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It’s a late summer day. The sun beats down, heavy, unrelenting. Sapping away at what little energy Dazai has left.
He drags his feet all the way. With each step, he thinks, this isn’t it. You can still turn back. But another part of himself knows that though he hasn’t yet followed through, he will. He’s already set his mind on his death; thinking anything else would only be a delusion.
He has the pills at home. He went out and bought them about a week ago, when the feeling first started to itch under his skin. They’re sitting innocently in his cabinet: a plain white bottle, the generic store-brand kind. Dazai’s never been one for luxuries like name brands.
He’d tried to delay today as much as he could. But still the feeling accumulated with each passing day–a pulsing reminder that wrapped around his bones, digging painfully deeper with each movement; each breath; each beat of his heart.
He’d tried keeping the urge at bay with a razor: metal, sharp, all bent out of shape and fucked up from when he’d desperately tried to dig it out of the safety razor he’d stolen from Kunikida’s dorm room. It worked, for a little bit, but incrementally less each time. And then it all came to head this morning, when he’d slit up and down to bubbly yellow fat, and, dripping blood into his bathtub, still sat just as empty as when he’d started half an hour ago.
So he’s here, now. Odasaku’s gravestone is cold and lonely. The tree provides shade; the shade provides little comfort. Dazai thinks this means it really is the end. He’s picked a good time.
There’s an empty, gaping hole gnawing at his insides. It’s the knowledge that he’s failed, Dazai thinks. Failed before he even really tried: failed at being a good man. Failed at being human.
He tries to think of something to say, but before he can even open his mouth, there’s a hand on his shoulder.
“Dazai,” a voice says, and when Dazai whirls around, heart beating out of his chest, there’s Ranpo. Glasses on. Green eyes piercing into Dazai’s soul.
They stare at each other emptily. Well, Dazai stares emptily. Ranpo’s eyes are knowing, and full of that stupid, misplaced concern that twists Dazai’s stomach. It looks like a mockery.
“Dazai,” Ranpo says again, eyes furrowing, and Dazai realizes that he hasn’t said anything in a minute. Which is fine. Would be fine, if Ranpo wasn’t here, and if Ranpo didn’t have that knowing look in his eye that makes Dazai want to rip his own heart out, or gouge his wrists, or something.
“...hi,” Dazai says, and tries to muster a smile, but he knows it comes out painfully artificial. But Ranpo is nothing if not indulgent of Dazai’s masks, and so neither of them mention it.
“Come back to the Agency,” Ranpo says. His arms are crossed.
Dazai smiles again, weakly, and says “Ah... Don’t worry about that, Ranpo-san. I’m fine right here.”
But Ranpo’s eyes only harden in response. “Come back,” he says again, “I’m not going to let you be alone right now. Especially not here.”
And of course Ranpo’s figured it all out. Knows Odasaku’s last words, probably. How his blood felt, spilling hot over Dazai’s hands. How it wouldn’t come out from under his fingernails for a week afterwards, no matter how hard or how many times he scrubbed.
Will it be the same way tonight, Dazai wonders? Will the roles reverse, with his blood sticky on another’s hand?... He hopes it’s not Atsushi. He doesn’t deserve that; he’s too young to have to deal with all of Dazai’s bullshit.
Dazai shakes that thought off. Because Ranpo’s here right now, and he doesn’t have time for reminiscing about things like that.
Ranpo, who’s still watching him, arms still crossed over his chest, still with that stupid knowing look in his eyes.
“...I’m fine, Ranpo,” Dazai repeats.
“You’re not,” Ranpo counters, “You’re coming back with me, or I’m calling Kunikida. And the President.”
Something flares up in Dazai’s chest, white-hot and panicking. Because if Ranpo decides to expose that particular skeleton, it’s over. Dazai can already see it in his mind: Kunikida’s incessant buzzing, Atsushi’s misplaced, overbearing worry. Eyes on him. The very image is sickening. And though some of them might not take him seriously, they'll be watching. That’s something Dazai cannot afford–not when he’s finally, finally so close to freedom.
The panic coalesces in his chest, dragging Dazai into compliance. It’s fine, he thinks, frenzied, I’ll stay long enough to calm Ranpo down. Because it’s fine. Because if he can make it through today just long enough for Ranpo to let him go, if he can shed the suspicion off his back, then Dazai can still die tonight.
But Dazai’s waited too long, or Ranpo sees something in his face, because the other detective begins to speak again before Dazai can manage to force out some subpar answer.
“You’re being irrational,” is all Ranpo says, and Dazai feels his anger spike, and some part of him wants to tear Ranpo down where he stands. Wants to watch the blood flow from his broken body and seep into the ground. But then Dazai thinks of Oda, of warm blood, of a hand in his hair, of his voice, saying, Dazai, be a good person, and the urge to end himself comes back tenfold.
He closes his eyes and exhales with it.
“..okay,” Dazai says quietly. He lets the defeat seep into his voice. Playing it up, but not too much. It’s hard to slip things past Ranpo’s watch, but not impossible.
Ranpo smiles, triumphant, and turns on his heel. Walks out, and doesn’t even look back to make sure that Dazai is following.
…
The hours tick by. Back at the Agency, as the sun makes its slow descent, Dazai’s panic only grows.
Ranpo has shown no sign of letting up.
Dazai’s been sitting at his desk, playing the part of the dutiful detective, rifling through reports, filling out paperwork, the sort. Trying to seem unassuming… Dazai knows he’s not acting what the Agency considers to be his “normal”, but he has no energy to keep up his regular facade. With each breath, each penstroke, each new paper, Dazai has to force the tension out of his body, slow his breathing, forcing his heart rate to slow to a steady, unassuming 60 beats per minute. So. Maybe not the picture of a regular Dazai, but the next best thing: the picture of a laid-back, relaxed Dazai.
He’s gotten a few worried glances, of course. From Atsushi. From Kunikida, which surprised him. But the man only gave him a sincere, heartfelt delivery on how glad he was that Dazai was finally trying to step up his work ethic.
Every time Dazai peeks up, he’s met with Ranpo’s unrelenting, unwavering gaze. Which is not fair, because how can Ranpo possibly be getting work done like this?
This goes on for another hour or so, until Ranpo finally–finally–sits up with a yawn and stretches. He rifles through his desk for a moment or two before looking up with a frown.
“Kunikidaa…” Ranpo whines, “I’m all out of snacks.”
Dazai is watching this raptly. Kunikida looks up from where he’s been working at his desk, looking a little annoyed to be bothered by something so trivial.
“There’s more in the break room, Ranpo,” Kunikida says, arching a brow. “Get more yourself, if you want. …But not too much, or you’re going to make yourself sick.”
Ranpo’s eyes light up, and he stands up at once, spinning towards the breakroom and humming joyfully as he skips off… clearly ignoring Kunikida’s advice.
A flutter of hope ignites somewhere within Dazai.
The second Ranpo disappears behind a corner, Dazai lets out an exaggerated yawn, pushes his chair away from his desk, and stands up. It’s all very theatrical, and intended to obfuscate the fact that Dazai’s entire body is screaming at him to run, get away, and act as fast as he possibly can.
“Well, I’m exhausted,” Dazai announces to the office–only Kunikida and himself now, really, with everyone else gone home for the evening. “I’ll be getting going, now~! Bye bye!”
And he makes a (rather hurried) move towards the door, but as soon as he touches the handle–
“Where are you going?” Ranpo says, voice severe, and Dazai whirls around to find Ranpo standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed right at Dazai.
“I–” Dazai begins, but he’s cut off almost immediately by Ranpo jerking his head towards Kunikida and barking out a command.
“Kunikida, go with him.”
Kunkida blinks, but even in that confusion, he immediately gets up. Ranpo looks dead serious, and he never looks that serious.
“It’s really not–” Dazai begins again, but he’s cut off by Ranpo again. And any panic or concern twists in Dazai’s chest into a white hot knife, coalesces into words on the tip of his tongue, positioned to cut right to where Dazai knows it’ll hurt.
But he hesitates. Then he mentally chastises himself for hesitating, because the Armed Detective Agency really has made him weak. Soft. And that’s supposed to be a good thing, but it also means that all Dazai’s ever been good for is now… worthless. Fading away.
“--zai?” someone says, and Dazai blinks back to the present to two pairs of concerned eyes on him: one set knowing; one set brimming with curiosity.
“I’m fine,” Dazai says automatically. His hand is still on the doorknob, he realizes. He could–should– turn and barrel through the door. Sprint all the way home, snatch the pills waiting prettily in his cabinet, and maybe a blade or two for good measure, and do the deed. Ranpo certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with him–he may be whip-smart, but he’s never been particularly physically robust–but Kunikida may, in the confusion, pursue Dazai, demanding to know what’s going on.
“What is going on?” Kunikida asks, bewildered, glancing between Dazai’s glowering face, and Ranpo’s severe one.
“Nothing,” Dazai and Ranpo say at the same time. Then they both immediately turn to each other, and Dazai locks Ranpo’s gaze, like some kind of fucked up staring contest.
Ranpo breaks first with a heavy sigh, flopping back into his chair.
“Go with him, Kunikida,” he says with finality.
And fine. Because really, Dazai gets it. He knows Ranpo’s not nearly stupid enough to let Dazai leave on his own, at this point.
But here is Ranpo’s mistake: Ranpo is relying too heavily on Dazai’s crude excuse for morals, and on Dazai’s wish for a clean, quiet suicide. Because yes, these things are true: when Dazai finally goes, he does not want his blood staining another's hands. But Ranpo has forgotten to factor in this: that on the days when the urge becomes too great–when Dazai’s very skin suffocates him, and his bones turn inwards and stick into his organs–on these days when sliding a blade across his skin seems like the only way out, the pain outweighs any sliver of morality that Dazai may possess. And on these days, if it means Kunikida is to find his body, then fine. Dazai’ll kill himself in the Agency bathroom, if he needs to, and he won’t even be thinking of the man.
So: “Okay,” Dazai says, but he frames it as a whine, high pitched, fake. It grates even on his own ears. A familiar annoyance creeps over Kunikida’s face at the tone, and something about it feels like safety.
Kunikida stomps out, Dazai trailing behind him, but Dazai can feel Ranpo’s gaze boring into the back of his head.
Dazai’s a little relieved, really. Because if Ranpo’s letting Dazai leave with anyone else but himself, that must mean that his suspicions have eased enough.
Up ahead, Kunikida marches onward. He’s headed for the Agency dorms, of course. He’s probably planning on dropping Dazai off, assuming that’s what Ranpo wanted. But–Dazai frowns. Because that won’t do, because when Kunikida returns to the Agency after dropping Dazai off, it may spring Ranpo into action.
So, Dazai prods, “Kunikida-kun, are you coming back with me?”
Kunikida furrows his brows. “You’re going back to the dorms, yes?” And at Dazai’s affirming nod, Kunikida says, “Ranpo already briefed us. He said to be gentle with you today, but to not ask why.”
And– “oh,” Dazai says, tongue a little numb. He doesn’t know what to do with that information. It sits heavy with his stomach. But he has to ask: “So you’re…?”
Kunikida sighs loudly. Crosses his arms, and looks up at the sky, and somehow manages to keep walking without tripping, which Dazai finds himself a little impressed with. “I’m staying with you,” he says, “at least, until you fall asleep.”
Secretly, Dazai curses Ranpo and his entire bloodline. But out loud, he says, voice fake-cheery, “A sleepover with Kunikida-kun! How fun!”
The rest of the walk back was shrouded in an uncertain silence. Dazai used the time, trailing after Kunikida, to try and regain composure–to build a smooth mask of indifference to hide his heart pounding underneath.
They knew something. Ranpo had told them something. Dazai feels bared open, flayed, vulnerable: exposed as broken, worthless, subhuman. Unable to take care of himself. Be gentle with him. What a joke, Dazai thinks. If he’s broken to the point of needing others to be gentle with him, then he hardly deserves kindness. They should throw him out like trash at the first sign of weakness. He should leave. He should die. He needs to—
“Are you even listening to me?”
Dazai is abruptly snapped from his thoughts by Kunikida waving his hand in front of his face. Dazai blinks for a few moments, bewildered, before realizing that, somehow, they had arrived at the door to Dazai’s room.
At Dazai’s silence (and probably clear bewilderment) Kunikida sighs, speaking up again.
“I need your keys for your room. Do you have them or not?”
“Oh,” Dazai says dumbly, “uh, yeah. Sure, of course.”
He starts patting down his pockets uselessly until he locates the keys in his back pocket. Dazai fumbles with them for a moment before shakily sliding the keys into the lock. Tries to ignore the faint trembling in his hands, and the scrutinizing look of his coworker.
After a moment, the door pops open with a click.
“...Ah, come inside,” Dazai says, clearing his throat awkwardly. He steps aside and holds the door open for Kunikida to enter first.
Kunikida steps in slowly. He hovers a little, looking a little anxious to be inside another’s–inside Dazai’s–home. Dazai ignores it in favor of removing his own shoes and hanging up his coat.
“You can… do whatever,” Dazai says, waving a hand dismissively at the apartment couches. “Make yourself comfortable.”
Kunikida seems grateful for that, and goes for the table next to the kitchen. He diligently pulls out his laptop. At that, Dazai huffs a laugh, but he’s not really surprised, given Kunikida's work ethic.
Dazai himself picks up a book at random, and flops onto the couch. Pretends to be absorbed in it, but really, he’s biding his time. Letting Kunikida get comfortable. With each passing moment, his heart picks up with anticipation.
The silence drapes over the two of them, only occasionally broken by the flip of a page or the rhythmic clacking of a keyboard. Dazai manages to keep it up for nearly half an hour before he decides it’s time. He sits up, letting the book fall closed, and stretches theatrically. Predictably, Kunikida glances up, alert.
“I need to use the bathroom!” Dazai says cheerily. His excuse is met with only a huff of acknowledgement as Kunikida turns back to his work.
He pretends to stroll to the bathroom, but drops the nonchalant facade the second the door clicks shut. Dazai locks it behind him–he’s not stupid–and immediately starts rummaging through his cabinets. It takes only a few seconds to produce what he’s looking for–the white pill bottle he’d purchased earlier, for this purpose alone, and a handful of broken blades.
Dazai’s working against the clock. He begins unbuttoning his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up his arm to reveal the expanse of pale white bandages that swathe his forearms. He stares at them for just a moment, considering…but he won’t be able to cut cleanly or effectively with them on, and so fumbles with the pin holding them in place. Dazai lets the unwinding bandages fall to the floor, not even bothering to gather them.
After a moment of thought, Dazai opens the bottle of pills next to him, breaks the seal. He’ll take them next, he decides, just to cover his bases.
Dazai lines the razor up against one pale wrist. And just as he’s about to press and swipe, he’s interrupted by a sharp BANG against the bathroom door. Dazai freezes, blade pressed still against his wrist.
“Dazai,” comes Kunikida’s voice, sounding far too serious, “It’s been five minutes. What on earth are you doing in there?”
The man in question gapes uselessly for a second. Then, at the lack of response, Kunikida says, “..I’m coming in,”
“Wait—no, no, no,” Dazai says at once, and hurriedly tries to scramble to hide the evidence–the pills–the razor–his bandages are off– and in his haste, he knocks over the open bottle of pills. Dazai watches almost in slow motion as the bottle tumbles to the floor, and, upon impact, pills scatter everywhere.
At the same time, Kunikida bursts the door open to the scene.
For a second, they’re both frozen, staring at each other. Kunikida’s eyes shift from Dazai’s bare, scarred wrists, to the razor in his hand, and finally, to the empty bottle, tipped on its side, and the pills now scattered on the ground.
Another beat of tense silence, then–Dazai breaks it, throwing himself towards the door, frantic in his motions. But of course–of course–Kunikida is able to intercept him easily. And Kunikida grabs his wrists, pins Dazai to the floor, the blade clattering out of Dazai’s hand in the process. It hits the floor, and Kunikida kicks it far away from Dazai’s grasp.
Dazai comes apart all at once. He’s panting, breath heavy and erratic. His head spins, and everything in his entire view and perception has narrowed down to this: the blade, the pills, and Kunikida, blocking him.
He begins to cry in earnest, shaking, squirming, fighting pathetically against Kunikida’s much stronger grip.
“Let go,” Dazai sobs, loud, sniveling, writhing underneath Kunikida’s grasp, “let go–”
And Kunikida is silent. Just sits there, still pinning Dazai down. But when Dazai catches his face in his peripheral vision, he looks… astounded. Horrified. Like he’s completely out of his element, like he’s never even considered the possibility that Dazai could act like this, and like he has no fucking clue what to do now that Dazai is inconsolable on the ground, begging, desperate to kill himself.
Dazai’s head is steadily building pressure, and he feels like his skin itself begins to collapse inwards onto itself, choking Dazai as it goes. And in a moment of desperation to just make it all stop, Dazai bangs his head against the ground, hard. That gets Kunikida moving again, exclaiming loudly, in a horrified voice– “Dazai–!”
The impact rattles through his skull, sharp and bright, and the world stutters. Dazai’s vision flickers at the edges. His skin against the tiles, Kunikida’s hands, Kunikida’s voice–all of it blurs into something distant and unreachable. Sound drops out in pieces.
Dazai’s body goes slack despite himself, the fight draining from his limbs as darkness presses in, heavy and absolute. And as his consciousness flickers out, though he can hear Kunikida’s frantic voice, Dazai’s only thought is relief.