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Doppo is exhausted.
The hems of his pants and shoes are muddied, the bench they’ve thrown themselves onto at the train station is unforgivingly bony, and the sounds of screeching rails only worsen the tight knot at the base of his skull that’s been irritating him since this afternoon.
An easy mission, it was supposed to be. Doppo and his new partner, Dazai Osamu, would go an hour out to the countryside where an old acquaintance of the President’s had her family treasure stolen and retrieve it for her. Really, she might have simply misplaced it, Fukuzawa had privately pulled them aside to say, hushed and with an apologetic air. A five-carat diamond ring that used to belong to her grandmother. It shouldn’t be too hard, and definitely not dangerous.
And it hadn’t been dangerous at all, until the woman had found out her newly-out, very queer daughter had used the ring to propose to her girlfriend, and then everything had gone to shit. Running through rice paddies while getting rocks pelted at them by a 65-year-old was not in Doppo’s plans for any day of the week. Keeping his new partner from utterly destroying said 65-year-old was not in his plans for any day of the year.
“You should have let me just set her straight,” Dazai complains to him now.
He’s beside Kunikida on the bench, as they wait to catch another train home on the 24-hour rail. Dazai shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. Laces his fingers together on his lap. Squirms. Doppo almost asks what’s wrong, before he remembers he’s supposed to be angry at the other for almost threatening an old lady who could’ve died of a heart attack at the first sight of malicious intent.
“It’s not within my ideals to be cruel to the elderly,” Doppo informs him. “They’re already miserable enough without us making their lives worse.”
Dazai breathes out a puff of amused air. “That statement alone could qualify as elder abuse. Old people can handle getting scolded.”
“I doubt what you wanted to do was a simple scolding by your expression.”
He shrugs. “I don’t tolerate intolerance.”
“Neither do I,” Doppo says. “But family matters don’t need to be butted into, and old ladies don’t need to be terrified half to death.”
“I think one of those contradicts the other.”
“I don’t agree.”
Dazai hums. They stay silent for a moment. An announcement plays on the intercom, echoing through the space unintelligibly, and then a train arrives at the platform opposite them. According to the signs, their train is still an hour away. Doppo checks his watch for the time when Dazai speaks up.
“Do you really think you can last?” he asks, tone unreadable. “Sticking by your ideals without being forced to break them, or without having things that don’t go your way? Nothing in life is that easy.”
It’s not a question Doppo’s gotten often, but it is one he’s seen unvoiced in people’s eyes many times. There’s another block of respect that falls into place in the hole of understanding called Dazai Osamu in his life, for opening this conversation, on top of the previous block for this afternoon. (He still doesn’t respect his methods, but he does admire Dazai’s dedication to uprooting bigotry). He takes a moment to collect himself enough to give the other a proper, well-deserved answer.
“I’m not naive,” Doppo starts, “but short of religion, this is the best way to find purpose in life. If you can’t have unbreakable faith in something...” He waves his hand at the train station ceiling, the layered metal of the overhang, “nebulous and out there, then you may as well have faith in yourself, and ideals that are worth putting your all into. You like puzzles don’t you?” Because he’d seen the way the other’s eyes lit up when they were still piecing together the investigation earlier, as they got closer and closer to putting everything together.
“I suppose so,” Dazai says, in a guarded sort of way. When Doppo glances over he seems curious.
“It’s something similar to that. The point isn’t that life passes by easily, already fitting to all those ideals. The point is that life can’t do that because it doesn’t care. So you have to take it and figure out ways to make it bend to what you believe in anyway. That’s how you find meaning.”
“Meaning,” Dazai repeats softly, under his breath. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. “You have all that figured out already, huh? I thought the President said you were supposed to be my age.”
“I am your age.”
Dazai looks back at him, amused. When Doppo catches his eye they hold for a second, before he leans back and plops his head gently on the wall behind him. A little breath lets loose. Brown hair flutters before falling back against his cheek. “I‘ll have whatever it is you’re having, please.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that technically, I have a will to live, but the fuel is burning out. I don’t know how long someone telling me to vaguely do good is going to last.”
...That’s the first piece of personal information Dazai has told him, in the entire two weeks since they first met. Doppo hadn’t realized it until now, because his new partner is good about sidestepping and deflecting, but now that he’s voluntarily revealed this bit Doppo’s wondering what else there is under the murky, still surface of the waters of his personality. “If it runs out too soon you could always decide to do good on your own,” Doppo offers.
“And what’s the reasoning for that? It’s fine,” Dazai sighs, seeing Doppo open his mouth to speak and shutting him down. “I’ll figure it out when the time comes.” His hands twitch, and he stuffs them into his coat. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette on you?”
Doppo eyes him judgmentally. That must be why he’s been agitated. “Considering they’re awful for your health, no.”
“Oh come on, it’s not like you didn’t drink when we all went out after work last week. It’s all the same thing.”
“Participating in bad habits only moderately in a social setting is different than reaching for them whenever you feel an itch. The latter is more dangerous.”
“You’re so uptight,” Dazai marvels, tilting his head to the side. His bangs fall messily over his eyes, obstructing the tawny depths, and it sends a small spark of irritation through Doppo, a want to push the hair out of the way. Dazai should cut it, or comb it, or fasten it behind his ear. “Your kids must have hated you when you were a teacher.”
“I kept them safe,” Doppo defends, then realizes he doesn’t have to prove himself to this guy anyway.
Dazai gives him a mild quirk of his lips before looking away, pulling a hand out of his pocket to stare at the nails. He runs his thumbnail under the pointer finger’s, while his foot taps out a poorly kept staccato onto the tile. Tap-tap-tip-tap. Doppo sighs, and grabs his wrist to pull them both up.
Dazai gives him a questioning look.
“We’re getting something to eat,” he says, “and you’re not buying cigarettes while we’re out.”
There’s nothing quite like a bowl of blisteringly spicy ramen late at night to satisfy you. A restaurant has nothing on the authenticity of being crowded in a yatai just off the street with half a dozen other salarymen in suits, all sitting at a counter with burning bowls of perfectly cooked noodles, topped with scallions and eggs and fish cakes. They’re packed tight together in here: thighs pressed up, elbows knocking. Dazai’s bangs are tied up with Doppo’s extra hair tie so he doesn’t accidentally eat them. The hazy lights and the clatter of cooking are just an arm’s reach away. It’s not a forever-substitute for the temptation of nicotine, admittedly, but for now it does a damn good job, Doppo thinks, quietly proud. His new partner hasn’t complained since.
Now, Dazai pulls at the front of his vest while he slurps on the broth, like he’s trying to air himself out. Doppo can imagine why; the stall is steaming and humid enough, without all the layers he adorns himself with. Trench-coat and shirt and strange bandages.
“Aren’t you hot?” Doppo asks, and Dazai glances up at up him playfully.
“Actually, yes I really am, thank you for noticing.” He bats his lashes and simpers.
A moment of silence.
Then Dazai’s eyes widen and he throws himself back with an indignant cry. “Why is it that everyone always looks disgusted whenever I flirt with them for the first time?”
“I’d apologize if I thought you were actually flirting for real,” Doppo tells him, turning back to his ramen.
“It could be.”
“It isn’t.”
“It’s a habit,” Dazai yields.
Doppo snorts. “You have so many bad habits already. Do you try that sort of stuff on everyone you come across?”
“Depends on how interesting I find them,” Dazai replies, and falls forward to stoop over his bowl again too. He skims a slice of pork off the top with his chopsticks and neatly folds it onto his soup spoon.
“And how interesting do you find me?”
The question is dry. Doppo is expecting another nonanswer, or a joke. Instead, Dazai answers, slow and careful, the letters turning beguiled as they drag on his tongue, “Extremely so.”
Doppo, given pause, watches him, still unable to quite wrap his head around the other.
Dazai gives him back a faint, yet sincere smile.