Dazai Birthday Week 2024

Why is he crying? He isn’t sure. It could be any number of things. It could be phantom static electricity ghosting up his spine; it could that awkward spot on his foot, which he always avoids as though it still has a nail hammered through it; it could be the phantom pains of his own limbs that had been lost-regrown-lost-regrown again in the last year; or maybe any number of deaths, be they cold corpses he’d stumbled across or bullets he’d watched land. And those last two are the worst, maybe, because those things are his job. And if he couldn’t even handle doing his own job—

Dazai’s giggling floats towards his door. Atsushi tenses. Not tonight, please God. He can’t deal with the drunken antics tonight.

The giggling floats on past and Atsushi relaxes. But he should have known better. It’s only a few seconds before Dazai backtracks — so quick, it sounds like, that he trips and catches Atsushi’s doorknob to stay up.

Rattling the doorknob, Dazai calls, “Atsushiiii!”

“I’m asleep!” Atsushi calls back, not even bothering to pretend. Chances were Dazai had done something insane, like perfectly memorizing Atsushi’s sleep habits or catching how one particular particle of light fell under the door, and figured out that Atsushi was wide awake. “Go away, Dazai!”

“Noooooo,” Dazai whines. There is the distinctive clicking sound of a lock being picked. Dazai doesn’t even need to pick it — he’s the only other member of the Agency who has his own key to Atsushi’s dorm. Dazai hums a jaunty tune while he works. Atsushi considers hiding, but Dazai is quick, and by the time Atsushi’s foggy brain thinks of a hiding spot, the door is already creaking open. Atsushi decides to just keep his red, snotty face firm in the cushions and ignore Dazai until he gets bored.

“Hellooooooo,” Dazai croons, flicking Atsushi’s lights on. Without looking at him, Atsushi can imagine the way he twirls around the dorm, all those dramatic movements he likes to distract with. Dazai must be stumbling, though. There’s a thud somewhere near the kitchen counter, and a pained grunt. “Why’re you sleeping on the couch?”

“It’s my couch.” The sharp clinking of glass, something pouring. Atsushi groans again. “I can sleep on my couch.”

Dazai’s footsteps, clumsy in a way Atsushi can’t place (is it an act? accidental? something Dazai simply isn’t trying to hide?), round the couch. He taps at Atsushi’s leg and Atsushi, begrudging and reluctant as he is, has a child in his soul. So he pulls his legs up, knees nearing his chest. The couch protests the way Dazai falls into it. “Don’t break my couch,” Atsushi grumbles, with no heat. Dazai hums.

Even with his knees drawn up, Atsushi’s feet push against Dazai’s thigh, and suddenly Atsushi feels too big. Like he’s become twice as heavy as he is. The couch creaks underneath him, the floor creaks under the couch. He imagines his body expanding, ripping through his clothes. He imagines his veins bulging, his arms taking on that awful, sinuous look they always do in between human and not, a phase which is usually too short for anyone to see but him. But instead of transforming into Byakko, his imaginary limbs stay stuck there in that in-between – unnatural, painful. Awkward and lumbering.

This, of course, doesn’t happen. He is 5’7, 59 kilograms. His knees are knobbly and his wrist bones pop out too much, although he’s gotten a bit stockier than he used to be. He’s not abnormally heavy, hardly monstrous. And he’s firmly Atsushi, now. (Firmly Atsushi, except for that bit of Byakko that’s always in the back of his head, her worries and wants. Right now, she’s thinking: Dazai. She’s never very specific with her thoughts – it could be a cheer. It could be a warning.) And anyway, Byakko couldn’t come out, because Dazai’s cold hand is resting on Atsushi’s ankle.

…Dazai’s cold hand is resting on Atsushi’s ankle, Atsushi processes belatedly. Which is – fine. Dazai is touchy. Maybe not so much with Atsushi, because – well. Atsushi doesn’t always like it. Sometimes it scares him. But Atsushi is used to Dazai ruffling his hair, throwing an arm around his shoulder, knocking his knuckles against his forehead. Fleeting touches, that is. Contact that leaves as soon as it arrives. And Atsushi is fine with it. He doesn’t feel any particular sort of way about it.

(Liar. Cut back to the very first month Atsushi knew Dazai. The way Dazai, at some point a couple weeks in, jokingly reached over to ruffle Atsushi’s hair, coo-ed about him like he was a child. Atsushi, much more nervous back then, had blustered and stammered and flushed and – critically – pushed his head up into Dazai’s hand like the idiot he was. Dazai, for once sparing Atsushi’s feelings, said nothing aloud. But the repeats of that particular gesture came often. And Atsushi found himself, stupidly, awaiting them. Craving them.)

The point is that this is uncommon. Dazai’s touch never lasts, not unless he’s joking with someone – draping himself over Kunikida to annoy him, pushing into Ranpo’s space to banter. This isn’t a joke. This is Dazai, sat quietly on Atsushi’s couch, listening to nothing but breathing, his hand settled on Atsushi’s ankle.

They are silent for so long that Atsushi almost thinks he is hallucinating again. What other reason would there be for Dazai to be here, sitting in gentle silence? It’s unusual for him not to talk. Babbling or nagging or deadly serious, but always something. Dazai talked so much, so incessantly, that he’d practically become Atsushi’s inner monologue. Yes, Dazai was acting so out of character now that Atsushi really did, for a moment, think he was hallucinating. It would be a nice change of pace, for his imagination to give him something like this.

But his hallucinations would never be so kind as to linger. To comfort so softly. To let him sit here with that calming touch and peaceful silence and nothing else. This is real. And it’s this understanding that has Atsushi lulling into – not sleep. Some kind of reverie. The sobbing-induced migraine fades from behind his eyes and nose, ever so slightly. He drifts, between Byakko’s corner of his mind (Dazai, she is rumbling, echoing about his brain) and that ice-cold touch on his ankle. Back and forth, temple to ankle, like a hammock on a warm day. Dazai’s touch always grounds Atsushi. It doesn’t make Byakko go away – no, that would be terrifying, even more terrifying than losing control of her, running a rampage. But Dazai…quiets her, in a way. Soothes her.

Dazai’s glass clinking against the table snaps Atsushi back into reality. He suddenly becomes aware again of the slightly dusty smell of the cushion he’s crammed his face against, and the way his arms are shoved awkwardly up, half-underneath himself.

“Atsushi,” Dazai says in a sharp, breathy way. His freezing fingers pinch at Atsushi’s ankle, pulling the skin in a way that makes Atsushi yelp, his foot jackrabbiting into Dazai’s thigh. “Why so sad, Atsushi?” He pinches again, but this time Atsushi is expecting it and does nothing.

“I’m just trying to sleep, Dazai.” Atsushi says it as blandly as possible. “What do you want?”

Dazai’s knuckles rap against Atsushi’s ankle, but not with any force. “So mean to your mentor.” Atsushi can imagine the pout. He rolls his eyes. Then he stays quiet, and lets the question sit, because if he says anything else Dazai will just find a rabbit hole to take them down so Atsushi forgets he ever asked anything.

“I got you a drink, too,” Dazai says. “It’s up here.”

Atsushi shakes his head into the couch cushion. Absolutely not. His face is probably all red and puffy and tear-streaked, snot running from his nose, and he doesn’t need Dazai to see that lest he wither up in shame.

Dazai humphs. “Well,” he says, like he’s going to say more. Atsushi’s (Byakko’s) ears perk. Then he says nothing for a long while. In the renewed silence, Atsushi can imagine his face, the face he makes when he’s thinking hard about something, or trying to figure out how to hide something — blank, a little slack-jawed, glassy eyes trained on the wall, or a cobweb, or the sky. Then: “Well, maybe I just wanted to say goodnight. Is that so bad, Atsushi?”

It should be a teasing question. From Dazai, it should be completely rhetorical, accompanied with a lilting tone and a silly, sly smile. Instead, he says it softly, genuinely. As genuine as Dazai can be anyway. His hand is still on Atsushi’s ankle. It should be warm, by now, with this prolonged contact. Inexplicably, it’s still an ice cube against skin.

Atsushi wants to say: No, and please will you stay here? No, and thank you for this home and this company and for not putting a nail through my foot. No, and I know my standards are horrifically low, but you’re really the best guidance I’ve ever had. No, and please can we just stay right here on this couch forever? It’s okay if it’s only my ankle that ever gets physical touch again — just never let go, please?

Instead, he says: “Dazai, you’re drunk.”

“Hmph,” Dazai says, and then it’s like a static shock, the way the serenity of the night seems to blink out of the air. A startled laugh chokes out of Atsushi as Dazai ragdolls down, dropping his whole upper weight onto Atsushi’s, the top of his head knocking into Atsushi’s jaw. “Such a mean student!” Dazai reiterates, the hand that was on Atsushi’s ankle poking into Atsushi’s side repeatedly. The weight of him has Atsushi working a little harder to pull in breaths, but he finds he doesn’t mind.

Dazai is too heavy for Atsushi to get his arm out from under both of them and swat him away, but Atsushi certainly tries. “Stop it!” Atsushi shouts, but there’s still laughter bubbling up his throat. Byakko is as quiet as she can be, with Dazai so in contact, but he gets the sense she is not on board with Atsushi saying: “Get off me!” Rather, Byakko urges Atsushi to turn and tuck his head into Dazai’s shoulder. This would be mortifying, so Atsushi absolutely does not do that.

“Fine,” Dazai sighs overdramatically, then rolls, ragdolling once more onto the floor. Despite being unable to see him, Atsushi imagines the way he instantly pops back up and brushes off the front of his vest. “Well, Atsushi, I guess I’ll leave you to it! I’m taking my drink, though.”

Dazai hums as he gathers up his glass, a bottle, his shoes. Atsushi blinks into the couch cushion, considers the pleasant flush of joy that’s already receding, the coldness that’s spreading up from his ankles, down from his temples. Byakko is loud again.

“Good night,” Atsushi says. The door clicks. Sudden entrance, sudden exit. Typical Dazai, he grumbles internally.

“Uh-huh.” The first aid kit deposits itself into his hands as he strides over to the couch. “Lemme see that wound.”

Except there’s nothing to see. Under the ripped up shirt and all the clotting blood and bits of loose flesh, it’s just smooth skin. So his ability has done its work, if belatedly. Some of this blood is only a few minutes old. It healed fast, but not as fast as it ought’ve. But the weretiger is still acting all loopy, whimpering like something hurts. Just blood loss? That doesn’t feel right.

Chuuya sits himself on his coffee table, knees bumping the couch. “What’s your name again?” It’s somewhere in the back of his mind, but all he ever hears is Akutugawa’s jinkos.

“Naka…” the weretiger starts, then seems to forget he was saying anything. He turns to the cat as though he only just realized she was drawing tracks down his arm, and coos, scratching at her chin. His pupils are huge. Ah, that’s one question answered at least. A hard drug hindered his healing — and it would have disoriented him enough to panic, go out searching for help. Now the question was what drug, why, and how the fuck did his mind, even drug-addled, end up at Chuuya?

“Naka…” Chuuya echoes, scratching his chin. He really should know this, considering the scuffles and the bounty and the general hot topic the boy was around the Port Mafia. The weretiger does not provide any more help. He is entirely caught up with the cat. Now fully turned onto his side, the weretiger has both hands around the cat’s face, scratching dutifully under both her ears. She purrs like a motorboat.

“Hello,” he says reverently. Big-eyed, he tilts forward until he and the cat can touch noses. When he smiles Chuuya catches braces and grimaces. “Hello, hello, meow.”

“Mrow,” the cat offers.

“Nakajima!” Chuuya finally settles on, triumphant. Nakajima looks up at him fully for the first time, grinning with a Dazai-like edge. Well — tree, apple, falling, etc. Chuuya supposes he’s not so much grinning like Dazai as he is grinning like someone high on nebulous hard drugs, which Dazai often is.

“What’s her name?” Nakajima asks, glossy eyes settling somewhere on Chuuya’s chin.

“Pingus,” Chuuya says, and Nakajima dissolves into giggle fits. He rolls over, pushing himself into the back of the couch, giggling so hard his feet kick out. Pingus, scandalized, climbs onto the couch and begins kneading at Atsushi’s side, trying to force her head under his hands. “What!” Chuuya says, even though he’s listened to a hundred people laugh at his cat’s name before. “It’s a fine Spanish wine, Nakajima, does your idiot mentor teach you anything—”

Nakajima’s laughter stops abruptly. Everything about him stops abruptly. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and Chuuya realizes he hates the sight of him — collapsed on Chuuya’s fine couch, which he’d bought with blood money; white hair and moonlight skin and tatters of a white shirt, all matted and sticky with his own blood, bits of flesh trailing down his stomach. He’s got, Chuuya realizes, red smears all over his chin, his neck, and if he opened his mouth a little wider it might be on his teeth, too. Chuuya had always thought the kid sweet, a bit naive, earnest and reckless. Akutugawa had called him a stupid dog. He wonders about the man-eating tiger stories; wonders what Dazai saw in him in the first place that he thought would make a good partner for Akutugawa. He wonders what Dazai’s taught the kid - what he’s nurtured in him.

“Dazai,” Nakajima says, just as reverential as when he’d been speaking to Pingus. “Dazai told me to come here.” Out of his front pocket, he pulls a crumpled, slightly damp piece of notebook paper and holds it out to Chuuya. He grins big, proud of himself.

A safe place in case of emergency! :D It reads, in Dazai’s stupid messy scrawl. Chuuya will be kind and keep Atsushi for a bit. Tell Chuuya Dazai sent you!

Below these instructions are Chuuya’s address, his phone number (Jesus, Dazai, Chuuya thinks — might as well start plastering Chuuya’s face all over Main Street), and, of course, nothing directed at Chuuya.

Chuuya sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Fucking Dazai — what was he thinking, sending Nakajima his way? Did he tell his whole gaggle of do-gooders Chuuya’s place was a safehouse? And why the hell would he send Nakajima straight into the Mafia’s hands?

(Unless, of course, he believed Chuuya would decline to tell the Mafia about this at all. It was a big risk, believing that.)

“So.” Chuuya leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He studies Nakajima, whose chest is heaving, every breath coming with a hint of a wheeze. Did he overdose? Chuuya taps his foot, considering — he has aspirin in his first-aid kit. Narcan too. “What happened, huh? Too much catnip?”

Nakajima grins lazily (yes, he was right — blood and braces), head lolling against the couch. His arm is limp when Chuuya picks it up, presses two fingers to the pulse point at the inside of his elbow. Nakajima’s offering way too much trust, either because of the drugs or Dazai — Chuuya could stop his blood from flowing at all, if he wanted to. But Dazai would shoot him in the temple, probably.

“I dunno,” Nakajima slurs. His mental condition is definitely unnerving, but at least his pulse feels fine, and his skin isn’t clammy.

Chuuya pinches his inner arm and Nakajima yelps, jolting — his arm becomes monstrous and heavy. Chuuya stares at it, considering the length of its claws. Man-eater, he thinks.

“Huh,” Chuuya says. Then: “Wake up, kid. Tell me what happened.”

“Um.” Pingus is rubbing her face all over Nakajima’s jaw. A deep purr rumbles in Nakajima’s chest to match Pingus’s, which Chuuya is only mildly surprised by. There’s some semblance of awareness in Nakajima’s eyes that Chuuya thinks is due to Pingus’s bothering. She’ll get extra fish with her dinner, as a reward. “Dazai and I were undercover…” Nakajima’s eyes roam the ceiling, running his (both now human, thank God) bony hands up and down Pingus’s back. “Undercover, and… Dazai told me to leave — really fast.”

“Why?”

Nakajima looks frustrated, and Chuuya understands. With a mind addled like his is, it can be hard to put words to things even if you know exactly what you’re trying to explain. But if there’s trouble, there’s no time to wait for Nakajima to sober up.

“Because…” Nakajima says, “He said we were drugged… we were at this fancy party, and I started feeling funny, and Dazai said, go to the Agency, but the Agency was far away… I left him there…” Nakajima jumps up, suddenly, throwing a yowling Pingus off his chest. White knuckling the back of the couch, Nakajima shouts, “Dazai’s in trouble!”

“Calm down.” Chuuya considers reaching out, pushing Nakajima back down onto the couch. That probably wouldn’t go well. “You know Dazai’s fine.” Fine was maybe a strong word, but alive was a fact that seemed to stay true no matter what. “I need more from you. How’d you get injured?”

Nakajima blinks at him. “Injured?”

“Injured,” Chuuya reiterates, pointing at the chunk of yellow fat smeared across Nakijma’s stomach. What a fucking sight. All the hallmarks of a corpse on his couch, except the actual injury.

“Oh,” Nakajima says, squinting down at his own blood. He sort-of snarls as he runs his tongue over his upper teeth, like he just realized the blood on it. “I don’t — remember? I think someone tried to stop me leaving…”

Chuuya puts the images together. Thinks it through — Nakajima and Dazai, both of them completely out of place in some party full of cocktail dresses and tiny sausages. The drugging had to be well hidden for Dazai not to notice, but he would have known the second it slid down his throat. He imagines Dazai’s panicked face — the one no one else ever notices except Chuuya, who is very well attuned to the tiniest twitches of Dazai’s eyebrows — imagines him calculating exactly how many minutes him and Nakajima had, making an estimated guess based on Nakajima’s size and ability and how much he’d unknowingly chugged, and then deciding the kid had enough time to get the hell out of dodge.

Nakajima would have had to leave as discreetly as possible, as though he didn’t know anything was wrong. But if someone had drugged them both, then they were watching them, too. Nakajima had been intercepted, gotten hurt, and — hm. The man-eating thing had only ever been rumors. But if he had claws like that, Chuuya could only imagine the teeth, and what one does when there’s an unknown drug and panic and blood loss all settling in at once. With his efforts to get all the blood off his teeth and out of the crannies of his braces, Nakajima is making a lot of funny faces.

So someone was probably dead. And Dazai was God knows where. And — okay.

Chuuya tilts his head up to the ceiling, ignoring Nakajima, who has once again become preoccupied with Pingus. Question time:

1. Where’s Dazai? Did he get himself out too? Or is he drugged up in someone’s basement?

2. Why Nakajima and not him? If it were one or the other, Dazai would have had a much easier time getting himself out than Nakajima. His tolerance is higher, he probably had less, and, frankly, he’d probably be much more useful in terms of knowledge.

3. For that matter: why not both? Why couldn’t both of them leave? Scratch question 2, then — the only reason Dazai would let himself get caught is if he had a reason to.

4. Fine then, last question, besides why come to Chuuya: how long should Chuuya wait for the stupid mackerel to show his face before he sucks it up and calls the Agency?

Hopefully, he won’t have to deal with the last question. Either Nakajima sobers up soon or Dazai escapes. It’s been a few years and Dazai’s gone weird and soft, but at the very least he should still be totally capable of escaping some stupid fucking kidnappers.

Chuuya should probably add who drugged them to his list of questions, but that’s not really his problem. With the story straight-enough in his head, he just needs to focus on getting Nakajima sober. By the state of the kid’s giant pupils and still-heaving breaths and incessant giggles every time he whispers Pingus to himself, it’ll be a while.

Babysitting duty. Ah, well — Chuuya’s used to babysitting duty, ever since Dazai fucked off and left the Akutugawa kids reeling and helpless. (Not that either of the kids would admit that’s what happened.) Dazai was always leaving him on babysitting duty.

Chuuya sighs, stands, retrieves a blanket. By this point Nakajima’s sunk back down onto the couch, holding a loaf of Pingus against his chest. “Rest up, weretiger,” Chuuya says, throwing the blanket over the both of them. He’ll wash all the viscera and shit off the blanket later.

Nakajima, covered up to his nose, blinks with those big, dual-colored eyes. With a little mrow, Pingus’s head pops out of the blanket and she starts nuzzling Nakajima’s cheek with his nose.

“Are you gonna tell Akutugawa I’m here?” Nakajima asks softly. It should be a question asked with fear, but it’s awfully bland — unafraid. Chuuya’s lips twitch.

“No,” Chuuya says, and heads into the kitchen.

Dazai used to do a lot of cocaine.

He probably doesn’t anymore. Or he’s really good at hiding it. Chuuya doesn’t imagine a cocaine habit would go over well with the detectives, and he doesn’t imagine Dazai could even hide something like that from the smart one. (From the others, he could definitely hide it. But not the super smart one.)

Chuuya’s done it a few times himself, but it’s never been his preference. The dignity of alcohol, the richness of it, and most of all the beauty of it — all those fine, expensive, aged bottles sitting on his shelves — has always appealed to him. But Dazai liked the way things like cocaine got him excited, amplified his mania. He liked uppers, from cigarettes to ritalin to coke, because they made him feel human.

Not that it’s cocaine, Nakajima’s got in him. It’s definitely not cocaine. It was probably ketamine or benzos, an attempt to make Nakajima all loopy and relaxed and weak. That’s not what happened, clearly. At least it’s not what happened immediately, because Nakajima had enough strength in him to escape an attacker. Must’ve been his ability slowing the drug.

It doesn’t matter. This is all to say that Chuuya has more than enough experience sobering himself and others up. He sets to work frying some eggs.

Nakajima’s not asleep; from the other room, Nakajima’s quiet voice wafts in, indistinguishable murmurs interspersed with giggles and Pingus’s mrows. At some point he starts humming a song which Chuuya has to strain his ears to hear. It’s a sweet, lilting melody — his brain fills in the lyrics instantly and his heart twists at the realization that it’s Dazai’s stupid song, can’t do a double suicide alone.

Chuuya slides the eggs off the pan with his spatula and sets them gently on the plate. Then he stops there, stares at the eggs, the shaking yolks. Thinks about being fifteen in Mori’s office, glaring at Dazai, the feeling in his gut that something horrible had changed in his life. Thinks about the stark red marks of Dazai’s hand on Akutugawa’s cheek. Thinks about childrens’ feet pattering softly down the halls of the Port Mafia’s safe houses and headquarters’ halls. Thinks about Nakajima, smiling at Dazai’s name, singing silly tunes Dazai taught him.

Toast pops out of the toaster. It’s a little burnt. Chuuya blinks and takes a breath that does not shake. He flicks on the radio — some public station playing soft jazz — and he can’t hear Nakajima anymore.

When Chuuya returns to the living room with two ham egg and cheese sandwiches, Nakajima pops fully up, although this time he holds Pingus to his chest so she doesn’t fall. The blanket falls, though, and it’s the same as it was before: the remains of a nice shirt falling over thin shoulders, drying brown blood splattering his stomach and chest and arms, his own fucking skin and flesh and fat stuck to him. Chuuya’s seen gore before — seen it a thousand times worse than this — but something about the sight has him keeping his eyes dutifully on Nakajima’s forehead.

Nakajima devours the sandwich in practically one bite, his jaw wider than it ought to be. Chuuya pretends not to be unnerved by this.

Once Nakajima has fully chewed his sandwich and patted his stomach and hummed his thanks, Chuuya asks, “Feel any better?”

The penthouse is cold. Chuuya likes it that way. But Nakajima shivers, pulling the blanket back up, tucking himself back down onto the couch. “A little,” he says, suddenly very childlike. As though he’s only just realized he’s cold (likely, considering what some drugs can do to one’s awareness of things like temperature), Nakajima curls more and more into himself on his side, pulling the blanket up his face. Ridiculous, that he’s on Chuuya’s couch right now. Ridiculous, that Chuuya doesn’t call Akutagawa. Fucking Dazai.

Chuuya stands abruptly. Nakajima blinks in response.

“Rest,” Chuuya says again, then promptly retreats to his bedroom.

Dazai is sprawled out on Chuuya’s bed, twisting the soft black covers beneath him, hair fanned out over the pillow. He’s got a few bruises on his cheek but there’s no blood, Chuuya recognizes first, then recognizes second that Dazai is on his fucking bed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Chuuya says. Throws his hands up in the air, lets out a noise like a yell without any air — makes a scandalized face that Dazai only blinks at, throws his arms back down, then towards Dazai, into the air, then out, gesturing widely at the room around him. Every loose object in the room raises about a centimeter, drops, raises. “When the fuck did you get here!” He crosses the room in two long strides, pulls the lounging Dazai off the bed by his shoulders, and shakes him. “Your stupid kid is high out of his mind in the living room!”

Dazai groans, fake, squeezing his eyes shut. “Chuuya, Chuuya,” he whines, putting on a strange voice like a telenovela housewife, “Chuuya, my head is killing me!”

“You’ve done worse drugs,” Chuuya says, but he brings up a hand to start prying Dazai’s eyelids open and check his pupils. Yelping, Dazai bats him away, wiggles out of his grip, then rolls floppily onto the other side of the bed. He pats the space next to him in invitation.

“Fuck you,” Chuuya says.

Dazai just frowns.

The window is open, Chuuya realizes, a breeze fluttering the blackout curtains. This is somehow an even worse realization than finding Dazai on his bed, and Chuuya has to fully turn on his heel so he’s facing away from Dazai. He grabs his face in his hands, bounces on his heels once, twice, thrice. The idiot had either broken into the apartment below and climbed up to the penthouse or started from the roof and climbed down — either way, it’s so ridiculous and unnecessary that the thought of it gives Chuuya heart palpitations.

“You have a key to this apartment!” Chuuya hisses, although something about it feels like he shouldn’t say it out loud, like it’s an admittance. “Why would you-!”

Dazai hums in a way that tells Chuuya he won’t get an explanation. Either he’d done it for fun or done it because it was all part of some stupid plan or mind game or manipulation. Chuuya decided he didn’t care, because the more pressing question was—

“Why would you give that kid my address?” He steps forward so his knees are bumping the mattress.

Doe-eyed and innocent, Dazai stares up at him. “Why wouldn’t I?” He asks, “Chuuya is a good babysitter…”

“I’m going to kill you,” Chuuya says, but he doesn’t add his usual violence to it because he’s squinting at Dazai’s pupils. Blown pupils, but his cheeks are a normal warmth, he seems perfectly able to move himself around. No need for the damn narcan, which is a blessing, because Chuuya’s had to give Dazai narcan more times than he’d like in this lifetime.

Dazai pats the spot next to him again. Rolling his eyes, Chuuya acquiesces. Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee; fifteen, twenty-two. They sit in quiet a moment, Dazai taking deep breaths Chuuya recognizes as an attempt to sober up. The summer breeze through the window adds a bit of warmth to the cold room. Nakajima is humming that tune again, loud enough to hear through a closed door. Chuuya closes his eyes.

“I escaped a little faster than I meant, but I got good information,” Dazai muses. When Chuuya glances over, an eyebrow raised, he waves his hand in dismissal. “Agency business.”

“Agency business,” Chuuya repeats flatly, “but you can send Nakajima here in the middle of it.” He’s indignant, even though an hour ago he said whoever drugged the two of them wasn’t his problem. It’s the principle of the matter — he can decide he doesn’t care. Dazai can’t decide that for him.

Yawning, Dazai scratches at his jaw. “I didn’t specifically send him here. I gave him your information a long time ago. You were closer than the Agency.” The drugs are making him a bit less playful, more direct than usual. His gaze is sort of lizard-like, unfocused on the wall opposite him. “Chuuya’s a good babysitter,” he repeats. Chuuya could vomit. He leans a bit away from Dazai, but Dazai just lifts one leg and settles it over Chuuya’s, holding him in contact.

They’re silent for a long moment, in which Nakajima begins to giggle, repeating Pingus to himself several times.

“What’re you doing with this kid?” Chuuya finally asks, glancing sidelong at Dazai.

There’s that Dazai smile. The actor one, the robot one, that reaches his eyes as though it’s clawing for them. “Does Chuuya have a soft spot?” he asks, leaning back into Chuuya’s space, chin hitting Chuuya’s shoulder. He whines when Chuuya plants a hand on his face and pushes him off. With the momentum he falls over himself so that he’s become a ball on Chuuya’s bed, moaning about how mean and awful and cruel Chuuya is.

“No,” Chuuya bites, “I just wanna know what you’re planning in your stupid mackerel brain.”

Said mackerel doesn’t respond for a while. Chuuya is reaching out to jostle him when he realizes the rise and fall of his back is real, actual sleep, and his hand stops in the air.

“Damn it,” he says, but it’s a quiet mutter. Out in the living room, Nakajima’s quieted, too.

He stands. Goes into the living room. Stares at the now-sleeping kid for a long moment. In sleep he’s serene, cheeks thin but still childlike, face still all smooth like an artist had just gone over the clay of him with her thumbs. Pingus curls under his chin. All sweet, except for the brown-red on Nakajima’s jaw, resting against Pingus’s dark fur.

Chuuya crosses into the kitchen, sits heavy in a chair, and considers. Considers — all of the safe houses Dazai could have sent Nakajima off to. Considers that stupid tune Nakajima and Dazai seem to love, and the edge to both their smiles, and the vigor with which Akutugawa and Nakajima hate each other. Considers how a man was dead, and how he probably deserved to die, but it had been a desperate, drugged eighteen year-old on a job who’d done it. Considers Chuuya’s a good babysitter, and tea with the Akutugawas, and Nakajima’s braces. He comes to no satisfactory conclusions.

all of the agency (not including kunikida) wanted to surprise dazai with a not-so-surprise birthday party. they needed someone to stall him in order to prepare for it. you, his girlfriend, would be the best choice, wouldn't it?

"osamu!" you happily woke him up, although knowing how much he hates being woken up from a good night's sleep. "happy birthday!!"

"bella! oh, yes, it's my birthday today!" he's fairly happy, honestly- being able to spend his birthday with his loved one? for the first time ever? yeah! of course!

"i have a surprise for you- but it's at the end of the day," you smile brightly at the man.

"bella...why can't you tell me now?" he begs, looking up at you with puppy eyes.

you almost fell for it- but knowing dazai, it was mostly just a play to have his way. "nuh-uh," you wag your finger at him, "but let's go out to celebrate your birthday."

"yayy!" his laugh is almost childish, if not just excited. "now i'm happy that you woke me up."

the two of you get ready for the day ahead and leave for the streets of yokohama early. you suggested going to chinatown first for the food and the unique chinese traditions that are performed there, and dazai agrees that you two should go.

"oh, oh, let's go to that restaurant! last time i went with atsushi-kun, and it was delicious!" he mentions the weretiger boy, who's always tortured by the suicidal man.

"oh, how i pity atsushi-kun," you joke. "looks like there's a table already. let's go."

he follows you to the said table and looks at the menu. "ne ne, what's this? french toast? have you heard of it?"

"mhm," you nod as you scan the menu, "it's bread dipped in egg yolk and fried with condensed milk. sometimes, there's peanut butter in the middle." (it's actually one of author-san's favorite dishes!)

"woah...sounds good!" dazai calls over a waiter and orders the french toast and you order an egg sandwich special.

"would you like a drink?" the waiter asks, notebook in hand.

"oh, milk tea please. osamu?" you gesture to the man.

"same with what they're ordering!" he replies. the waiter nods with a content face and leaves, leaving you two alone. "this looks really china-style. where's this based on?"

"i believe it's from some hong kong tea restaurant. it's everywhere!" you exclaim.

"how do you know so much?" you've got dazai fascinated with the facts that are beyond his knowledge. his knowledge belongs on the battlefield, not restaurants. that was your job, to show people which good restaurants to go, and which ones that you should go out of your way to avoid.

"online research exists, you know?" you laugh. "the agency just doesn't make much of it."

"aha." he scratches his head.

the food arrives less than five minutes after ordering. dazai and you finished your breakfast quickly - or should i say brunch - and headed to other shops.

your plan was to bring dazai back to the agency for lunch, and party there for the rest of the day. you had talked with the rest of the members, and they all agreed on it. it didn't matter if everyone got drunk.

soon enough, it was already two in the afternoon and both of you were getting a bit hungry. "osamu," you start, "let's go. the surprise is ready." you had just gotten a call from ranpo saying that the party was ready.

his hand in yours, and you two headed back to the agency's building. before you could go in, you told dazai to close his eyes, checking at least thrice before leading him into the elevator and into the agency's office.

as you told dazai to open his eyes, the agency members shouted,

"happy birthday, dazai!"

dazai looked so happy, he could cry. "bella- is this the surprise?"

"yes! happy birthday, osamu."

and in that moment, he couldn't ask for anything more than to spend his time in the world with his friends.

©marikosenwrites 2023-2024 all rights reserved. please do not repost my work on other platforms, or translate it and repost without credit. likes, reblogs, and comments are welcome! <3

Dazai was late, per usual. The agency members didn't seem to mind. Except for Kunikida, of course. Other than that, members expected him to be late.

He walked into the office an hour late, yawning. He only met darkness, though. This confused him. The lights were almost always on at a time like this. Every member should be here. He reached for the light switch, turning it on.

"Happy birthday, Dazai!" All the agency members said in union. Confetti poppers were used. Balloons were around the room.

Dazai's eyes widened. He's never had a birthday celebration. Kyoka went up to dazai, handing him a bunny stuffed animal.

"I like this. I have my own. You should have one too." She spoke in her usual monotonous tone.

Dazai took the bunny from her hands, holding it.

"My, thank you Kyoka."

"Mhm." She put her arms out for him to hug. Dazai smiled slightly, hugging Kyoka. He pat her head softly, ruffling her hair.

She let go and walked over to Atsushi, who gave her a thumbs up.

Yosano handed a bottle of sake to Dazai. "Figured you'd like some. I have bandages for you to, since you keep stealing from my office." She grinned.

He took the bottle, smiling back. "Thanks, Yosano."

Atsushi gave Dazai flowers, thanking Dazai for everything he's done. Dazai set allthe gifts on his desk.

Ranpo shared his candy with Dazai for the day. He rested his head on Dazai's shoulder as they sat on the agency's couch. They spoke about mysteries and cases as they ate candy.

Junichiro took him to the cafe below the agency, paying for him. They spoke for an hour, talking about their interests and hobbies.

Naomi went to an art museum with Dazai, they gazed at the art for a while. They found look alikes of themselves on paintings. Naomi laughed at some paintings. Her laughter is contagious, which eventually made Dazai laugh. People in the art museum glared at them. They laughed loudly and uncontrollably with each other. It took a long time for them to calm down, they almost got kicked out.

Kenji took Dazai to his farm. They went to Kenji's own field, watering the plants. They found flowers together. Kenji made Dazai a flower crown. Dazai wore the flower crown for the rest of the day. Kenji taught Dazai how to press the flowers to keep the flower crown for as long as he wants.

Kunikida hugged Dazai. Kunikida ran his hand through Dazai's hair as they hugged.

"I'm glad you're my partner. I'm proud you're here at the agency with us."

"Thank you, Kunikida."

Dazai hugged Kunikida back, his face against Kunikida's chest. They spoke for half an hour, Kunikida letting go eventually.

Haruno walked up to Dazai near the end of the day.

"The president wanted me to give you this gift. Thank you for working at the agency." She smiled softly, handing him a small box.

A hand written letter from Fukuzawa was in the box.

"Thank you, Dazai, for working at the agency. I commemorate your work. The agency has solved twice as many cases now that you're around, even with Ranpo. Unfortunately, I'm busy at this moment, so I must write this instead of saying this in person. Once I get back, I'll make sure to tell you in person about how proud I am. Have a great birthday." ~ Fukuzawa.

Dazai held the note, smiling. He had an amazing day.

"Thank you, Haruno. For giving me the letter."

"Of course, Dazai. Now, I have one more thing for you."

"Hm? What is it?"

Haruno walked with Dazai into the lunch room. Eventually, Atsushi walked into the room, holding a cake. He set the cake down onto a counter. Fukuzawa walked in after Atsushi.

"We went into the bakery." Fukuzawa patted Dazai's shoulder.

The agency members laughed and smiled throughout the rest of the day. They stayed around Dazai, eating cake and talking.

Dazai left the agency at night. He laid in bed, thinking about the day. He hugged the bunny stuffed animal. He curled up in bed, feeling soft. He loved today. He loved the agency. He felt comfortable and warm.

This was his new home.

Do not copy, translate, or repost my works anywhere else. I am only on Tumblr.

I was not abt to render all that. Yall are gonna have to settle with base colors 😭 THIS TOOK ME. FOUR FREAKING HOURS TO DO JUST SKETCH, LINEART, AND BASE COLORS.

But happy birthday to the most idiotic, smarty pants ever 🥰

(Ignore how horrendous Ranpo and some others look 💀 I obviously prioritized the birthday boy-)

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@zenitsustherapist @rion-isnot-an-ai @gyutarowritings @midnightmah07 @local-giyuu-simp

Low humming melodies and lulling yellow lights weren't ever things he'd have considered home. 

There never was home but now it’s multiple places, nestling into his heart and taking more space than he can begin to make. Awe fills his head everyday at this life he’s been given, this life he’s made with his own two hands. This life he gets to hold on to.

Chuuya is warm and solid in his embrace, face buried in his chest as Dazai’s is in his hair. Cool wind blows through their windows. It rained somewhere in the city, blessing them with peaceful weather.

They’re supposed to be dancing, though it’s more swaying in place and basking in the other’s presence. There’s music, that counts. 

In the end, the soft light and gentle breeze don’t ask more of them, content in their contentment.

He eyes their coats both hung up on the hooks by the door. It’s all they shed before gravitating to each other, relaxing after a long day of work in their apartment. The thought still has him giddy months later.

The last of the music fades until it’s just him and his Chibi, arms around each other, swaying in the middle of the room.

Dazai doesn’t mind. Not one bit.

Chuuya nuzzles into his chest, ear resting over his heart. Dazai can only stare at the slope of his nose, the lashes of his eyes, his beautiful beautiful hair. 

They don’t speak for a while.

“Dazai?” Chuuya says, low and rumbling.

“Hmm?”

“I have something to tell you.”

He looks up at him, grin bright and cheeks flushed. Dazai didn’t see him drink any wine, the unopened bottle for the night stands on the kitchen counter where his partner left it.

He looks adorable. Dazai resists the urge to leave a peck on his nose, forehead, cheeks.

Instead he smiles a soft smile back. “And what might that be?”

Eyes wide and sparkling, he says with reverence, “I’m happy.”

Dazai stops.

Chuuya pulls back a little, hands still on his waist. “I’m so fuckin’ happy it aches, Dazai. God, it’s good, I feel good. I feel great.” He laughs a little and hugs Dazai again.

Dazai has stopped.

Happy?

His Chibi is happy? With him?

He brings his right hand to Chuuya’s cheek, cupping it and lifting his face back up. Chuuya’s features have blurred for some reason.

“Chuuya is happy? he asks.

“Yes.”

And maybe for the first time in his life, he says with childish ease and truly means it.

“I’m happy too.”

Then he’s bending down to capture Chuuya’s lips in a kiss. Chuuya’s arms come up to wrap around his neck as Dazai’s other arm wraps around his waist.

It’s short and sweet and sends his brain into overdrive. They pull away only to rest their foreheads together.

“I’m happy, Chibi.” Dazai’s voice wavers because there’s tears in his eyes, spilling over. He gives a small laugh, eyes crinkling in a smile. “I’m happy.”

Chuuya kisses the tears away as they come, murmuring gentle nothings while petting his hair. 

Once he’s calmed down, Chuuya untangles them until only their fingers are interlaced, pulling him towards the inside of the house.

“Come on. We can watch that new movie to celebrate. But we bathe first.”

“Okay,” Dazai agrees. 

As he starts to walk, Dazai pulls him back, holding his face and kissing him again. Chuuya melts into it with a sigh. 

When they part, Chuuya steps out of Dazai’s range. At his pout he says, “Lemme get the wine, it’s definitely a good night for it. Then we can have some fun later.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Dazai snorts.