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osamu doesn't dream of anything. he doesn't dream at all. sleep escapes him and taunts him with the creeping dark at the edge of his vision, with the impenetrable fog and the chains upon his limbs. he parades this broken body around with fervor, smiling and yelling and breathing, breathing as they do and studying their skin.
who is he? osamu did not know. today, he will don his costume and begin the show. his audience- mori's old toy, those disgusting twins, his watcher- maybe, the man who knows too much. maybe, the leader who was too kind.
osamu is so very tired. he wants to die.
-
osamu misses when he was young, when he had someone to take down with him. but he doesn't deserve that, does he? no more than the oxygen he's stealing or the food that atsushi insists on wasting on him. ranpo has stopped watching long ago. he knows how this'll end.
-
another year comes and goes, and it rings just as hollow. continued consciousness is exhausting. breathing is exhausting. eating is exhausting. existing is exhausting.
-
he enters his cold, sterile abode to a message. something foreign flits across his mind- a smile rises to his face, unbidden- and he opens the book. it'll happen soon, won't it? ah, he's so jealous. maybe he should take tomorrow off and celebrate at lupin.
…
they've found their way to each other, just like he did. and the ones before. they, unlike him, will last.
-
he's at the agency when it happens. there's a suffocating anticipation that consumes him, a hungry anxiety that eats away at him almost as much as no longer human. he briefly eyes ranpo and makes excuses for the bathroom.
he can't breathe, the familiar sensation of falling from a skyscraper burning his veins alive. he collapses in the corner of a stall, heaving large breaths that he can't even feel. it'll be over soon. it'll be over soon. he'll finally be free. finally. finally. finally. finally. finally-
and then nothing. nothing at all.
his body goes slack.
-
at the edges of awareness, a voice-
"dazai," they breathe. "what have you done?"
-
…
…
…
…
a world where he lives. a world where he sheds his skin. all for him.
save the orphans, protect the weak.
…
he could never do that. not really. not with what writhes in his veins. not even chuuya's twisted ichor could compare. the void that consumes him is not contained. he knows that. he knew that. and then he died.
someone shakes his body, and a headache splits his mind in two. he groggily opens his eye (eyes, he has two, he has two ) and rolls his head to the side. he notices everything but the person first- the smell, the walls, a sterile and blinding infirmary white, the one door and two windows, and the one two three people in the room positioned strategically at each potential escape point. "dazai," the person tries again. yes, he thinks. he'd go for chuuya first, stun him. fukuzawa, while powerful, has never seen him fight so-
"dazai." he finally bothers to acknowledge the presence at his side. chuuya nakahara. of course.
the smile comes to him on instinct. "yes," he murmurs. "what is it this time? how long do i have?"
the grip on his body tightens. chuuya's tense. his voice is quiet and severe, like a grave secret being told. "you're at the detective agency, idiot. you collapsed."
the smile comes more naturally, now. "so it's happened."
"what, asshole? they were worried, they called me- you know how much they piss themselves at a single mention of the mafia. you did something. what did you do."
"so pushy!" he bemoans. "and don't worry your pretty little head about it. i can move now, you know? so go back to your little fortress and forget i exist." osamu, with a little effort, brings his arm up and waves his hand dismissively in chuuya's face. that idiot. he knows how much his presence is compromising osamu's cover.
a bitter snort. "whatever. asshole."
chuuya gets up. his side becomes cold.
the world returns to gray.
he knows he'll get a visitor tonight, but that's a later problem. right now he has to-
"dont even think about it," ranpo says. his gaze sharpened. "you knew this would happen."
osamu rolls his eyes and props himself up in the bed. a familiar, heavy weight sits on his chest. he regains that clinical clarity with a few decisive blinks. amusing. what is ranpo's play?
"don't think yourself omniscient when you only have a clue," he chides. it'd be so easy to be cruel, to tear this agency apart and destroy the only people who think they care about him. just a little twist-
he pauses. not now.
"thank you for the stay!" he calls briefly, avoiding ranpo's piercing gaze. he's standing up now with a steadiness that speaks to his experience. "i'll be heading back to work now."
fukuzawa glowers at him from the door. something im osamu snaps to attention. what little (fake, a means to an end) emotion that existed vanished in an instant, a slate wiped clean.
"shachou."
"dazai," he says. there's something pained in his expression. he pauses when he sees osamu's face.
…
"go home," he sighs and eyes ranpo, who protests loudly. "we'll talk about this tomorrow."
"what-"
fukuzawa's voice cuts through the tense atmosphere. "tomorrow."
osamu nods. he walks away.
-
something ugly rears its head on his walk home. that was so annoying. he clenches his fists. it doesn't matter. nothing what they say matters at all! nothing will change, nothing will be fixed, no matter how many hospitals or needles or scalpels try. it doesn't fucking matter. no longer human swallows him whole.
it's familiar. it's cold.
his lets his feet take him home, his mind a spiral full of that angry darkness he tries his best not to let his coworkers see. ranpo can look all he wants, though. he can look and look and he will find the void and he will fall.
he spares a glance at his surroundings. bleary gray alleyways greet him- ah. he almost wants to laugh! how funny! how ironic!
he's ended up waking towards the port mafia headquarters.
this is what he gets for letting his guard down, he thinks. he's in too deep now to not have been noticed- while he can slip into even mori's office undetected with his eyes closed, it must be done with intent.
osamu wonders who will greet him.
he doesn't wait. he starts walking.
-
akutagawa meets him halfway to the edge of their territory.
"dazai-san," he murmurs. ever so obedient, this one. "what are you doing here?" there's something careful in that tone- what, is he worried?
as always when he is around akutagawa, he feels that familiar mask slip through. "don't worry about it, little one." a small smile graces his face, not unkind. "i was just leaving."
hesitation. "mori-"
his voice sharpens. akutagawa takes a step back. "tell mori that he can suck my dick. i'm leaving."
a pause.
"understood." pride flits across osamu's chest. he passes akutagawa, and pats his head briefly. gently.
he ignores the rest. he goes back to the dorms.
-
"osamu," the voice from outside his window says.
"don't even bother." he mutters. he's drunken himself half to death, and goes in for another swig. there is nothing on the counter. there is only one thing in this room.
someone sits on the stool beside him.
"... do you want to talk about it?"
osamu is too exhausted to keep up the banter, or the anger, or the smiles. he's tired. he wants to die.
"i can't," he admits softly.
…
he sighs and puts down the bottle. "go home, chuuya."
"no."
osamu rolls his eyes. "don't be ridiculous. dont you need your beauty sleep for that raid tomorrow?"
he spares a glance at his partner. yep- that expression never gets old. something settles in his chest.
"how did you- fuck, whatever! i know what you're trying to do!" chuuya stands up at once, and huffs. "i'm getting you to bed. come on."
"you're no fun," he croons- but he doesn't fight chuuya's steady arms lacing across his stomach, nor the way that chuuya carries him easily like a particularly annoying potato sack.
he's dropped onto his sad excuse for a futon, where he curls up uselessly against the night's chill. osamu doesn't even bother trying to move to tuck himself in- he knows he won't be able to. he's lost any real motor skills hours ago.
a world where he lives. a world where he doesn't.
he curls up tighter. the gaping hole in his chest is bleeding him dry.
chuuya has taken up a silent vigilance next to osamu. he knows talking won't do any good. it never has.
a world where he lives. a world where osamu doesn't.
a world with no piercing gazes and worried partners. no forced food or faked cheer. the abyss, gone. a world where he lives-
but the world is not so kind. only in his wildest imagination can he think of a world where he lives; a world where osamu is free.