already shifting into one of interest, as though the boredom never existed in the first place.

"Well, if I had something more interesting to focus on.." He said, voice light and teasing. "Maybe I'd be more productive."

That finally made you look at him. There it was, that tone of voice that sounded like trouble no matter what words he was actually saying. Eyes already glistening with mischief.

"Oh?" You asked, a teasing smile already making its way to your face. "And what would be interesting enough to motivate you, Dazai?"

"You." He didn't miss a beat.

From the desk nearby, Atsushi froze mid-motion, very slowly looking towards you two, now actually paying attention to your conversation.

"Careful." You warned lightly. "Don't say things like that, people might think you're serious."

Dazai sat up a little in his chair, resting his chin in his hand, looking more interested in you as time went on.

"Would that be so bad?" He asked in that charming tone. "I think we'd make a charming pair."

You finally allowed your chair to rest back on its four legs with a soft thud, getting up slowly from your seat and walking towards Dazai's desk slowly.

"Hmm" You hummed thoughtfully, now closer to him. "You're a bit too much work for my taste."

His eyes brightened just a bit, almost unnoticeable, like that was exactly the answer he was looking for.

"Yet you keep coming back to me." He grinned.

Atsushi blinked, lifting his hands lightly from the keyboard, trying to make sure he didn't miss hear anything.

"Wait.."

Neither of you acknowledged him. You leaned slightly against Dazai's desk, completely at ease.

"You'd miss me if I didn't."

"Cruel." He sighed. "And here I was, ready to devote myself to you."

"You say that to everyone."

"Not with this level of sincerity."

"You have levels?"

"Of course, you are currently at the top."

Atsushi stoop up from his chair.

"WAIT.." He said, making both of you pause long enough to look at him. "Are you guys... a couple?" He finally asked, eyes darting between the two of you, trying to puzzle it all together.

For a moment there was silence as both of you processed the question, then you glanced at each other, and started laughing.

"No." You finally said after catching your breath, waving your hand dismissively.

"Where did you get that idea?" Asked Dazai, just as amused.

"We just flirt to pass the time." You answered before Atsushi could respond.

The young boy stared with his mouth open, still not fully comprehending the situation at hand.

"...You what?" He asked.

"It helps with the boredom." Dazai explained, as if it were obvious. "I highly recommend it."

"It's either that or actually doing the paperwork." You said, easy smile still on your face.

"Right.." Atsushi glanced at the untouched documents on both your desks.

"This is highly inappropriate!"

Kunikida's stern voice echoed from across the room. Still seated at his chair, working efficiently on all his pending work, as always, he looked up from his computer with a disapproving expression already showing.

"This is not a place for that type of behavior!"

He stopped short when he saw you, and for just a moment, his expression was completely unguarded. Fear. You were seeing actual fear on Tecchou's face.

"I'm okay," you said automatically, which was a lie.

He was beside you in an instant, already scanning you for injuries with intense focus.

"You're not okay, you're-" His hand hovered over your shoulder. "You have multiple fractures, neural overload... You over did it."

"Civilians are safe though." You tried for a smile. "All forty of them."

"Forty?" He looked at the collapsed building, then back at you, and something shifted in his expression. "Alone? You extracted forty civilians alone while in overdrive?"

"Didn't have much of a choice. The building was collapsing."

"You should've signaled. I could have-" His jaw tightened.

You tried to shift positions and immediately regretted it, a sharp gasp escaping. "You were handling the primary target. I made a tactical call."

"Don't." He warned quietly, there was something in his voice you've never heard before. "Don't use tactical justification right now."

Before you could respond, he was moving with careful precision, one arm sliding under your knees, the other supporting your back.

"Tecchou, I can walk—"

"No, you can't. Your right leg is fractured and your nervous system is compromised. Walking would cause further damage." He lifted you as if you weighed nothing. "I'm transporting you to medical."

"I can still—"

"You can't." It wasn't harsh, just absolutely certain. "And you won't. Not while I'm here." It was simply not up for debate. You felt his arms carefully tighten around your body slightly, trying to protect you from hurting yourself even more if you tried to move.

"I was seventeen seconds away, if you had signaled-" He stopped, already talking in a hushed tone. You didn't answer.

"Im taking you to medical." He declared after a while, in that same strict tone from before.

"That's ridiculous, its a fifteen minute walk to extraction." You argued, even though you knew better.

"Then I'll carry you for fifteen minutes."

"Tecchou-"

"You just overused your ability to save forty people you haven't even met from a collapsing building. I can carry you for fifteen minutes." He adjusted his grip slightly, making sure you were secured. "This is the significantly easier task."

It was subtle, the way he always were when he wanted to hear you say something even though he already knew the answer. You hummed softly, barely awake, not interested in hiding it at all, you never did.

"Your voice is calming is all."

There's a pause, not long, just enough to feel intentional. The book is lowered, slightly.

"Calming..." He repeats, almost amused in that faint, unreadable way of his. "Is that all it takes to lull you into such a defenseless state?"

You don't answer, already giving up on fighting the sleepiness.

"Should I take that as a form os trust..." His voice dropped even lower now, almost as if he was talking only to himself. "Or lapse in judgement?" There was no bite to it, however.

Your body sinked more into him slowly, now fully relaxed, as your breathing evened out. Fyodor watched your frame, completely and utterly calm, as if nothing could ever hurt you at all. His eyes were almost soft.

"How strange." He remarked, closing the book quietly in his hands.

His now free hand comes up, hesitating for a full second before finally allowing it to rest on your head lightly.

"You find comfort in something that was never meant to be gentle." Fyodor observed to himself. "And yet... I don't mind indulging you." His voice dropped so low that almost he didn't hear it this time.

He leans back into the couch again, adjusting you just enough so you’re more comfortable against him, his arm settling securely around you like a quiet claim.