Work Text:
Knowing You
“Hey,” a lollipop stick licked clean stabbed Yosano in the back, “buy me candy.”
With a dismayed huff, “I’m busy.”
“Doing…?”
Yosano gestured to the near-mountainous stack of paperwork that lay on her desk in the infirmary.
Ranpo merely tilted his head to the side, “But I’m hungry.”
“We had lunch less than an hour ago.”
“I have gossip.”
Yosano’s eyebrows rocketed upwards, all interest in the tasks at hand abandoned. Despite the ethical quandaries that came with the morality of gossiping as the agency doctor, Yosano could not resist the temptation.
“Should have led with that! Come on,” Yosano stood up with a stretch and a yawn, “let’s go before I change my mind.”
Happily, Ranpo skipped to the door. With some mild grumbling, Yosano followed.
They ended up at a bakery a few blocks down, one full of employees who practically worshipped the agency for keeping them in business with Ranpo’s sweet tooth. After ordering nearly half a dozen desserts for her colleague and a cupcake for herself, Yosano led the them to a small table up against the frosted window.
“Alright,” she said, plopping down unceremoniously, “spill.”
A shrug, “Waddya wanna know?”
“The gossip? Duh.”
“Oh. Right. That.” Ranpo eyed the kitchen, impatiently awaiting his desserts. He began playing with a napkin as he spoke. “It’s about the new guy.”
A long, unnecessary pause.
“Well??” Yosano pressed, irritated.
“I don’t think I’ve ever said this about anyone,” Ranpo disclosed with an uncharacteristically solemn expression. “I can’t get a read on him.”
Yosano blinked, “You—what?”
This was not normal.
“I don’t get it myself,” Ranpo mused as he folded the napkin into a pathetic attempt at a paper airplane. “I even resorted to that thing stupid people do where they look people up online to find out stuff about them—”
“Stalking?”
“No—the other thing.”
“Reconnaissance?”
“Sort of?”
“Research?”
“Right, yes, that. Ugh. So boring.”
“So what did you find?” Yosano pushed further, nearing the edge of her seat.
“Nothing!!”
Gaping, “What do you mean nothing?”
“I mean, there’s nothing on this guy. No one with a past or present named Dazai Osamu.”
Yosano nibbled on her fingernail as the waitress brought by their pastries. They mumbled their thanks as Ranpo began devouring his sweets.
With cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, “It’s sus.”
Yosano smirked, “You look ridiculous.”
Ranpo looked even sillier as he pouted, cheeks still full as he chomped grumpily.
“You think he went by a different name before?” Yosano wondered aloud, picking up her cupcake and licking some of its frosting.
“Possible.”
“Fukuzawa-sama wouldn’t have hired him if he had a criminal background—right?” Yosano considered.
Ranpo’s eyes narrowed, the way they often did when he was making smaller, simpler deductions, “No, he would. Under the right circumstances. Or—” a massive lick of icing from the top of his strawberry cake, “he doesn’t know.”
“Why wouldn’t he know?”
“Beats me.”
Yosano bit into the side of her cupcake, chewing and swallowing before asking, “So, what else?”
“That’s all I got.”
In awe, “That’s all you got? You’re joking.”
“No! I’m serious!” Ranpo whined, “It's really weird!! Is this how normal people feel? I don’t like it.”
“I don’t get him. He slacks off all day, barely does any reports, and spends more time flirting and talking about suicide than actually working. But clearly Fukuzawa-sama trusts him?”
Ranpo took ate a forkful of cake before continuing, “He’s good at distracting.”
“As in?”
“I may not be able to read him in as much detail as others but,” a grim pause, “he’s hiding something. Or a lot of somethings.”
--
He thought he had thought everything through.
He did. He did?
He did.
And things are going well! So well! Too well, actually!!
Because! He’s been hired! By the ADA!! And now he will be saving orphans and keeping a good man’s legacy alive and he has a
Purpose.
He has a purpose.
Dazai, for the first time in his entire twenty years of living, has something to strive for, something worth living to achieve, something that—
So, there it is. He thought everything through and the two years of excruciating survival and isolation were, theoretically, worth it for all that is to come.
He should be excited, right now. Proud and over the moon and on the edge of his seat, ready to begin the next chapter in the story of his life.
Sitting in Yosano’s medical wing, he feels anything but excited and proud and over the moon and on the edge of seats for more chapters in a painfully bleak life.
Which makes no sense, because he thought everything through. He did everything right. Erasing his past (thanks Ango), hiding underground (thanks Russia), getting the job at all (whopping thanks Taneda). He secured living arrangements through the agency and filled all his paperwork and got a new somewhat legal ID. All he has been met with is a dull period of orientation and dread and Dazai is
“Good to see you again. Dazai Osamu, that’s your full name, correct?”
“The one and only~” Dazai trills. He looks the agency doctor up and down. She’s older than him, but not by much. Button down tucked in a flattering, A-line knee-length skirt. Short, dark hair, pin-straight, complemented nicely by a golden butterfly clip. White lab coat. Familiar eyes.
Reminding him
of
forget forget forget forget forget forget forget
“I’m glad we finally have a chance to talk one-on-one. As you know, I’m the agency’s doctor, Yosano Akiko. My primary objective is to ensure the health and safety of all agency members. My ability is healing-centric and outside of that, I’m a certified clinician. Though I’ll occasionally refer our members to specialists nearby depending on the extent of their condition or injury, I am typically the one to treat all injuries. Any questions?”
“Nope!”
“Great. Let’s take a look at your file and you can tell me more about yourself.”
The fear was trained out of him half a decade ago. No way in hell will he let it show here and now. This is only a routine doctor’s appointment. A mundane physical per the requirements of his employee registration and mandated paperwork. Nothing abnormal or unusual or
warm mouths, cool hands, tongues wrapped around
suckling
throat burning as it shoots and streams down and tastes
it tastes
it tastes like
“This is,” Yosano flipped through a few sparse folders, as though she were looking for something specific, “unusual. Sorry, I should have reviewed this sooner, I just assumed—well, we usually receive copies of the patient’s prior medical history. It doesn’t seem like that was ever sent over—” Yosano thumbs through the scarce contents of the manila envelope labeled Dazai, Osamu. With a hint of confusion and a furrowed brow, she asked, “Do you recall signing the release authorization that allows us to contact your past providers?”
“Nope!”
“Oh. Okay. I could have sworn we mailed you that but I can ask Haruno about—”
“I did receive the release authorization,” Dazai clarifies unhelpfully.
“Okay. But you haven’t signed off on it?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
A long pause. Yosano clears her throat, “May I ask the reason?”
“I believe I’m entitled to my privacy, sensei,” Dazai responds with a playful wink. Yosano’s cheeks flare with embarrassment.
“You are. Sorry. Alright then.” A deep breath, grounding, recentering, “I do respect your privacy and decision, but this process is significantly easier when connected to past providers.”
“I play life on hard-mode. Bring it on!”
“Alright then.”
Something about this young man
it
he
something
something about him
about him
something about
him him him him him him and maybe and what if and it could be that and and and and
“Right. Let’s start with your vitals. Blood pressure and that sort of thing.”
The bandages had tipped her off from the very start that this man must be deeply unsettled. Of course, it was an assumption. It could be covering a skin condition or serving a sensory purpose or
“Blood pressure is a little elevated. Do you get nervous around doctors?”
“Only the ones who are beautiful women~” Dazai swoons flirtatiously. Yosano rolls her eyes.
This is going to be a long appointment.
--
“Aside from your blood pressure being slightly high, everything else appears normal.” She scribbled some notes on a notepad, then typed a few things into her computer. Dazai stayed put, seated on the cot, long legs hanging down, swinging back and forth, heels skidding the faded linoleum below. “Okay,” Yosano stood back up and gestured to the scale in the corner of the room. “Let’s take your height and weight.”
For a moment
the briefest of moments
so slight, she nearly misses it
overlooks
ignores
or at least
doubts
she doubts she saw
“Dazai?”
Blinking rapidly, “Sorry, what?”
Yosano offered a tone brimming with reassuring warmth, “I said it’s time to take your height and weight.”
“Oh.” Dazai laughed, “No.”
“Wh—uh—” a beat. “What?”
“No thanks.”
“This is part of your check-up, it will only be used for your medical records to ensure you’re at a healthy weight for your height. We also need to make sure you’re maintaining the muscle needed for fieldwork.
No response, only an eerie, empty smile.
“Of course, there’s this stupid legal requirement too. But it’s not something I personally agree with. We prefer to use this information to help support our employees rather than check off some box.”
“Legally, you have to weigh me?”
“Basically. I really don’t like this option,” Yosano started hesitantly, “but we could measure your waist instead? You could stay clothed if you feel more comfortable that way—”
“Nah.”
“Can you share with me your weight from your last check-up?”
A shrug.
A frustrated huff, “Dazai, this is important. We can’t—” She paused, taking a breath, “Look. I don’t mean to make any judgements, but you’re clearly,” another breath as she chose her words, “on the slim side. We can make a meal plan and workout regimen to keep your weight up where it needs to be—”
“Can I go now?”
“Dazai—”
“Yeah. I’m gonna go.”
He stood up and walked to the door. Yosano reached out for him, her hand barely grazing his shoulder.
His breath caught in his throat.
“I don’t have to tell you the number. It’s just for our records. Being skinny is nothing to be embarrassed about—”
That’s what she thinks this is?
“Fine.” Begrudgingly, Dazai approached the scale. He gestured impatiently, “Well?”
“Right.”
Yosano came by and
and he
he stepped on
it.
He stepped on the
the
the
he saw the
she read the
and it was
and
he cannot
Breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe
Teeth clenched, jaw tight, face forced into false relaxation
“You’re in the lower percentile, but the range isn’t dangerous—”
He cannot breathe.
“And your height is—”
He is not listening.
“Just checking in. Are you feeling okay? Do you have any questions before we talk through your ability?”
He is no longer on the scale. When did he get off the scale? When did he
“No questions!”
“And you’re feeling okay?”
“Of course!”
Skeptic, “Are you sure?”
“Your consideration flatters me, sensei.”
The rest of the appointment is flat and stale and empty and Dazai is fairly certain he is
dying dying dying dying Dazai is dying he is dying he is dying because the
he saw
he saw
what he
Disgusting.
Fat.
Gross.
Hideous.
Revolting.
He is dying, but he is still here.
A something rather than one. A bloated toy too big for its own good, taking up too much space, that
He is repulsed by himself.
He is
--
He resents that his vice involves calories.
Whisky is safe. The lesser of evils.
Apartment empty, glass empty.
Eyes like the apartment, like the glass.
He aims for a refill, confused by the weight of the bottle, rather the lack thereof.
Empty.
He checks the pantry. Empty.
The refrigerator. Empty.
The room spins and he thinks maybe that has something to do with drinking on an empty stomach.
It hurts. His stomach clenches and twists and turns as nausea overwhelms.
Dazai should do everyone a favor and die.
He should do himself a favor and die.
He opts to lie on the hard wooden floor, helplessly making eye contact with the tilting ceiling. He counts each tile, eyes drifting between ridges and speckles and dust.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
A row of ten.
Four rows of ten.
And
And the ridges,
they
they are
He tries but.
It is not enough to distract to stop to change the existence of the way things are to make things different and better and make his life different and better and Dazai just wants to feel different.
He wants to feel better
he wants to feel better he wants to feel better he wants to feel he wants to feel he wants to
Maybe he will throw up. He should throw up. It has been a while since he purged and there is a bitter desire to prove that he is still more than capable of this. That he is still more than capable of sticking his fingers down his throat and purifying and fixing and being
thin and sharp and perfect and perfect and perfect and
Dazai is not perfect. He almost was. He was so close. Had been molded and sculpted and chiseled down and sharpened and
He sits up, body groaning and creaking. The world rotates in protest. Stares at his body, shirtless. Looks down at his stomach. It folds no matter how much he sucks in. He is disturbed by the sensation of fat and flesh squishing. Hip bones are still visible, nearly prominent, but softer than they were. Fingers find their way to his arms. He squeezes and picks at the flesh, attempting discernment between flesh and fat and muscle. He should know the difference, has studied human anatomy, should know, should know should
He pokes and prods and pulls and squeezes and picks and scratches and pinches and pinches and pinches and pinches and
he wants to die he wants to die he wants to
Knees against chest, head between them, breathing heavily. Fast, bordering hyperventilation. He does not want to be here does not want to do this does not want to
He is revolted in every conceivable way.
Staring. Dissecting. Judging. Mutilating.
Forcing the shaky, unstable vessel of a body into standing, he trembles one step at a time until unsteady limbs lead him to the spare, mostly unused room with the door that houses a full-length mirror. The décor is not by choice, merely happenstance. The dorm belongs to the agency and Dazai did not have a say in which room he would get or whether or not said room would be equipped with a full-length mirror on the back of its door.
It fuels his disdain as he strips and stands and stares. As he ravenously devours his image with every intention of choking it back up.
Pinch. Squeeze. Poke. Press. Prod. Scratch.
He loathes the way his thighs are bulging. They are closer to touching than they used to be.
His arms are not toned. His stomach is
he fucking hates it.
His eyes fixate on the round mass that is so much bigger than it once was.
“You’re in the lower percentile, but the range isn’t dangerous—” he recalls Yosano’s words in the infirmary.
Lower percentile? Fucking liar.
There is no way Dazai’s body can look like this and not be called fat.
His amber eyes darken, nearly black holes. There is no sympathy for this body he has ruined. Not for the crisscrossing scars, patches of raised skin, bullet wounds healed improperly, signs of wear and tear. Were he an article of clothing, a raggedy shirt, such a state would signify the time to part ways with the garment and buy a new one.
If only he could buy a new one.
Breathe in, try not to scream.
Breathe out, try not to scream.
Sharp and wet and
he will not scream.
Crying?
Bleeding?
He will not scream, he will not scream, he will not.
Sharp, digging, drawing, stabbing, mutilating, decorating, marking and reclaiming as his own.
Euphoric.
Sharp is familiar and familiar is safe and safe means everything is going to be okay.
Everything is going to be okay.
Everything is going to be okay.
Everything is going to be
--
He has this issue. The upsetting, frustrating, entirely unnecessary and uncalled for issue of hunger. It is grossly abnormal. Dazai Osamu is not a human and Dazai Osamu does not need human things and Dazai Osamu does not need, nor desire food. These are facts. Hunger cues are and have always been foreign to him. The bits and pieces he recalls of his childhood, his time in the mafia, when he was hiding underground in Russia.
Logically, he knows he had to be eating because he is still here and he is nauseatingly big.
Why is this happening to him.
Why is this happening?
There is a specific pain, embarrassment he feels when hunger shows up in his gut. It feels like failure, a choice. Dazai has chosen to give up on perfection, Dazai is choosing to be lazy and irresponsible and fat and
(Simplification is easier to swallow.)
It is always more than that.
It has always been
been more than
than
He has never once cared about being irresponsible, and yet this matters, this embarrassment and shame and self-despising experience matters. He hates this, he hates this, he hates this.
“Dazai? Can I see you in my office for a moment?”
He had been filling out boring orientation paperwork. Apparently he had missed a few forms and is not yet allowed to be assigned to the field. Yosano wears a stern expression like a worn pair of loafers. A motherly look Dazai cannot help but feel is inappropriate when applied to him.
“Dazai?”
Blinking, shaking his head, responding, “Did you say something?”
“I asked if I could speak to you in my office.”
“Oh.” Smile! Smile! Smile! “Of course!”
And they go
into her office
they go into her office he goes into her office Dazai enters her office he is now inside her office and the world is
spinning and
tilting and
he cannot breathe he cannot
hands
Hands Hands Hands Hands Hands there are hands and there he is and he is touching touching touching touching touching
(He feels unsafe.)
(Dazai feels unsafe.)
(Dazai feels.)
He wants to die.
He feels. He feels and he feels and he feels and the sea roars, waves abundant. Ship tipping beneath his weight, its boards creaking and screeching and the siren’s song long overplayed sings and shrieks and
“—can you tell me more about that?”
Yosano speaks. Yosano is speaking. Yosano is speaking to him.
This
he
He did not notice.
He did not
He is
He
He
he
“Dazai? Are you okay?”
No. No, he is not.
“Sorry, tired,” he mumbles, ignoring and ignoring and pretending things are fine and fine and fine and
“Do you want to lay down? We can ask the president if you can leave early.”
Blinking. His legs feel like jelly, his brain like mush, his arms limp by his side. His everything feeling all too much a marionette cut from its strings. Dangling with unearned freedom, treacherously close to sliding off the stage.
A chuckle, “Yes, all fine. Apologies! Did not mean to worry a pretty lady like yourself.”
She does not trust him, does not believe him.
She decides not to push it.
“Okay. I was asking—well. How are you adjusting to the agency?”
“Very well!”
“That’s good to hear.” Her tone is suspicious, “We were. Well. Kunikida-kun was a bit concerned that maybe—maybe you’re having trouble feeling included?”
“Why would he think that?” Dazai’s tilts his head to the side, resembling a confused cat.
“He said he has invited you to lunch several times this week and you always decline. I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re feeling alright. That you know you’re always welcome to join us at meals or to hang out after work.”
“How kind of you to bring this up!” Dazai beams and for half of a moment, Yosano considers believing it. “I’ll take you all up on an offer one of these days.”
Yosano nods. She considers tip-toing around the crux of her concerns, but theorizes he will be more responsive to a direct query.
“In the meantime, what have you been doing for lunch? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pack something from home or go to the café.”
“Ah, yes. I like to explore different spots nearby.”
Skepticism.
“Okay. And are you consistently eating?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking me?”
She clears her throat, “You aren’t feeling a loss of appetite or anything else we should be concerned about?”
“Anything you should be…” Dazai trails off.
They noticed.
He was fucking this up.
He was losing his touch.
Mori would be disappointed, so disappointed with his softened edges and distinct failure to uphold even the most basic of fixes to his debauched life and form and
“As I mentioned last time, you’re on the lower weight end of the percentile for your height. And due to the physical nature of our jobs, your intake is something we should be monitoring closely before you begin fieldwork.”
“Surprising.”
“What is?”
A glint of sadism and touch of disappointment, “Somebody’s been gaining weight this year.” The voice trills snidely.
“I have?” Dazai frowns, furrows his brow.
“Yes, you have.”
Judgmental and harsh. Condescending.
“Isn’t that a good thing? Chibi always says I’m skin and bones!”
“Of course, being a healthy weight is a very good thing, Osamu.” Mori’s tone is slippery and scheming and Dazai cannot help twitching at the sensation of taking one step too close to the bear trap.
“So,” a beat, “it’s fine, right?”
“It would indeed be fine,” Mori pauses for emphasis, “if, you were gaining muscle.”
Silence.
“But…?” Dazai prods.
“You’re not.”
Dazai is fifteen and has never been called fat.
He has never been told to lose weight or that he was too big or that he was anything other than a stick. Dazai is always told he needs to eat more not that he
that he
that he should
that he
“How are you feeling? You look a little pale.”
Where is he?
“I expect you to be taking care of this,” ponder, ponder, ponder, select, strike, “situation. Do I make myself clear?”
“You have nothing to worry about sensei—I usually just have a big breakfast and dinner. I’m not much of a lunch person.”
She shakes her head in disagreement, “It’s not good to go several hours without food. Especially in this line of work.”
“I trust you have the willpower to do this? Unless you’re so much of a glutton you just can’t resist—”
Huffing, irate, chest tight, struggling to breathe. Hide, hide, hide.
Humiliated.
“I can do it.”
“That’s no problem, I’ve done way worse!”
Alarm. Judicious concern. Wrong answer.
“That’s not a good thing.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Can I go now?”
Hesitation.
She hesitates.
Yosano hesitates because
Because
because
she has this
distinct feeling
this sensation this
This is not normal.
Dazai Osamu is not normal. Dazai Osamu is not well. Dazai Osamu is not—
“Why don’t you come join us for dinner tonight?” The offer is casual, “Kunikida invited Ranpo and I over tonight, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind an extra person in the mix.”
Why is she doing this to him?
Why is she—
“Apologies sensei,” a fluttering smile, eyes squinty and happy and, “I have plans tonight!”
“Surely they can be rearranged?”
Wiggling brow, “Sensei, isn’t it inappropriate to pursue your patients so directly?”
A glower, “Cut it out. You know that’s not what this is.”
An unblinking expression, wide smile, vacant. “Then, what is it?”
“Why are you making this difficult?”
“Why are you invasive?”
“I’m your doctor.”
“No. You’re a doctor.”
“Do you—” a pause, a beat, a breath, a reconsideration, “do I make you uncomfortable? Would you like to see another clinician? It’s not typical here but if it makes you feel safer I can arrange for—”
Safer.
If it makes him safer.
As if Dazai could feel safer around
and
and
and
“Dazai? Are you with me?”
The world is blurry and little dots haze his vision.
“Easy—”
He is on the floor. When did Dazai get on the floor? How did Dazai get on the floor?
Footsteps, door creaking, opening, a loud cry for help.
“Kunikida, Ranpo! One of you please bring something with sugar in it to the infirmary—”
No.
No.
No.
He cannot have sugar, cannot ruin his pathetic inkling of progress, cannot—
“Can you hear me?” Someone is shaking his arm and he is twitching and is
More footsteps. Another yell.
“And a cold compress!”
His muscles twitch and stomach roils and everything feels
--
The room is dim, but not dark. The couch is plush, but not too soft. The air is scented, but not suffocating.
A warm, candle with faint throw and a pot of tea, scents present but dampened, perhaps by the stream of wind circulating through the slightly cracked window.
“How are you feeling?”
The president’s voice is deep and sounds nothing like—
hands touch
caress
slick and
“Dazai?”
Blinking, sitting up unsteadily.
“What?”
“Easy,” Fukuzawa’s voice is rumbling, quiet and low. Not quite gentle, but mindful. The way one holds a glass trinket, light enough to avoid harm but tight enough to prevent it from falling.
Dazai sits up, head pounding, vision blurry, unsure of what to say.
“Here.”
A glass of water is thrust his way. He accepts warily, taking a few small sips.
“How do you feel?”
A trick question.
“I’m fine,” Dazai brushes the concern off despite not knowing how he got to the president’s office in the first place.
“Yosano-sensei said you collapsed in the infirmary. Have you eaten today?”
“Of course~”
Considering he does not actually know what day “today” is referring to, some skewed logic inside claims it cannot be misconstrued as a lie.
“You’re pale,” Fukuzawa frowns.
“I don’t get much sun!” The lies slides off his tongue a little too easily.
The president wants to protest, to push back, to provide this troubled young man with safety and support, to coddle with care and compassion. He wants to hold him like the child he still is and tell him things are going to be okay.
“Will you please join us for dinner tonight at Kunikida’s?” The president keeps his voice steady and stoic.
“Apologies. I have plans,” Dazai protests.
“I would like you to reschedule and attend dinner.”
A glare, harsh like direct sunlight, “Is that an order or a request?”
Exhaling, understanding, calm and collected, “We’re concerned about your health. We want to make sure you’re okay.”
Standing up a little too fast, ignoring the wave of dizziness, “Oh, I’m more than okay. I’m just dandy, thanks. And I’ll be taking my leave now.”
“Dazai—”
The boy stops in the doorway but does not turn around.
“We’re—” Fukuzawa takes another breath, “it’s alright if you don’t trust us right now. And I’m sorry if we haven’t created an environment where you feel safe. But please, try and take care of yourself.”
A musing hum, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Dazai leaves, but does not make it far. Kunikida corners him the moment he reaches his desk.
“Will you be joining us tonight?” Kunikida asks, cutting to the chase.
Dazai keeps his tone neutral, but throws on a smile, a dazzling one that can almost be seen as convincing.
“Raincheck. I have plans~”
“Tomorrow,” Kunikida declares. “We’re having lunch at the café tomorrow. Please join.”
Ignoring the itch to grumble and reply with a sarcastic jab, the smiling façade remains. “Sounds delightful!”
A sigh of something Dazai swears sounds too much like relief, “Good. Alright then. Tomorrow it is.”
“Tomorrow it is~”
--
Night. Alone. Dark.
It is dark.
Dazai’s apartment is dark.
Empty sake bottles litter the floor. Half eaten protein bars, an abandoned and nearly full cup of ramen. Half of a chocolate chip cookie. Piles of unwashed dishes, some painted in food, others barely touched, all stacked in the sink.
It is past midnight, but he does not know exactly when it is, only that it is late. That he should be asleep. That he has work today and today is already here and work is only a few hours away.
Moonbeams streak and trickle, shadowed by the overbearing bathroom light, the meagre remnants of illumination. Dazai stands in the doorway of the bathroom, wincing at the yellow light of its bulbs.
There is a scale on the floor.
He stares.
The one that has only recently been purchased and removed from the packaging.
The one placed at the center of the bathroom floor.
Dazai is naked.
Stripped bare of all except boxers. His fingers have found their way to his torso and hips, squeezing the excess of
fat fat fat fat fat fat
imperfection
vile
disgusting
repulsive
The scale is electric, fresh batteries recently applied.
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. He is not afraid.
Dazai Osamu is not afraid.
Dazai Osamu cannot be afraid.
Not for something as deserving as facing the consequences of his actions, his carelessness spawned from gluttony. The unattractive greed that has damaged the perfection that was once his body, replacing it with a defective sack of fat and flesh and bone and
The scale is cool to the touch against his bare feet. His toes feel nearly ticklish against the glass exterior.
Its light blares to life, a judgmental shade of blistering red, one that shames and demeans and
The numbers shift
and
and he sees
they
they go up.
They go up and up.
Not as high as they were during his physical at the agency, but higher than they should be, higher than he had expected.
He wants to die he wants to die he wants to die he wants to die he wants to
Breaking the scale will not make him thinner.
Fingers down throat, gagging up any remnants of caloric intake, forcing the mistakes of the past twelve hours towards riddance.
What comes up is liquid progress, but not enough.
Water floods the bathtub. When did he turn it on? Has it always been on? Had he ever turned it off?
Burning hot, boiling, steam seeping from the rippling surface, condensation painting the surfaces.
Red water. Red arms. Red stomach. Red thighs. Burning and itching screaming and
Ecstasy is a crime that Dazai has never had a qualm committing.
Inhale, exhale, sharp, deep. Another. Another. Another.
He needs it gone his body needs to be gone everything needs to be gone. This vessel, this unwanted host pretending to be human, disguised in absurd attempts at camouflage with its round stomach and widespread thighs and soft arms and pervasive attempts at normalcy.
Everything feels
It
It almost
It is not punishment, it is correction. It is teaching and fixing.
Pain distracts, a handy reminder that this is all his fault, that there is nobody but himself to blame for the ruin, for the harrowing crimes he has committed against his physical form.
He is disgusting.
He is disgusting.
He knows breaking the scale will not help, that he will just buy a new one.
It is slammed into the wall, shattered into thousands of shards anyways.
--
“This is ridiculous,” Kunikida huffed his complaints, muttering under his breath as Yosano and Ranpo chatted softly together on the agency couch. Fukuzawa, per usual, was holed up in his office, signing all shades of important letters and documents and the like. Ranpo nibbled on a chocolate bar. Yosano flipped uninterestedly through a medical textbook. Kunikida did his best to fill out his reports, completing his work as diligently as he could manage in spite of the knots twisting and taking up residence deep in his gut. “That idiot should have been here two hours ago.”
“You think he’s alright?” Yosano asked, tone reserved. “Maybe he isn’t feeling well.”
“He should have called out then!” Kunikida complained.
“Should we check on him?” Yosano directed her question Ranpo’s way.
In a way that was so very un-Ranpo-like, he hesitated.
“I don’t—”
The agency door flew open with a dramatic flair as the bandaged bastard in question bounded inside.
“Good morning my dear colleagues~” He trilled happily, “I’m sure you all missed me terribly!”
Kunikida marched up to his partner, stewing with irritation, “You were supposed to be here two hours ago! It’s nearly lunchtime!”
“My sincerest apologies, Kunikida-kun,” Dazai replied with a mocking bow, hand over his heart, “I was dedicating my time to a matter of prudence.”
Kunikida crossed his arms over his chest and tapped his foot as he awaited additional details. Dazai did not share them.
“What was so important that you neglected your duties here?” Kunikida eventually snapped when the eerie silence had become unbearable.
“Oh, you know~”
“Dazai?” Yosano spoke up, redirecting everyone’s attention her way, “Can I please see you in the infirmary?”
Disdain, irritation, annoyance, a blockage, a
“Of course~ Allons-y!”
Antiseptics and bleach and the wafting of an unscented candle greeted them upon entering the medical wing. Dazai stood in the center of the room, unspeaking.
“Take a seat,” Yosano offered.
“I’m alright standing!”
“Okay.” A pause. A breath. “How are you feeling today?”
“Fantastic!”
“You look pale.”
“I always look pale.”
“And tired.”
“I don’t know what to tell you sensei, this is just my face.”
She eyed him with concern, “I know you’re newer here, but we mean it when we say we want to make sure you’re alright. If you’re going through something—”
“Sensei,” Dazai interrupted, “you’re misreading the situation. I’m not ‘going through’ anything.”
Yosano continued, “I was speaking with the president yesterday after you went home. In light of yesterday’s events, we would like you to have meals with us over the next few days. Before we assign you to fieldwork.”
Dazai blinked emptily, “What?”
“Just lunch and dinner for the rest of the week. Once you have your strength back, we can talk about long-term alternatives—”
A furrowed brow, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“You collapsed yesterday because your blood sugar was low,” Yosano explained, shifting her position. She crossed her legs and clasped her hands together. “That’s what happens when you stop eating.”
“What are you assuming?”
“I’m not assuming,” Yosano clarified. “I can tell you’re struggling to take care of yourself right now.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily phrase it like that—”
“You’re not eating.”
Silence. Prolific.
“That’s not what’s happening,” Dazai tried unsuccessfully to convince her otherwise.
“You’ll join us for lunch at the café and dinner at the president’s. You don’t have to eat a lot if you’re not feeling well, but we do need you to make an effort.”
Dazai is
displeased.
Still, he slaps on a smile and flashes a big thumbs up, “Sounds like a plan!”
--
Ranpo, Yosano, Kunikida, and Dazai, at the café. They sit huddled in a booth towards the back of the space, Kunikida next to Dazai as Ranpo and Yosano sit next to each other. Soups, rice, dumplings, and noodle dishes crowd the table in a family-style meal.
Dazai has eaten one dumpling, two spoonfuls of soup, and three bites of noodles.
He wants to throw up. Can feel his stomach churning as the empty calories gather in his gut, growing, expanding, bloating, filling, indiscriminately ruining any chance of progress from the past week.
Ranpo eyes him in a way that fills him up further. With discomfort, with shame, with anxiety. Clenching his stomach and tightening his chest.
He knows he knows he knows he knows he knows they all know.
Yosano and Kunikida talk casually, sensible chatter about cases needing solving and summer events on the horizon. Ranpo occasionally shares his thoughts, but spends most of his time observing Dazai so blatantly, it teeters offensive. Like he is nothing but a lab rat dissected by clawing eyes sharp as scalpels. Breathing hurts.
He continues eating. Small bites. Reorganizing his plate. Flashing smiles at the right time, chuckling at the right jokes, adding commentary at the right gaps. Human mimicry is an art he has long since mastered. Yet, he finds himself feeling inept.
Craftily, his dish is rearranged in such a way that proves how much he has indeed consumed. Because they should believe him when he says he is full.
So full.
He ate so much. Too much.
He feels sick.
disgusting worthless wrong and and and and and
“Would you like a box for the rest?” The waitress asks, seemingly appearing out of nowhere.
No.
“Yes, thank you!”
Because if he says no means more ammo against him. If he says no, they grow more suspicious.
And more suspicion means more shared meals means monitored intake and
He needs to throw up.
He needs to throw up.
He needs to
--
Playing nice for two weeks has done nothing but make the number in his head climb. He has yet to buy a new scale after the previous debacle, but settles for alternative methods. The measuring tape is cool and slippery against his stomach and arms and thighs. The numbers recorded diligently in a notepad, though he could just as easily rely on his photographic memory to remind him of his ever-increasing waistline, of his endless failures, of
He cannot keep doing this.
Eating to keep others happy. To keep their suspicions at bay. To prove he is okay and fine and not a person worth worrying about. Sharing lunch and dinner and occasionally choking down the pastries he is given for breakfast.
His mind is screaming.
The pounding irritation in his head, throbbing.
The voice that refuses to be satisfied, it mocks.
You’ve let yourself go, it says. You’ve grown soft in all the worst ways.
You’re dependent. You have no self-control, no willpower.
Imagine if he were to see you now.
You know what he would say.
The numbers taunt and tease and grows blurry in his notebook as he stares and stares and stares at the red ink of his least-favorite pen. He uses the least-favorite to remind himself this is punishment, that he is bad, that he does not deserve good things. His breathing comes in hitches, in quick succession. Fingers shake, hands shake, body shakes.
He wants to leave.
Wants to rip off his skin.
Carve himself alive until he has been hollowed out, only bones remaining.
He cannot keep doing this.
“Osamu. A word.”
He enters.
The door is looming as it closes behind him with a deafening echo.
“What do you want, old man?”
“I would like to perform an examination on you.”
A confused frown, “My physical was like, a month ago.”
“And yet, you still haven’t managed to shed that baby fat?”
Oh. Fingers clench and jagged nails dig into sweaty palms. His fingers find their way up to his face, squeezing at the fat he has apparently been unable to lose.
“Why?” Mori asks.
He wonders if the question is rhetorical.
“Why what?” Dazai spits back, masking irritation with fake amusement.
“Did you listen when I told you to take your health more seriously?”
“I. I did. But. The slug got concerned. He said I wasn’t eating enough and then I got dizzy on the field and—”
“You got dizzy because you’re weak.” Authoritative with no room for argument.
“Yeah, because I wasn’t eating—”
Hot cheek, head snapping to the side, finger tips ghosting the outline of a palm on flesh that will likely bruise by tomorrow.
“You’re dependent. The more you rely on refined sugar and saturated fats, the greedier you become. You’re a glutton. Gluttony is a weakness you cannot afford. It can and will be exploited.”
Blinking, confused, anxious.
“But— Chūya, he eats too. He eats more than me! Doesn’t that mean he’s dependent too?”
“Our dear Chūya-kun works out. He eats, but he does not indulge the way you do. He does not stuff his face with junk and laze around doing nothing. He trains and his body evidences this. While yours,” a smirk, a gesture, “come here.”
He does not want to.
He does not want to.
He does not
“That’s it, right there.”
The windows are massive, overlooking the expanse of Yokohama in a sight that could be beautiful to someone else, or perhaps if he were somewhere else.
Long, thin fingers reach for his belt.
His zipper.
His
--
At the cemetery.
Dazai joined the agency under the guise of “becoming a good man.” He came to save the orphans, and be a man Oda would be proud of. Two years of hiding underground and the destruction of his past identity should prove he is more than committed to the cause.
Except he has not solved a single case or saved any orphans or done anything other than obsess obsess obsess obsess over his body and worry his coworkers who are probably already sick of him and cannot stand him and
“I think I’m failing you, Odasaku.” Voice quiet and scratchy and weak. “I don’t mean to.”
Eyes close, imagine the bar with the golden glow and warm hues and laughter coming from people who maybe, at one point in time, could be called his friends. Or at the very least, people who tolerated him.
He remembers how Ango would scold him for living off of junk food and alcohol, making him eat protein and vegetables. He thinks of the times Oda invited him over for the best curry he ever had eaten. Sometimes he wonders if it genuinely tasted as good as his memory claims, or if the cravings from starvation had been a consistent and reliable seasoning.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Sitting on the damp, muddy ground, hugging his knees to his chest, not caring about the dirt most definitely getting on his khaki pants and tan coat. When he first got the outfit, it felt like it swallowed him whole. Now, he has grown into it. It is still a bit large on him, his body gangly with the clothes a little loose, but not nearly as oversized as before. More evidence that his body is changing, that he is changing. The more he thinks about it, the worse he feels.
“I’m sorry.”
He rarely apologizes like this, genuine. Maybe it is only something he can only say to a tombstone.
No one ever told him the light would be this lonely.
--
Dazai does not show up to work for three days.
The first day, he calls out sick.
The second, he sends a text.
The third, he says nothing.
--
“Did he call any of you?” Kunikida asked Yosano and Ranpo.
“No,” Yosano shook her head. “And Haruno-chan said she hasn’t heard from him either.”
“Not even a text?” Kunikida scowled, masking fear with annoyance.
“Nope,” Yosano said with a sigh.
“Do you think he’s actually sick?” Kunikida asked. Yosano shrugged. Kunikida turned Ranpo’s way with pleading eyes, “Is he okay?”
Casually, Ranpo slid his glasses out from his pocket and placed them on his face. His eyes opened wide.
“This isn’t good.”
“What!?” Yosano and Kunikida pestered.
“Dazai, he’s—”
They were interrupted by the ringing of a phone.
Ranpo glanced down at his buzzing piece of technology. He picked up, “Yes, president?”
--
He wonders if his colleagues are worried. Annoyed by his absence. Glad to be getting work done without his distractions and stupid antics plaguing the office.
He expects a scolding from them, maybe some kind of demerit, if the agency even has a system for those. Maybe they will make one in his honor.
It is Wednesday and he can count on one hand the amount of individual items he has eaten since his gravesite trip on Sunday morning. The throbbing hunger pains in his stomach have become easy enough to ignore. His bandages are yellowing, soiled and unchanged, but there is no new or dried blood. He has been too exhausted to put any real effort into trying to die or hurting himself. Under the blanket on his futon, he feels sweaty and gross. His hygiene is not to be envied. Head pounding, breathing takes far too much effort. Everything hurts.
He does not expect a knock on his door.
“Dazaaaaaai!!!!!!” The knocking is insistent. “We have an emergency!!”
Equally, is he thrown off-guard by Ranpo’s know-it-all voice informing him about an emergency. It is almost enough of a shock to get his attention.
“Fine, we’re just going to have to come in with the spare key,” Yosano’s voice adds to the conversation.
“Hold on!” Dazai replies back with little enthusiasm. Through the power of brute force and irritation alone, Dazai drags himself up to a seated position. He sways as he stands, eventually making his way over to the door. He glances back at the cleanliness of the room which could be considered…somewhat acceptable.
Opening the door with a groggy yawn, “What’s going on?”
Dazai is not a sight for sore eyes. Bags under eyes, raggedy bandages, rumpled sweats, tussled greasy and knotted hair. Half of him thinks they might just fire him for how unpresentable he looks. The other half cannot be bothered to care.
Blinking blearily, it takes a moment to notice the unexpected item in Ranpo’s hands. Before he fully registers it, the large carrier is thrust into his arms, accompanied by a tiny little mew!
“What the—”
“Consider this your first official mission,” Yosano says authoritatively, as though the whole situation is perfectly sensical.
“Why are you putting a cat carrier in my arms?” Dazai blinks.
“So the cat doesn’t fall,” Ranpo huffs. “Isn’t it obvious!?”
Deadpan, “No.” A beat, “Why am I holding a cat? Is this some weird hazing ritual?”
Yosano laughs, amused, “Ranpo-san lives with Fukuzawa-sama and they take care of strays in their backyard.”
“And this involves me, how?”
Another little meow.
“This little guy is having trouble getting along with the others,” Yosano explains. “He hasn’t been eating his food and the other cats scare him. We think he needs some time away in a different environment, but the only shelter with space is a kill-shelter so that’s not an option.”
“I repeat: this involves me, how?”
With an eyeroll, Ranpo jumps in. “Obviously, Kunikida can’t take care of him. He’s allergic to cats in general and black cats are more likely to trigger allergies.”
“And I’m a doctor,” Yosano explains, “meaning I shouldn’t have animals in case I am treating a medical emergency and the patient has a severe allergy.”
“What about Haruno-chan?” Dazai questions skeptically.
“She already has a cat,” Yosano answers.
“Meaning, you’re the logical best choice to take care of this cat,” Ranpo grins.
Dazai blinks.
He has never owned a cat. Or any pet for that matter. Well, unless his “guard dog” in a silly hat counts.
“I uh. I don’t think I’m the best person for this?”
“It’ll only be for a couple of weeks,” Yosano instructs, “then we’ll try and rehome him or re-acclimate him to Fukuzawa-sama’s.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Nonsense,” Yosano beams, “Kunikida’s picking up some extra supplies now and will stop by in a little bit to drop them off. He also has some instructions for you to follow and will help you clean up the place to make it more cat-friendly.”
“Do I get a say in this?”
Ranpo and Yosano reply in unison, “No.”
With a sigh, Dazai turns the cat carrier sideways to get a better look of the animal inside. The cat is tiny, a black ball of floof with massive yellow eyes. They blink up at him owlishly.
“Yeah um. Okay. Sure. I uh. I guess I can watch him for a bit.”
“Great!” Yosano praises, “Kunikida will give you all the details when he comes by. See you later!”
The agents of chaos wave and run off before Dazai can protest further. He closes the door, bringing the cat carrier into the (shockingly) cleanest part of his apartment, the bathroom. He places it in the empty bathtub with a sigh before unzipping its opening.
“What do you think, little guy?” Trepidatious, the cat inches towards the carrier entrance. He sniffs the bathtub and looks around, wide-eyed and terrified, but also a little curious. Dazai holds out his hand, letting the little critter sniff him. Before he can take his hand away, the cat clumsily knocks his head into it. At first, Dazai assumes it is an accident, until the kitten starts rubbing his cheek against Dazai’s bandaged wrist.
Unexpectedly, he chuckles.
“You up for a roommate?”
--
“You can give him dry food and wet food following this cadence,” Kunikida handed Dazai a neatly color-coded graph explaining when the cat should get what. “The amounts are all listed there. Since he has been having trouble eating, I suggest you keep some dry food out for him to try at his own pace. Once he’s eating regularly, you can use the schedule. I would ordinarily suggest some type of an automatic feeder for consistency sake, but a little bit of responsibility never hurt anyone.”
“It does if it has claws and teeth,” Dazai scoffed as his bandaged wrist was being used as a chew toy.
“We don’t know how old he is, but we think he is quite young. Maybe two or three. You’ll use the remainder of this week to get used to your new duties and make sure the cat is well taken care of. Next week, you’ll return to the office, however it will be on an adjusted schedule to accommodate the cat’s needs.”
“Wait, wait, wait, hold up—” Dazai gaped, “Kunikida-kun agreed to let me skip work for a week?”
“You are not ‘skipping work’ you simply are doing a mission requiring out of office fieldwork. I expect you to take your job very seriously. A cat is a big responsibility. Especially the young ones.”
“Right.”
“Now,” Kunikida glanced around at the mildly cleaner but still chaotic apartment. He eyed Dazai’s clearly disheveled form. “I’ll begin tidying up while you go shower. I took my allergy medicine, but to be safe, I should only be around cats for a few hours. So please be thorough but do not take your time.”
“Kunikida-kun sounds like a worried mother hen!”
“Shower, now.”
For the first time in weeks, getting undressed did not feel like a death sentence or some form of acute punishment. Instead, he was distracted, too busy thinking about cat-proofing his apartment, wondering what the cat would be like if he was not so shy. Would he have a mischievous personality? Be cuddly and cute? What had his life been like before all of this?
Only a few minutes into the shower, and there was a weird sound at the door.
“Kunikida?”
A just barely audible meow.
“Don’t worry little guy, I’ll be right out!!”
He probably should have spent a little more time conditioning his hair, but could not bring himself to be concerned as he toweled off and threw on his clean(er) sweats. Opening the door, he was shocked to see a little black loaf seated right outside the door, disc eyes big and shaky.
“I think he missed you,” Kunikida hummed with a ghost of a smile. “He started scratching on the door.”
Dazai knelt down and pet the cat. Carefully, he picked him up, holding him tight in his arms. His body was filled with the indescribable sensation of the kitten’s purrs.
“Were you scared of being all alone with big old meanie Kuni?” Dazai asked the cat in a childish voice.
Kunikida pinched his brow, “You’re a chore.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Efficient as ever, Kunikida had done an impressive job cleaning up. The floor was no longer covered in trash, untouched food was thrown out, and his dishes were done.
“Where’s my futon?” Dazai asked, confused.
“It’s too old and dirty. Yosano-sensei will be dropping off a new one for you tonight along with a bed for the little one.”
“Oh.”
They stood for a moment, quiet until the little kitten began to wriggle. Dazai bent down, setting the cat free to scamper across the room and hide in a corner.
“Must be overstimulated,” Kunikida remarked.
“How did he—” Dazai paused, “Yosano-sensei said Ranpo-san and the president were taking care of him. Is he just a random stray?”
“He’s decently social with humans and already spayed and neutered, so we think he may have been abandoned by his previous owners.”
The thought made something in Dazai ache.
“The president found him on the side of the road next to the body of an older cat we suspect was his mother. We think she was—”
“An accident?”
A grave nod.
The kitten poked his head out from hiding behind a floor lamp. He wormed his way back to Dazai, rubbing his face against the bandaged ankle. Dazai bent down and began scratching him behind the ears, secretly cherishing the vibrations of the purring having returned.
“I guess you’re an orphan?” Dazai asked the cat. The cat squeaked in response.
“I’m glad to see you two are getting along so well,” Kunikida remarked, genuinely pleased. “Now, there is a very, very important task you must continue to do as you take care of the cat.”
“Ooookay?”
There was a knock at the door. Kunikida pushed his glasses higher on the brim of his nose, “Right on schedule.”
Dazai stayed with the cat so he would not run away while Kunikida opened the door, revealing the agency president.
“President?” Dazai’s tone lilted in confusion.
“I have groceries for you.”
Dazai blinked, “Wh—um, what?”
Kunikida and Fukuzawa paid Dazai’s confusion no mind as they began stocking his fridge and pantry.
“I know very well you don’t enjoy cooking,” Kunikida explained, “so Yosano-sensei made sure to include plenty of microwavable and easy stovetop items on the list. There are frozen vegetables which won’t go bad as long as they’re in the freezer. Some soup as well. And canned food—”
Dazai’s heart pattered faster, “You really don’t have to—”
“We do,” Kunikida retorted.
“No, no I um, this is too much trouble. Thank you but no—”
Fukuzawa put down the bag he was holding and approached Dazai. “Can I speak to you in the other room for a moment?”
Alone?
Fukuzawa wanted
he wanted to
he wanted
Close the door. Lock it. Come here.
Dazai would have to be alone with—
with him with a man with an older man who was bigger and stronger and
Strip.
His breathing sped up, chest constricting.
“I—”
“We can leave the door open, if that makes you more comfortable?”
Dazai blinked.
“Um.”
“And you’re welcome to bring the cat.”
You’re mine. You belong to me.
“Yes. Yeah. Okay,” Dazai stuttered. He scooped the cat up and brought him into the other room as he slowly followed the president.
“It’s alright to struggle,” Fukuzawa started, tone sturdy and kind. “And I’m not going to pretend I know what you’ve been through.” Dazai held the kitten closer to his chest. “But I want to let you know that we don’t hold these things against you. You’re allowed to have a difficult time adjusting.”
Was that what this was? Difficulty adjusting?
He never thought of it like that.
“But we need you to take care of yourself as much as you can.”
“I can work just fine—”
Fukuzawa held up a hand, signaling for him to take a pause. “Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you should.”
“So I shouldn’t work?”
Fukuzawa disregarded the joke, “Just because you can work yourself until the point of physical exhaustion doesn’t mean you should.”
“But that’s how you get results.”
You’re not trying hard enough.
If you were trying harder, you would be thinner.
If you were trying harder, you would be stronger.
If you were trying harder, you would—
“No,” Fukuzawa shook his head non-judgmentally, “it’s not.”
Dazai focused on the softness of the cat’s plush fur, trying not to float away from the moment in a dissociative haze.
“It will take time to unlearn the habits that have been drilled into you. But please know, we will be here every step of the way to help you out. You are not alone.”
The cat meowed, as if in agreement. Dazai looked away, anxious and uncomfortable and
The sound of his front door opening.
“Party’s here!!” Ranpo’s voice rang out through the dorm.
“What?” Dazai narrowed his eyes.
Fukuzawa offered a slight smile, “We thought it would be nice to do some agency bonding with you on the cat’s first night here. Apologies for inviting us into your home without your permission.”
“Oh that’s uh—” Dazai looked around, eyes drifting towards the other room where Yosano and Ranpo had begun setting the rarely used table.
“I’m thinking veggie fried rice and crab?” Yosano proposed. “Do you like crab, Dazai?”
A beat.
A breath.
A shift.
An exhale.
“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
--
The last time Dazai enjoyed having dinner with others was most likely the last time he, Ango, and Oda ate curry together. Though he could not say he was enjoying being bullied into eating by the agency, it was nice in a way. It made him feel warm when his hesitation to eat was met with warm smiles of encouragement, rather than worry. Nobody pointed out how much or how little he ate. They merely let him sit, kitten on his lap, and eat at his own pace.
For the first time since Dazai joined, the group of them talked. They laughed at Yosano’s embarrassing stories about Kunikida, Ranpo’s embarrassing stories about Yosano, and the president’s embarrassing stories about Ranpo. Kunikida was too embarrassed to share stories about anyone else. They talked through cases they expected to look into in the coming weeks as well as interesting (often stupid, in Ranpo’s not so humble opinion) asks they had received from the local police. Dazai’s plate was still a bit more than half-full by the time they finished up, but nobody pushed. Yosano simply began packing up the leftovers as Kunikida cleared the table and Ranpo tried to teach the cat how to give him a high-five.
With the space cleaned, bodies fed, and a sleepy kitty cat, Ranpo, Yosano, Kunikida, and the president offered a “Bye!” and “I’ll give you a call tomorrow” and “Do not forget to feed the cat and clean the litter box” and “Take care, Dazai” respectively.
Dazai waved as they exited his apartment. He let out a sigh as he eyed the kitten curled up and asleep on his new futon.
If he was going to throw up, this was the time to do it.
Fists clenched. Chest tight.
Do it.
He shook.
Closed his eyes and counted to five.
The urge was still there. He opened his eyes and turned to look at the bathroom. He took a step—
“OH MY GOD!”
Dazai nearly fell on his face at the sound of the yelling and pounding on his front door. Snapping out of his daze, he leapt towards the commotion.
He swung the door open, “Is everything ok—”
“NO!” Ranpo shouted, unexpectedly animated, “We forgot!!!”
“Forgot…?”
“A critical part of the mission,” Kunikida said gravely.
Yosano nodded, crossing her arms.
Dazai prompted them to continue, “The ‘critical part’ which is…?”
“You have to give him a name!” Yosano instructed with a wide grin.
“Hasn’t the president already done that?” Dazai’s brow furrowed as he looked down the hall, “Where did he—”
“He had to take care of something,” Ranpo said in a tone that could only be described as impishly suspicious.
“Besides, I’m sure you’ll pick a great name,” Yosano added.
Dazai blinked. He looked back over his shoulder, peeking at the kitten sleeping peacefully.
“We could just call him Cat.”
The other three detectives shot him unamused expressions.
“Come on, you can do better than that,” Ranpo whined.
“I’ve,” he hesitated, “I’ve never named a pet before.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Kunikida offered.
You don’t deserve this.
You don’t deserve them.
You’re wasting their time.
You should just—
“Saku.” Dazai smiled, a small one the agency had yet to see. The corners of his mouth quirked the tiniest bit upwards, eyes softening, something that could almost be called a spark twinkling in them. Saku woke up from his nap with a yawn, padding over to the group. Dazai scooped him before he could try and escape.
Kunikida nodded approvingly. Ranpo flashed a thumbs up. Yosano pet Saku’s head.
She locked eyes with Dazai. Eyes that had once seemed pitch black looked nearly golden in the soft rays of sunset that drifted through the blinds. She offered him her own small, kind smile.
“Welcome to the agency, Saku.”