Chapter Text
Oh yes, this was going to be good.
Dazai had known that from the second he got his hands on the small plastic bag containing something that looked completely and thoroughly repulsive — all shrivelled and dry and what he was assuming would be chalky or even stale in texture.
And yet it was hard to hide his excitement when he'd gotten them off the dealer, as much as he wished he could've. But how could he of when he knew what was about to come?
His death would be marked on January tenth, and he got to go out with a bang, just like he'd always wanted. A double suicide, technically if one were to bend the logistics around a little. And although Oda wasn't the beautiful woman he'd always fantasised about, he was someone he definetly wanted to see again in the afterlife — if it existed that was. And if not, he was free from torment. It was a win-win situation.
All he knew was that things needed to end. As much as he enjoyed being part of the agency and his newfound life in the light, his love (if the feeling he labelled as love in himself was correct, even though it felt much more appropriate to call it craving) for the perfect suicide was always going to be stronger than that, along with his wishes to join the only person he felt ever saw the good in him. And every single year he was reminded of that singular fact. It stung like a slap to the face every single time Oda's death date rolled around, shoving him back further into the never-ending deep and dark hole he'd been steadily crawling out of for what felt like since he was born.
Now, there were days where Dazai thought that death didn't sound too inviting. That the call of the river wasn't so strong, or the desperation to hang himself from anything he'd deem sturdy enough to hold his weight wasn't as horribly persistent. That the idea of trying to slit his throat or throw himself off of a roof onto some solid concrete below didn't sound appealing in the slightest and the idea of overdosing sounded like too much work or a waste if it ended up going against his intentions.
And then, there were days he was sure were sent straight from hell as a punishment for the horrors his past self inescapably corrupted humanity with.
Days where even getting out of the protection of his covers was something that struck nausea deep inside his gut, taking his breath away and forming tears that fighted to persist behind dull eyes. Where the river was practically screaming his name, pleading with him to disrupt the seamless flow of its current or he couldn't help but wonder which ceiling beam would give the best chance of finishing him off in one foul swoop. That slitting his throat seemed too merciful for something as ungodly as himself, leading him down a path of slashing his wrists just to feel the agony sear through him as he'd beg for deaths sweet embrace to finally take him.
Even jumping off of a building was more than enticing, feeling the wind in rough gusts behind him, almost begging him to rid the world of his existence by edging him further towards the drop, and drugging himself up on anything he could find? Something he would (and had done multiple times) pay someone to let him do, regardless of how he'd have to achieve it.
But every year, on this specific day, the idea of the torture raging through his mind being simply nonexistent sounded close to impossible.
Every year he'd tried something different to be able to join the man he considered to be the first person he could truly trust with himself as he was. Every year he'd failed. And every year he remembered the agony that came with each failure.
The first year after Odasaku's death had been the worst by far.
He'd still been undercover at the time in order to make absolute certain he'd dropped Mori's trackers under a specified persona, working in a local newspaper agency to keep the annix he'd been staying in secure until it was time to move on. With grown out hair, a lack of bandages and a casual attire, he'd been perfectly unrecognisable. Impressively so if he did say so himself.
He remembered crawling out of his front door an hour or two late after a terrible night sleep, just to get to work and be yelled at by his boss for being said hour or two late. And if he hadn't forgotten how to cry at the time, he felt like he would've. It was a knife to an already raw and bleeding wound and it had dug deeper than he'd expected.
A co-worker of his at the time — he'd long since forgotten her name — had taken him out to a cafe that had resided next door at the end of the day, saying she was worried about how off he'd been acting while they talked over an overpriced coffee that luckily, she'd payed for since he barely had enough money to feed and house himself back then considering the fact he refused to use any money he'd earned from the mafia. Though he couldn't blame her for worrying. His clowning had been a practical full time job at his time there. He made sure to keep himself so upbeat, so ridiculously dumb and clumsy, so childish that it made everyone around him chuckle and smile, saying they could always rely on him for a good laugh when they were feeling down.
In all honesty, it had made him sick. But sacrifices were made.
However, his co-worker had been so nice to him — so understanding and so caring in ways he just hadn't been used to — asking him if there was anything she could do to help when he'd told her a relative of his had died, as to not stray too far from the truth. Lying was something bad people did and he was trying his best to transition himself to good.
But he'd made the mistake of kissing her when she'd told him how bad things didn't deserve to happen to people like him. It was an impulse, he'd live by that for the rest of his life because he knew it was true. Although, he hadn't meant for it all to escalate. He hadn't meant to go to her place, he hadn't meant to end up in her bed and he hadn't meant to do anything of any consequence with her. So when she was fast asleep, snoring softly and looking so content Dazai probably had shed a silent tear at that point, he'd taken his leave, making sure to leave no trace that he was ever there. The shame and guilt that had apprehended him was immense.
Enough so that he'd attempted to overdose that night after sending a resignation letter to his boss.
He'd failed, clearly, but the next day, despite how sick and empty and downright disgusted with himself he'd felt after vomiting up pills all night where his body had rejected the poison he put in it, he ran to his next destination, abandoning his false identity with it.
Oda would've been disappointed that he tried to fill the void inside himself with meaningless sex and a suicide attempt considering that that was something he would've done when he was seventeen — a selfish act to try and comfort his woes. But that thought had managed to keep him going another night since he knew he could prove he could change. That he was going to change.
The year following, he'd almost suffocated on his own thoughts, slit his wrists in clean vertical lines and ended himself in the local hospital. He'd taken on the role of a cashier this time around, so when questioned on if he was actively a threat to himself, he'd smiled and said he was so sick of his job that he couldn't stand another day of being underpayed and taken advantage of by customers that wore him out.
So much for not lying, he thought, but at least he didn't end up spending the night with the nurse who'd asked him that and even given him sympathy in the same way his co-worker had. Small victories, he'd supposed.
The doctors had recommended him to resign from his job and taking some time off for himself, even giving him a few different pill bottles which he'd immediately flushed away in fear of what he'd do if he didn't and telling him he was brave to of survived what he did and that he was an incredibly strong individual.
And so with two newly scarred and stitched up wrists, he'd ran in the middle of the night once more.
On the third, he'd kept it simple. A gun to the head couldn't of gone wrong, the only problem was actually getting ahold of the gun in the first place. It took him a while, but after finally locating one on the floor of a warehouse he'd been living nearby, there was no hesitation. In seconds it was pressed to his temple, in seconds he'd clicked the trigger and in seconds he was breaking down in tears for the first time in so long that he couldn't pinpoint when exactly he'd last cried.
There were no bullets in the gun and he couldn't see himself being able to find some without raising suspicions to him and what he was doing, even if he'd already dumped all connections with the Port Mafia. So he'd sat there until a hazy dawn finally showed itself over the horizon, crying until he couldn't breathe and his limbs were numb, finally letting some of the never ending sorrow that was permanently glued to his very existence leak out of him.
After what felt like hours he'd got himself back to shaky feet and left the warehouse like he'd never gone in there, because he still had an Agency to find and he was never going to find it sat sobbing in a warehouse like a lost child.
But even said Agency couldn't of helped on the fourth, despite being settled and safe among them all. Kunikida had told him he was lucky Yosano had the sort of ability she did after he'd let himself fall off a bridge and practically inhale as much water as he could, for once not trying to drift into unconsciousness beforehand and instead diving straight into the attempts to drown his lungs before they continued burdening him with accepting oxygen.
He hadn't spoken to Yosano for a week after that, betrayed and confounded at the fact that she'd dared to resuscitate him while unconscious and possibly, finally dead.
She'd just called him an idiot and left him to his strop, and perhaps that was the first time Dazai realised he'd found someone to match his stubbornness.
Last year was the one year he preferred to blank out than remember, considering it had been three first year he'd had someone else with him.
Chuuya had always had the patience of a saint when it mattered, as long as he knew whatever he was dealing with deserved it.
It had been such a stark contrast to him constantly snapping and yelling at Dazai that it had verged on unsettling: having the same hands that would usually aggressively try and shake some sense into him or deliver harsh punches to his face and taint his skin with blooming marks whenever he'd so much as call the redhead short instead firmly rub his back when he'd found himself in Chuuya's strong embrace or mess around with his hair to try and get him to sleep his never-ending cycle of grief off was not something that had been easy to forget. He'd tried, god he'd tried.
Thinking about the fact that he'd allowed himself to fall back on such a delicately reconstructed trust had felt wrong. He couldn't explain it in a way that made any sense to his mind hit it was almost as if he hated taking advantage of someone so human when he'd already tried to take that humanity from them so many times prior.
He'd woken up before Chuuya the next morning, still heavy but not nearly as much. He told himself that was because that infamous date had passed and he knew that he could now recover himself instead of reasoning that he'd felt better because of what Chuuya had done for him.
He pointed blank refused to believe that Chuuya had managed to save him from himself. That was something no one could even come close to doing.
That had been the first year he hadn't tried to dispose of his existence — a break in the pain that always laced the edges of his being.
Because he'd been distracted. Chuuya's understanding and lack of malicious intent had distracted him and he'd never found out why that irked him in the way it did.
He'd left without another word, untangling himself from the others loose hold from where they'd been on the sofa, never saying thank you and never bringing it up again.
This was now the sixth year in a row of this torment and he'd had enough. It was ending this time around, no one else got a say in that.
'Chew them good,' the dealer had instructed him, 'Adds to the experience. But I wouldn't take more than one at once unless you're looking for a bad time.'
Pausing in an alleyway, Dazai opened the bag containing such a deadly snack. They didn't look appetising in the slightest.
Yet still, he chucked all five he'd received in his mouth, shaking the bag to ensure he ate whatever crumbs he could as well.
They were repulsive, as expected. Tasting bitter and dry and very much reminding him of styrofoam in the most sickening way he could've imagined.
Despite it all, be still felt himself smile, so widely a passerby might've considered him a lunatic — someone so damaged they were beyond repair. He almost wanted to be labeled as such.
Thirty minutes and these would kick in, he firmly reminded himself. Another two hours and they'd get to their peak. By the fourth hour, he'd hopefully be gone and ridded from whatever hell these people tried to pass off as a life source or home. The world was too warped for someone as seeing as himself. It was too shallow.
So with that, he jammed the now empty bag in his coat pocket and continued on his way to work with a skip in his step and humming contentedly, because if he liked it or not, those people waiting for him in that office were family to him and he wasn't about to ditch his last day at work and never see them again.
He'd always heard its more peaceful to go out surrounded by those you love anyway.
__________
"Well, he's locked in there," Junichiro sighed, still sending nervous glances at the door behind him since it's door handle was still jiggling dangerously in the distance, "Was that really necessary?"
Yosano cleared her throat with clear intent, gesturing towards the large bruise still blooming on Atsushi's jaw that she was currently holding an ice pack to with as much pressure as she dared. Atsushi looked the very definition of miserable as she did so.
"Yes. Right now, he's a threat to us and the storage room is more than spacious enough until we can figure out what's going on with him."
Her words sounded cold, unforgiving. Junichiro wondered if she was just worried in her own sort of way and this is just how she happened to be showing it. Whether she was worried about Dazai or Atsushi's injury, that was anyones guess. All he knew was that the last hour had been a blur.
"Is Kunikida-san alright?" He asked, breaking the silence he'd created. It had been a good fifteen minutes since the blonde had left the room to recollect himself. Junichiro couldn't blame him after what they'd all witnessed.
"Kyouka and Ranpo-san went to check on him," Atsushi mumbled through said ice pack, which was now more of a cool sludge than actual ice, "I...I think Dazai-san really hurt him."
None of the three were stupid enough to believe that the weretiger meant physically.
Yosano huffed after a moment, removing the offending object and chucking it to the side of the infirmary, "Not as badly as you, that's going to be black and blue in a few days. Is it feeling any better?"
Atsushi's laughter sounded nervous, "Y-Yes, thank you Sensei. I'm sorry for troubling you, it really wasn't that bad-"
The woman gave him a firm pat on the shoulder, confident in the fact Atsushi was innocent in this.
"It's fine. I don't mind and besides, it's not your fault. It's that bastard's for coming into work on drugs." She rubbed her temple before turning to Junichiro, "Did he manage to tackle you on the ground as well?"
"What?" The ginger frowned, before realising she was asking if the same thing Dazai had done to Atsushi ended up happening to him, "Oh, no, no. I'm good, thanks."
Risking Yosano's treatment was something he usually tried to avoid, no matter how small.
Yosano hummed, amused at his avoidance while throwing the ice pack back into the freezer and passing the white-haired boy that was still perched on the edge of fold out bed while tenderly rubbing his jaw a painkiller. Junichiro wouldn't deny that the mark left on his face looked beyond painful. He'd had a bruise like that once after a mission and it really had stung like a bitch for a week after it had formed.
The three stayed in a silence for a while, gathering their thoughts back together after that particular display. It wasn't the first time Dazai had came into work on some form of drug but this was the first time he was actually violent with it, verbally and physically. Usually he'd just spit out absolute gibberish and end up crashed on their sofa, never had he tackled someone to the ground screaming about something that had been completely impossible to understand which eventually ended up morphing into distressed screeches about something or other. It was a relatively disturbing sight and now nobody knew what to do with themselves or more to the point, what to do with the man they could all still hear muffled, unhinged laughter coming from the room he'd been confined to.
Junichiro just shook his head. None of them got payed enough to have to deal with this.
The next people to break the silence were Kunikida, quickly followed by Kyouka and then Ranpo, who was intent on going his own pace instead of catching up with the other two, as to which Yosano perked up again from where she'd been messing around with medical tools.
"Nice of you to join us again," She smiled, evening out the slightly harsh comment with a joking attitude, "Feeling any better?"
"Yeah, feeling any better after that cheap cigarette?" Ranpo chimed, unhelpfully. He didn't seem to know himself if he meant that in a lighthearted comment, not after the argument that had broke out between both him and Kunikida earlier, again thanks to Dazai's completely erratic behaviour.
But in all honesty, he didn't look much better than blonde did in general anyway. Dazai had managed to spout some pretty hurtful things in the hour everyone was grabbing him and trying to get him back under control before he did more damage than it was worth.
Kunikida didn't respond. He didn't look like he cared about much as he stood there in a lousy attempt to him his posture straight and keep himself looking professional despite how his face suggested all he wanted to do was go home and sleep. His pride was very unlikely to admit to that, though.
"I'm fine, thank you Doctor." He kept his tone even, although stiff and sounding every so slightly different, "However, now I've had some time to think, I suggest we call someone in to deal with Dazai. He needs help, and it's help that we are not trained to provide."
"Could someone like the President help him?" Kyouka asked from where she'd migrated to stand next to Atsushi, "I'm sure he would know what to do with the situation. He has good connections."
"Yes," Kunikida nodded, "That's a good idea."
Ranpo sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets, "If we do that, Dazai will just end up getting fired or something. If he's taken a drug as strong as this he obviously doesn't need to be kicked out of his job, he just needs someone to help him like you guys said." He nodded at Yosano, "Pass me his coat, would you?"
The doctor grimaced, her nose wrinkling as her hand hesitated to pick up the crumpled fabric. "It's still covered in...whatever it was he chucked up. I wouldn't touch it if I were you."
Still, Ranpo's own hand remainded outstretched, wiggling impatiently until the coat was given to him and almost immediately he dived into the pockets, retrieving both a phone and a small, see-through bag in mere seconds, as if he'd already known where each object would be.
"Hallucinogens." He quickly declared, turning to Atsushi, "He didn't attack you for no reason since he's most likely tripping out pretty hard right now and seeing things."
A silent 'oh' fell from the weretiger's mouth in a fruitless attempt to hide just how far behind he'd been, caught up in thoughts that made him wonder if Dazai had hated him that much that he'd been kicked to the floor on purpose.
"That still doesn't explain why he took them in the first place." Kunikida scolded, "He's told us himself, he prefers to stay away from things that make him feel out of control after Yosano tried to hook him up to morphine that time."
Ranpo just groaned, "Oh my god you guys are slow," He whined, as if everyone in the room had the ability to figure out what was going on pratically before the whole event had even began as well, "We've literally had to deal with cases from drug dealers that scam people."
A pause.
"Dazai..." Junichiro raised an eyebrow, "...Got scammed?"
The detective nodded enthusiastically, clearly relieved someone else had connected the dots, "Yes, obviously. He wanted something to kill him and probably got a shady deal." He stopped himself, looking at the others slightly appalled faces at the truth of what was happening, "How did none of you get that?"
Atsushi frowned. "Dazai-san isn't someone you can scam easily," He bit down on his lip in thought, "How did the person that sold him the drugs manage to get away with it? Surely he would've realised?"
"And why would he want drugs that would kill him?" Yosano quickly added, "They are well known for being a painful death considering they shut down your organs so slowly."
Ranpo just smiled — one that didn't quite have the mischievous glint it usually did. It was more melancholy, aware of something that maybe he shouldn't of been. "That isn't my story to tell. Sorry."
"Ranpo." Kunikida cut in his dramatics. He was tired and very much not up for trying to deep dive in his partners past for now. "Who are we supposed to call if not the President?"
The grin the detective shot him a moment said that they all knew all too well who he was talking about and as much as everyone in the Agency wished they could deny it, they knew deep down that anyone would've been able to figure out who that person needed to be — not just someone like Ranpo.
"Well," The blonde sighed after a moment, hand reaching to pull his glasses down from where they'd been resting in his hair, "Maybe Nakahara will be able to knock him out for us at the very least."
__________
Having the day off was something Chuuya considered a luxury nowadays, almost a treat. It was such a rare occasion that at this point he was wondering if it was nothing more than an illusion, a reward Mori fed them promises of just to keep them from tiring too quickly or some shit like that.
Well, technically he had it off. He was still shuffling through a shit ton of reports and various paperwork, bored out of his mind — but at least he was home instead of trapped in his office, suffocating on the thick, stale air in there despite having a fan on almost all day and the fact they were still suffering through the onslaught of winter with his head pounding and every little inconvenience which would just continuously edge him closer to completely snapping.
He'd have to thank Kouyou for being able to somehow persuade Mori to allow him to work from home for the day. Even she was aware of how burnt out he was starting to look it seemed and apparently, she decided to take matters into her own hands. Something that she rarely did unless she was concerned.
Not that Chuuya was complaining. He'd figure out what exactly to send her as said thank you gesture another day. Maybe she'd appreciate a pre-paid spa session. She always seemed tired nowadays as well. Honestly, everyone in the mafia was considering Mori seemed intent on getting a bulk of the missions done this month so they could focus on other things later on in the months to come. He hadn't seen one person that didn't look like they could use more than a good day or two of sleep, with bags under their eyes and a significant lack of energy. He just hoped Mori's pressure would relent sooner rather than later.
For now though, being able to lounge on his sofa with a glass of wine and some sort of drabble in the background (courtesy of his underused TV) was a pretty damn good deal if anyone asked him, even if the reports he was finishing were about the other weeks failed mission and forcing him to think about the men lost and false information — meaning they'd have to start the whole thing from scratch.
But at least he didn't have Mori breathing down his neck all day, persisting he got the failed papers done so they could start planning the rebound and Akutagawa constantly checking in to see if he was alright, or needed anything. Chuuya supposed that was a habit he'd picked up when Dazai was his mentor, or whatever one would want to call what he was to him.
Either way, he tried to always reassure the other that he was fine and didn't need anything, but he'd probably lashed out at him a little too harshly at one point judging by the way he'd jumped, subtlety but still jumped, awkwardly cleared his throat and slunk out of the door with a mumbled apology.
That was the last Chuuya'd seen him for the rest of the day.
Again, he'd figure out an apology gesture at a later date and try to send it out at the same time as Kouyou's. He'd heard from Gin and Tachihara he was getting into calligraphy, of all things, so he could try and find some good inks or something of that nature. Or some brush pens.
Finding out about people's hobbies outside of their line of work always had a way of surprising the redhead; like how Higuchi enjoyed writing poetry when she could and Hirotsu's interests in the theatre and such arts. Adding something to humanising to people that were considered killers was always something that eased Chuuya's mind.
But for now he didn't need to think about that too much because he was free to do whatever he wanted. If he wanted to take himself to bed for an hour? He could. If he wanted to make himself something to eat? He could go into his kitchen and do just that. If his vision went blurry from concentrating? All he had to do was step away from the coffee table infront of him.
It was so fucking liberating.
He sighed contentedly, licking his thumb and pointer finger to separate the pages and flick through them, trying to get a jist of what exactly needed to be done.
Surprisingly, not too much. Mostly signature work or missing details on what went down — a pleasant conclusion to come to all in all, and a said conclusion it was rare for him to come to.
His eyes scanned over the words, grimacing as he took in the death toll from the previous mission, trying to compress the guilt that writhed into his chest before finally moving the tip if his pen to start filling in the necessary details as quickly as he could.
It had barley touched the page when a horrible, high pitched ringing absolutely decimated the calm atmosphere in his apartment that he'd tried so damn hard to achieve.
He growled, resisting the urge to crumple the papers in his hand and throw his phone out the nearest window.
Just who the fuck was deciding to call him when he was finally getting a break?
He had no desire to answer that call whatsoever. In his defence, he did try and consider picking it up but couldn't bring himself to actually press accept. So he didn't, because for once, he could do exactly that with no repercussions.
But minutes later it rang again, louder somehow, piercing his eardrums and making his muscles tense uncomfortably.
He couldn't help but snap the pen in his hand as the last of his calm resolve snapped alongside it.
He knew he shouldn't be so pissed off about a goddamn phone call, but this was the most relaxed he'd felt in months. He didn't care who wanted what right now, hell, the city could be burning around him and he still wouldn't try and do anything. Because this was the first day off he'd gotten in almost three years and he wasn't about to get himself dressed and up on someone's command for something they could probably do themselves. And god knew if they needed his ability he sure as hell wasn't using it today considering that Arahabaki, for one in it's stupid existence, was relatively quiet, like a faint white noise in the back of his head. One use of his ability — even just to lift a glass off of a table — would ruin that and he knew it would start screeching at him to let Corruption loose and bitching off about this that and the other.
He wasn't going to deal with that today.
So he did the only thing he could think of. Answer the phone and give whoever was on the other end of the line a piece of his mind. He snatched it from where it was sat next to him on the armrest, cursing to himself as he accepted it and pressed it to his ear with enough violence it almost hurt.
"Who the hell is this? And what do you want?" He barked, "I don't have the patience for you to waste my time, so you either get straight to the point or deal with it on your own."
"Nakahara."
A vaguely familiar female voice, one that was always somehow calm and collected no matter the situation, and if there hadn't been a truce between the Port Mafia and the Armed Detective Agency barely a month ago, resulting in countless meetings and joint missions, Chuuya wouldn't of recognised it as it echoed through the line.
The only problem with that was Chuuya couldn't remember giving the woman his number. At all.
He shuddered as his muscles spasmed harshly from where they couldn't possibly tense any further as he pulled the phone from his ear and looked at the caller ID which, in his anger, he'd not even glanced at, almost feeling his whole face drop as he registered the name.
Mackeral, it read in bold white letters.
Fuck.
And if he knew one thing, it was that was definitely not that shitty bastard's voice on the other side of the phone.
"Has that idiot finally offed himself?" He asked the Agency's doctor after a moment — any ill temper he had washed away with something he refused to call worry because no one in their right mind would worry about someone as stupid as Dazai. "If you're asking for me to pay for his funeral, I'm not forkin' over jack."
A light laugh. One that was clearly trying to make light of whatever seemed to be going on.
"No, sorry to disappoint." The woman spoke, "It's Yosano, from the agency. Just to clarify."
"I gathered." Chuuya snapped back, reminding himself that yelling and sniping at people wasn't going to help whatever was going on with a deep breath, "Why are you calling me on his phone?"
He didn't even need to elaborate in who he meant by 'his'. That was another thing he liked about Yosano, she was insanely quick witted and easy to catch on. There was never a time he found himself having to repeat anything he said to her on missions where she'd pick it up so fast.
He heard a door close gently in the background — perhaps the woman was stepping out of the room she was in for privacy or maybe it was just someone leaving. Chuuya couldn't help but think through the different possibilities to distract from the painfully long silence.
"Dazai came to work drugged." Her voice finally said, quietly as if it were something she shouldn't be admitting. "He's out of it, completely."
Chuuya's breathing hitched and he swallowed down the uneasy pulse in his chest at those words.
"What do you mean, he's out of it?" He hissed, already starting to move towards tugging on some shoes and a coat, abandoning his work as he did so. "He's never out of it, not even on drugs. That fucker's immune to most of them anyway."
He heard Yosano swallow heavily. "We have a trusted source as to what's going on. Hallucinogens, is what they informed us he took and he's a danger to us all in his current state."
Her rundown was brief, medical sounding as if she were doing nothing more than describing a patient. Chuuya wouldn't be surprised if she was.
"Are you aware of as to why he took them? Is there something we've missed that we can help with?"
Was there? For a moment, Chuuya felt himself freeze as his brain searched through the jumbled mess of information.
And then he cursed at himself, probably a little louder than necessary, feeling his hand fist around the hat he was reaching for in frustration at himself — at his stupid overload of work and his brain for not being able to store as much as it should. Damn it, how the hell did he not realise what date it was?
January tenth. Dazai's own personal taste of hell and a day of which he should've made some sort of contact with his former partner like he'd promised he would a year ago. How did he manage to forget that? He had the day off, goddamn it, he had no excuses for forgetting. None.
Dazai was always so damn closed when it came to Oda; he barely knew shit about what went down the night Dazai left and deemed himself a traitor. However he did know that he'd been trusted since his and Dazai's reunion and that the brunette was trying his best to be more open about it with him.
Maybe that was why he still turned up at his apartment every few nights — usually with a bottle of cheap liquor for himself since he knew all Chuuya would have was wine — but the redhead never questioned it, just let Dazai indulge in the company.
It had been more frequent recently, and it was only now he understood why. He felt so fucking dumb, he should've realised what Dazai had been trying to do: that the mackeral had just been trying to wordlessly ask for help in the only way he knew how.
He hadn't even realised he's stopped talking until Yosano's voice echoed back through his ears.
"Is it that bad?"
It was a carefully worded question. One that chose not to dig too deep. Chuuya just hummed, because it was. It was worse than he dared to think about.
He still thought about the year prior from time to time: having to lug Dazai around like a puppet with cut and frayed strings, watching him be stripped of everything that made him, well, Dazai. He didn't like having to sit there and hold his limp body while he murmered about how much he wanted to die because he didn't know what do do with himself. He didn't like knowing that there was more to it than jut Oda's death but that fact never being brought up for them to discuss properly, he didn't like feeling the other shiver in his grip even while asleep and even though he was piled under multiple blankets and he didn't like that once he'd woken up, Dazai was gone without a word which just left him to wonder if he'd actually left to find a way to die.
It had been a fortnight before he knew if Dazai was okay or not and he had to fight for the answer from that stupid weretiger of his in the street. He'd felt a slight twinge of guilt for scaring the poor boy half to death, but it was necessary. As much as it loathed him to admit, he couldn't afford to lose Dazai.
More to the point, Arahabaki's vessel couldn't afford to lose Dazai. Not unless he felt like getting ripped apart from the inside out with no way if stopping it.
And he wasn't about to lose him now as either himself or Arahabaki.
"What do you want me to do." He stated down the phone, "I'll do it. But you agency people owe me for this one, it's my goddamn day off."
"We just need you to come and get him," Yosano instructed, "And don't let him back in here until he's sober and gotten over whatever this is. Please."
"He's Dazai." The redhead murmered, finally slinging his coat over his shoulders and getting himself to move towards the door with only a small inkling of regret towards his loss of work time, "I can't force him to do shit."
Chuuya hung up without another word and got himself out of the apartment in record time.
Usually, the ride from his apartment to the Agency took a good twenty minutes due to him living fairly close to the Mafia headquarters for work.
He managed to cut it down to eight.
__________
Dazai felt sick.
Not a sort of sick that made him feel as if he were going to vomit as he did earlier, no. He felt sick in the head, sick in a way that he was beginning to wonder if a lobotomy would be the only thing that could wire his brain back together correctly, make him feel as if his current mind could be simply crushed to the back of his memory and make him forget he ever was the way he was.
He found himself chuckling at the thought, the sensation that brought alongside the strain causing his shivering frame to feel as if it were being stabbed my thousands of thumbtacks, each one digging in to different parts of sweat-sheened skin with a selective amount of pressure that seemed unique to the singular metaphorical pin. Some barely scratched the surface, leaving a slight sting as a memoir while some were clearly desiring to use him as a glorified cork board; perhaps even going as far as pinning small slips of paper to him with reminders of every single thing or person he'd destroyed from the inside out, leaving them to rot in his trail of destruction and making him into a portable exhibit for the decent side of humanity to look and gawk over, to writhe in repulsion as they saw him with no filter, with nothing to gloss over his truly despicable nature and hide him away from the truth that seared into his very existence and consequently severing him off from the definition of a person. A display of something that truly was, no longer human.
The idea made him quiver, perhaps excitedly. He wasn't sure anymore. In his opinion, the ecstasy that had been flooding through his veins what felt like mere seconds ago had dissolved into nothing, along with the burning anger that had made an appearance, what, a day ago? An hour ago? He didn't know. He just didn't know.
It took him a while to realise he wasn't smiling anymore, that only coming to him when he reached to feel his mouth to find it in a straight line and yet the ache of his muscles remained. So he quickly pulled it into one, digging blunt nails into tingling flesh and forcing it upright into an arch that pulled at his already chapped lips, making them sting as if they were splitting apart at the seams and a strange, thick wetness pour from between the ridges in waves, dribbling down his chin and pooling at the end just to drip off and add some colour to those ridiculously stark white bandages of his. The expression he'd tried to meld into his face dropped immediately at what he could see clearly, trying his best to rub the colour off. Red didn't look right on him.
The air around him was moist, or maybe he was the one that was moist. Either way, it was suffocating in the same way breathing in car fumes was — intoxicating and hard sensation to resist once one had began, making his head loll backwards until it met a solid wall with a thunk and he was almost sure that his mouth opened to release a groan. It was that or someone else was in the room with him, which he wasn't one hundred percent sure there wasn't. He'd seen things in the corners a while ago, things with big, awfully bright eyes that he was convinced weren't staring at him, more staring at his blackened and weeping soul, glaring like they wanted to strip him of every ounce of flesh he owned and crunch his bones as a reward for doing so, maybe even drink his innards from a fancy crystalline wine glass in such a sophisticated way that onlookers would forget that they'd just desimated his body into a bloody mess.
They'd disappeared a long time ago. Maybe they got bored of the staring contest they seemed to have going on and had better things to waste their time on.
Brown eyes fluttered shut, grimacing at the burn behind his eye sockets (which he was partially convinced was his rotting brain instead of just the muscular strain on the edges of his eyes) as he did so and letting weakened hands flop to the floor beside a perfectly still body to enjoy the coolness below.
His heart was pounding in an irregular pattern, drawing sharp breaths from his throat and forcing a lump into his throat, which only made him pray he wouldn't throw up: mainly because of the fact he didn't know what he'd be emitting from his mouth. Last time he had, it had been a contorted mess of what looked as to be squished, partially ingested insects — ones he was sure he'd eaten when he was newly sixteen and locked in confinement as a punishment for a mistake with little to no food for two solid weeks. The mafia liked to stamp out any flaws in their members before they developed into anything resembling permanence, Mori had always enforced that from the very beginning, but it was still disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting that those bugs were still trapped inside his black-sealed organs. Disgusting he'd even done it in the first place.
He'd named this dark abyss Hell after being acquainted with it for some time. In all honesty, it felt much nicer than he imagined Hell to be but it was really nothing more than a bland and blank canvas for him to run wild against. Goosebumps were still raised on his skin from his earlier conversations with Mori, despite that they had been civil with one another. The man had left him as well, not too long after those shadows had dissipated into the room, but not that he had complained. He still had a dislike for the ice cold, medical touch the man owned, almost as if he were just letting a corpse feel him for their own pleasure, to let it feel the reminder of what it was like to be a living, breathing person again and to taunt Dazai with the fact it was in the state he wished he was in himself, as if to tell him that he was still alive and it was an almost laughable fact that he was.
In a way that made Dazai's gut twist in nausea more than those stupid insects did. He gritted his teeth, praying his stomach was empty and had no more to offer him and that the end would come and swoop him away into the safety of its arms any seconds now-
Eyes pinged back open at the sound of footsteps, his whole figure tensing as he shuffled just for his cheek to meet the floor. How did that happen? His hands came to push him back up, but he ended up where he started. Now that fact really was laughable.
In fact, he was laughing. He was laughing and enjoying it, with his face squished against a floor that felt unstable beneath his weight and fingers clawing at the carpet, almost telling it that it was alright if it were to collapse from under him. He didn't mind.
What a way for the demon prodigy to meet his end: one that happened to be just as empty and hollow as the carcass embedded inside muscle and tucked deep into a chest cavity he called a heart. Another snicker fell from his lips. That was, if his lips were still there and he hadn't ripped them off earlier.
He was vaguely aware of another laugh bubbling his way up his throat as he cracked his eyes back open from where they'd been scrunched in false joy with great hesitance.
The world was tilting in his axis, making him cling on for dear life until he was desperate to let go, and yet somehow he was still glued to the surface once his fingers slipped.
As light flooded his vision, the only thing he could recognise was the fact there were two silhouettes against its contrast — one standing in the frame of the light and one kneeling beside him.
He wasn't sure if he welcomed either of them. Because he knew one wanted to attempt to wreck his impending death that was so close he could pratically taste the sting of it against his tongue, and the other was the very person he'd been trying to join in the first place.
And yet he found himself loosing faith he'd take him.
But still, Oda was there and he was smiling at him with such meaning that Dazai couldn't help but reach out in desperation to be closer — to let the man know he was more than ready to be taken, that he wanted to go with him so badly he'd be willing to trade whatever necessary to do so. He wanted to be held by him, just like he'd done once before when he was seventeen and pulled him out of a river he'd thrown himself in. He wanted to feel the warmth that had surrounded him, the low voice hushing him softly, telling him that he was alright and he wasn't alone. He wanted the feeling of a hand carding through waterlogged hair, softly, with care that he'd never been displayed until then and the feelings it sparked up alongside it, making him wonder of maybe, just maybe if things had turned out differently for him somewhere along the line, this would be what a familial figure would feel like. To have someone to wrap him in a hug whenever things went wrong, to cook him food and proper meals to keep him at a healthy weight, to offer shelter and kindness and everything he'd never had all for free and pratically on a silver platter.
Maybe that was why his chest had ached so badly when his hand never met human flesh, instead falling through air that had quickly turned stale and in turn, making every breath he took feel thick and uneven, as if he were doing nothing more than shoving a rock further and further down his throat as he did so. Maybe that was why he felt his throat constrict a considerable amount and an unfamiliar burn prick at his eyes.
He watched in either awe or horror since he truly couldn't tell as Oda began to move, a hand wrapping around his own loosely bandages wrist and moving it back with a touch verging on ghostly. Dazai didn't dare call it nonexistent, not when he didn't dare crush any hope he was so selfishly holding onto.
"Selfish."
The older man repeated in time with his own thoughts, stealing a sharp exhale from the other as he gazed in absolute shock at what he'd just heard. Surely this was the drugs messing with him. It had to be, right? He squirmed uncomfortably under the judgemental stare stabbing him from above.
"You've become selfish, Dazai."
So this was happening. Great. Dazai fought the urge to look at the ground, frustrated at the fact he'd bought that initial smile and thinking this wouldn't somehow go wrong because of course be should've known better. After all, everything he wanted to hold on to always slipped through the wavering gaps between his fingers, incapable of holding anything or one of value and leaving him with nothing more than the few chunks of grit that decided to stay put and see what they could gain, which in turn he'd shake off and leave forgotten.
And although he didn't disagree with Oda's comment, he decided to continue the given trait of said selfishness and cling to the small chance the man would still be willing to take him.
" 'M sorry." He whispered, tounge feeling as if it were no more than a cheap, dehydrated sponge and deprived of anything that would give it moisture. He swallowed a few times in attempts to wet it to no avail.
"I tried. I swear, I...I did what you wanted me too." His hand reached back our to grasp at the thin air before him once again.
"Odasaku? Did you come to take me with you, am I finally dead?"
A pause. One that was too loud to tolerate, making Dazai wonder if reaching to cover his ears would make it better or worse, one that made white noise sound like screeching or tornado sirens as he waited as stoic faced as possible for his friend's reply.
And then his small spark of hope was abruptly shattered, shards ripping into his skin and stabbing him in places he reluctantly admitted to himself stung like hell as Oda chuckled, eyes narrowing into fine slits as he stared the brunette infront of him down with a level of intensity Dazai hadn't been anticipating at all. Not from someone so placid, anyway. Never from someone like Oda.
"No." He spoke sternly, "You're not going anywhere today apart from down."
Dazai couldn't resist the dry sob that crawled up his throat at that promise.
-
Chuuya had known it was pretty damn bad if the reaction he'd gotten from Dazai's co-workers was anything to go by after his abrupt arrival, but goddammit he didn't think it would be like this.
A few years ago, maybe when he'd just turned twenty on a birthday which he'd always said he'd be lucky to see due to Corruption and his stupid ability, he would've payed any amount to see Dazai in his current state. All someone would've had to do was name a price and he'd hand it over without even a second thought, just to know he finally got a chance to gloat while the bastard was down for the count and unable to shut him down or turn his words against him like he usually did.
But now, everything felt wrong. The fact Dazai was crying being the main cause of that wrongness, because if Chuuya were to be honest, the sight happened to be one of the small group of things that set his stomach to stone with a pure, indescribable dread. It meant something was wrong. Actually wrong.
He thought that new blondie partner of Dazai's had been joking when he'd explained what happened to the weretiger, even when they boy had come out from the infirmary with a grim expression and a darkening mark over half of his jawline and lower neck, but now? Chuuya had no doubt about the fact that that Dazai was completely and utterly fucked up as he stared at the brunette in shock as a sob emitted from his sweat-soaked frame, body rattling under the pressure as if he were to fall apart at any second just from that singular jostle.
And he'd thought it couldn't get any more downright concerning after he'd witnessed his former partner murmuring complete gibberish to himself in the corner of a stupid supply cupboard and reaching to pet the air in such a way it made Chuuya want to back up on instinct initially under the pretense that Dazai could be possessed and possibly not drugged. After all, there were some pretty wild abilities out there, probably even one that could affect someone like him if they were to look hard enough.
That theory had been thrown out the window after a while because Chuuya was regretfully far too versed in the world of drugs and knew the symptoms like the back of his hand; the visible shaking, the sheen of sweat reflecting off of his body, his lack of coat which Yosano had informed him had gotten soiled earlier on and that was how they found he'd taken them in the first place (which one, Dazai would never take off on his own since the redhead knew how much that coat meant to him for some reason and two, gave him the knowledge that one of the symptoms was vomiting), and the very clear signs of hallucinations. Although god knows what he was actually seeing. Chuuya didn't feel much of an urge to know.
He tried to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible while making his way to sit next to his former partner, unsure of whether or not being louder would make things better or worse since Dazai was already so worked up. So he compensated for doing so with a purposeful cough before lowering a gloved hand to rest on a trembling shoulder, not surprised when a pair of watery eyes snapped to meet his own and fuck, if Chuuya didn't feel at least a little bad for him before he certainly would now as he took in the clear despair wallowing behind those poor, bloodshot eyes. It had been a long, long time since he'd seen that expression.
The last time he'd ever had the misfortune of seeing someone like Dazai as awfully vulnerable as he did now was when they were sixteen, trying to keep their partnership from splitting at the seams with constant bickering, arguing, fighting (which had gotten physical on multiple occasions, despite Dazai's crappy defense skills towards him and Kouyou's constant frustration at them both) when they'd been sent on a stakeout — overnight at that since Mori had nagged at them repetitively about how the Port Mafia couldn't afford to miss the opportunity to catch the group they were after.
So naturally, Chuuya had driven there with the urge to slam the vehicle into the nearest obstacle only a few times since Dazai's teasing wasn't so relentless.
His first mistake had been overlooking that, relieved of the break instead of being concerned over the fact that he'd been offered said break in the first place.
His second had been not questioning things when Dazai had insisted on taking the first shift for lookout when they arrived — something the pair used to always argue about — all but shoving Chuuya into the backseats of the car in the end since the redhead was not one to give in easily and, with some reluctance, he'd given in with nothing more than a grumble to the other and threats of if he let the organisation slip away from them he'd kill him himself and by god, would he of made it painful.
The third and final mistake was falling asleep and leaving Dazai alone to his own devices. More importantly, leaving him alone with himself.
Chuuya had cursed to high heavens when he'd woken up with a jolt to the middle of the raid, the targets already too far gone to be worth chasing after and fucking Dazai still sat there deadly still and, for a moment, Chuuya thought that that his idiot of a partner had just fallen asleep and now they both had to suffer the consequences that would be waiting for them back at base for loosing the chance they had — one that could've possibly been the only one they were given.
(It hadn't been, luckily. Chuuya found himself filling in the mission report hardly a week later and handing it in to Mori, who seemed absolutely thrilled after their failure.)
But as he'd clambered back to the drivers seat, hurriedly reaching to get the engine going whilst needlessly praying to whatever god he didn't believe in that somehow, just somehow they could avoid Mori's wrath by catching up to the men who were admittedly long gone was when he'd noticed something that felt like nothing less than a solid punch to the gut, his hands pausing over the steering wheel from where he was about to start driving again in shock.
Because Dazai had been crying. Not outright, no, but his eyes were lined with a dull red, his already stupidly pasty complexion looking even more stark-white than usual with what little tears he must've been able to produce clung tight to his skin, giving it a tacky appearance in the dull lighting of the vehicle.
Chuuya had taken note of the half empty cigarette packet (that had been his, dammit) and the dead lighter next to them, considering if that could've been called a half hearted suicide attempt for a moment.
It had taken a while, but after turning off the engine and mourning the loss of a successful takedown, he'd cautiously reached out to his partner at the time to try and snap him out of whatever trance he'd been in and in the split second he'd wrapped a hand around his forearm to try and get his attention, Dazai's resolve had crumbled, resulting in the most horrendous dry, croaking cries that Chuuya could truthfully say he'd ever heard.
To this day he didn't know what caused it, only that they'd spent the night uncomfortably positioned in the front seats with Chuuya's hand still draped over the others shoulders from however they'd ended up nodding off and the fact the executive woke up with possibly the worst pins and needles he'd ever had the torture of going through.
Yet the dull desperation that had haunted the others face in the limited moonlight in hours prior as he cried in the only way he seemed to know how (tearless, juddery and painful to listen to in other words. Chuuya would go as far as to compare it to nails on a chalkboard.) to seemingly tear himself free from his own body had been something the executive had sworn he never wanted to see, or experience for that matter of fact, again.
And he hadn't until the present moment, and he tried to ignore the small swell of pride for the fact that Dazai at least was crying in the right way this time, tears and all. Sure it was a cringe-worthy sight and yes it wasn't the ideal situation but something about the fact he'd learnt how to express the emotion correctly amazed Chuuya in itself.
Or, it could just be the drugs in his system limiting his control. Chuuya would have to find out the truth another day.
"Fucking hell," He murmered, carefully brushing sweat-plastered bangs to the side of Dazai's face, that dull throb of uneasiness only continuing to grow heavier as he took in the uneven rise and fall of the others shoulders and the way his pupils were pratically pinpricks swamped over by dark irises. Removing one of his gloves, he held the back of his hand to a clammy forehead, noting the way Dazai shuddered at his ability clashing against his own. It was probably just as pleasant for the brunette as it was for him whenever he cancelled out Arahabaki in his own way.
He sighed. "You really went all out this year, huh."
Chuuya shook his head in a mild disappointment moreso in himself than the other, not even minding Dazai's bewildered stare at him. "When will you get the fact that he wasn't your fault in that dense head of yours?"
All that got was another sniffle and it was close to painful watching as the others bottom lip wobbled like he was no more than a kid throwing a tantrum over something as stupid as a dropped ice-cream cone. Chuuya did end up putting that to the fault of the drugs since he knew the only way Dazai would purposely make himself look that pathetic would be if he was asking some unsuspecting woman to commit suicide with him and she said no to his charms, in which case he'd switch to his plan B; playing out his sob stories.
"C...Chibi." Dazai whimpered out, and Chuuya would most definitely be lying to himself if he said he wasn't relieved to see something that resembled cognizance in that hazed over expression. He smiled in an attempt to let Dazai know that he wasn't here to harm since, hell, he didn't even know if he'd be perceived as he was. Not when his former partner was most likely still tripping out pretty damn badly.
"Chibi, do you-" The brunettes throat bobbed in an attempt to get his words out fluently, "D'you see him too?"
He pointed to the space infront of him. "Odasaku?"
And even though he'd been expecting that — expected the fact Dazai would most likely be seeing Oda — it still felt like a slap to the face.
Chuuya chose to just shake his head, not trusting his voice not to waver with pity. He'd always been told he was too empathetic for his own good.
"Oda's not there, Dazai. You got yourself fucking high."
"No I didn't," Dazai argued, sounding more petulant than intimidating, "I took things that're gonna kill me. I got them to kill me. That's why he's here, he's supposed to...to take me with him."
Of course he wanted drugs to kill him. Chuuya wished he could've been surprised.
"Hate to break it to you, but all you're having is a bad trip. The stuff you got will just wear off in a few hours and all that happens is you feel like shit. And-" He gently tapped on the others head in attempts to draw his attention back to what he was saying, "-It fixes nothing in there. You need proper help for this, Dazai, not some cheap alleyway drugs you managed to grab."
"They weren't c...cheap!" Dazai immediately shot back, offence clear on his features at the mere suggestion he'd gotten something worth so little, "Cheap drugs don't...they don't kill. They 'ouldn't."
Dazai let out another gritty cry. "And...and 'e's di...disappointed." He whispered so quietly Chuuya had to strain to catch it, "You can hear 'im though, right? You can hear what...what he's saying?"
His hand reached to shake Chuuyas arm in a flash of desperation to get his point across that had the redhead reminding himself that if he wanted to get them out of the Agency, he couldn't risk getting Dazai anymore worked up than he was by snatching his arm back. The last thing either of them needed was someone barging in to check if the redhead had ended up strangling their co-worker.
"I can't." Chuuya reached to loosen the grip Dazai was rapidly gaining on his arm, "He's not there, mackeral and I'm sorry he's not, I really am."
The detective shook his head wildly, eyes still filling with fresh tears as more continued to make their way down his face, pooling at his chin and dripping onto the floor below with an inaudible splat. Chuuya tried to wipe them away with his sleeve to no avail as more replaced them the second they were dabbed off.
"No, he's there. Chuuya's just...you're just blind, he's right there-"
He gasped, head jerking back to look at the air infront of him which, in turn, just pried more wails from his throat as he murmered incomprehensible words inbetween them. Although his hand never disconnected from Chuuya's arm.
"Please."
Dazai turned his face to him, his other hand now reaching for any part of Chuuya he could get to with his face now visibly upset.
"You need to tell him 'm good." He pleaded, "Tell him I'm g-good now so he'll believe me."
Chuuya swallowed back his own emotions at the scene as Dazai just continued.
"You know I'm good, C-Chuuya p...please, tell him I've gotten better and then he'll want me, please-"
"Dazai..."
"No!" He howled, "No, you can't...he'll leave without me again, Chuuya 'ou can't make me stay here, I don't want...!"
And then his voice cracked, no, shattered as the words died promptly on his tounge and his fingers finally finding purchase around the ginger's jacket as he crumbled.
And then what Chuuya assumed had already began, started, a never ending crescendo of guttural pleas and begging morphing into screams of absolute hopelessness were the only thing that bounced off the confined room as Dazai reached out in a neediness that was new for the both of them (which once again, Chuuya chose to blame on the drugs. This whole situation he blamed on the drugs.) to hold onto the other, the yells being abruptly muffled into his chest and what the executive knew was tears and most likely snot seeping into his shirt as a shiver ran down his spine.
Dazai had always been a silent crier. He'd been a silent everything, really, from anything varying from killing to something as simple as walking. When he shot, the only thing most surrounding people would hear was the bullet being fired and the shriek of what the bullet was being fired into. When he'd torture, he'd always keep his voice low, condescending with a specific threatening monotone beneath it to keep it cleverly disguised. He'd purr in his victims ears, whisper among the shadows and hide his true intentions in the dark while Chuuya had been the one to keep himself loud and bright — laying all his bets out in the open until his opponent had gotten themselves cocky enough to try and fight him and only then would he have the delight of a good, hardy fight.
To hear the genuine distress seep out of every pore the current Dazai possessed as he continued to let himself fall apart completely was unsettling and so very out of character. And Chuuya could only sit there and squeeze him back, shushing him under his breath every so often when a particularly violent sob would catch in his throat to the point he'd end up gagging on his own spit and tears.
Chuuya didn't know what Dazai was crying over specifically, but he pushed that to the back of his mind. This was grief in it's finest form, something that an average person would seek professional help for. But Dazai wasn't an average person, and as much as Chuuya fucking wished he could be for the man's own sake, he wasn't. He was intricate, his brain wired in such a unique way that the redhead heavily doubted there could ever be another person out there like him, and as much as he despised the others thinking patterns, he'd often stay awake at night while he was younger wondering how one got to be the way he was. Was he born that way? Was he made it? Did society create someone as genuinely destroyed as he was?
Only god knows the answer to that shit, and Chuuya didn't feel like going up there to question him.
They could've been there for hours during the onslaught of Dazai's complete and utter meltdown began or they could've been there for no more than minutes, but either way once the bawling and undecode-able wails had died down to nothing but the occasional hiccup and quiver was when there was finally a knock on the door. Chuuya spun around to glare at it, all too aware of how the hold attached to him tightened as if afraid to let go.
The door creaked open slowly and Chuuya tried to position himself to sit so Dazai was hidden from whatever co-worker of his this was since he doubted being viewed by the public eye was what he would want if he was more with it.
"Mr Fancy Hat?" Who Chuuya had figured out to be Ranpo came into view, his lips tightened into a grimace. "Get him home. Staying here won't help either of you anymore, Kunikida's getting impatient."
Chuuya huffed. "Do you think I care? Do you not see what a fucking mess this is?"
Although his words were rough, his tone was not. Ranpo raised an eyebrow.
"I do. I trust you when it comes to him, he's the one person here I can't figure out." He confessed, eyes cast a little to the side of Chuuya's head to avoid eye contact. "And yet somehow you can. I don't understand it, but what I do understand is that if you don't get moving, Kunikida will get the President involved."
"Are you threatening me?" Chuuya scoffed, "Because I'm not in the mood to have to fight any of you at all."
"No, I'm not." Ranpo eyed up what little of Dazai he could see, "He's been twitchy for a while now, we-" He cut himself off, "We could hear all of that. What was going on, I mean. I've been holding him off the best I could but he would've one hundred percent come in here by now if I hadn't."
With a shrug he gestured for the mafioso to follow, "Keep him with you for however long, I can cover for him but you should leave." His gaze fell towards blue eyes and met them with a dangerous certainty, "For his sake."
So, with a small amount of struggle, Chuuya managed to heave the other onto his back after coming to the conclusion that coordination didn't seem to be his finest skill in his half-drugged state. They must've been in there for a while for whatever shrooms he'd taken to wear off a little.
"Give me your keys," He'd ordered Kunikida the second they stepped out of the room, ignoring the slightly shocked looks from younger members and the more sympathetic from the older, "I took my bike here and there's no way this bastard is going near it right now."
"I do not take orders from-" Kunikda had started, but Ranpo had already tossed him the keys and wished him a good evening before he had a chance to finish.
Dazai hadn't protested on the drive home, nor when Chuuya had tugged him inside his apartment and forced him in the shower. He hadn't argued when he'd had a glass of water held to his lips or complained about the awkward changing of clothes since he'd been a dead weight in Chuuya's arms.
And when he'd finally fallen asleep wordlessly, pressed tightly against the redhead, that twinge of guilt was still there festering in Chuuya's throat as much as he was against it. One text could've helped prevent that, even if it were just one asking if Dazai wanted to go out for drinks or something of the sort.
And because he'd been wrapped up in his own head with work and people's birthdays and stupid paperwork until his brain was working overtime just to get it all figured out, he'd done exactly what that rat-bastard had done to him one time too many.
He'd broken a promise. A promise to Dazai that had reassured him that he'd be there and he wouldn't have to do this alone anymore and he'd gone against that. Some may of called it payback, but if Chuuya knew one thing it was that he had stronger morals than the brunette with little to no exception, and he wasn't trying to make it seem as if his plan all along was just to give Dazai a kick to the ribs whilst he was already lying on the floor and desperately searching for some glimmer of hope to cling onto before he fell back into that crevice of despair he often swamped in and had seemed to be trapped in since he was born. At least, he imagined so. It was hard to believe that Dazai was ever just a normal kid.
He looked down to where there was a head tucked neatly under his chin, chest rising and falling in only slightly irregular breaths, holding the resting form just a little bit tighter.
The aftermath was going to be a wreck tomorrow, god did he know that. But for now, he could let himself indulge a little in the illusion of normalcy given the situation, leaving discussions of Oda, The Agency, what the brunette had seen and what exactly had gone down to be had in the future.
Because for now, it was past midnight. Meaning January tenth was finally over for another year.