Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The moment Dazai waltzed his spindly form into the ADA’s office, Kunikida knew that today would be different. Of course, he was accustomed to Dazai’s daily antics and provocations – but he had a sinking feeling that today would not be that. Dazai shut the door behind him silently, whirling around with inhuman speed to lock eyes with Kunikida. A disturbing aura radiated from him as he slithered toward Kunikida’s desk, sending an involuntary shiver down the man’s spine.

Kunikida, realizing that he was about to be completely derailed from his carefully crafted schedule, nearly broke his neck from the sheer speed with which he looked down at his watch. Disturbingly, Dazai had arrived earlier than Kunikida had ever witnessed. For someone who had never clocked in to work before one o’clock in the afternoon, arriving at eight in the morning was a miraculous anomaly. 

Dazai was clad in his normal getup—his signature tan coat layered over an ill-fitting vest, a white button-up, a bolo tie fixed lopsidedly around his collar, and bandages enveloping his wrist and neck. But his right arm, normally wrapped with obsessive precision, was left bare, the omission jarring enough to make Kunikida glance twice. 

As if that weren’t off-putting enough, he came armed with accessories. A large black backpack looped over his shoulders, an absurd number of fanny packs fastened around his torso and hips, and a comically large headlamp strapped around his head. 

“KUUUUU-NIIIII-KIIIIIII-DAAAAA,” he screeched in a sickening, sing-songy lilt. 

Kunikida rose slowly from his desk chair, unsure if he was prepared to wring Dazai’s neck this early in the day.

“Shut up, you useless pile of bandages. We just managed to get Ranpo to sleep. He broke into the emergency sugar reserves—the ones we set aside after the last incident. He’s been wired for 52 hours. I had to play Monopoly with him just to keep him from leaving the office—six hours of calculated financial ruin at the hands of a sugar-crazed genius. 

Do you know what that does to a man?” 

He sputtered, slamming his hand against the solid oak of his desk. “Have you ever played Monopoly with him? Thirty-five minutes in, and I’d lost every property. Somehow, I gambled away my car, and the game still dragged on for six hours,” he spat, almost maniacally.

Dazai stood before the rulebook-on-legs, seemingly weighing his next action. He flicked the headlamp on, sending a seventy-watt beam of light straight into Kunikida’s retinas. He groaned, throwing up a hand to shield himself.

“My good man, your commoner’s plight is of no concern to me. Notice my elegant and abundant adornments—” he posed dramatically, hand lazily draped over his forehead. 

Suddenly, his tone shifted, sing-song giving way to something sharp, cold, and deliberate. 

“What day is today?”

Kunikida, still reeling from the attack on his vision, slowly sank back into his desk chair, wary of making any sudden movements. He begrudgingly turned to face his imbecile of a partner. 

“Tuesday. Shouldn’t you be finding an oil drum to die in?”

“I’m going to scream and wake Ranpo if you don’t answer correctly this time, Kuuuniiikiidaaa,” he cooed, voice turned smooth and lilted just as quickly as it flattened a moment before.

The blond detective sighed, breath catching in his throat once he was met with a closer look at Dazai. Eyes bloodshot and blinking wildly, darting between Kunikida and the wall behind him. Chestnut hair ruffled in a way only Atsushi’s barber could achieve. His entire body vibrated with…excitement? Frustration? Cocaine-induced mania? Kunikida couldn’t be sure—he clutched his notebook, fingernails leaving dents in the worn leather. He had to be prepared to defend himself the second Dazai twitched in his direction. 

“Don’t you DARE,” Kunikida started, feigning composure by folding his hands into his lap. “What day is it, Dazai?” he sighed, doing his best to sound disinterested, not as if he was about to leap from the nearest window to escape his partner’s intense gaze.

The older detective froze, his expression inscrutable but still commanding Kunikida’s full attention. Resting a rigid, lifeless hand on the desk, he bent slowly at the waist, his movements too measured and deliberate until his eyeline leveled with Kunikida’s.

“Doppo. He’s been calling out to me. I can’t resist it any longer,” he stated, completely deadpan, his eyes hollow and eerily fixed.

No one else even looked up. 

The only thing anyone had noticed was Dazai arriving early, which was unsettling enough. After that, they paid no mind. Chairs flying, shouting obscenities, Kunikida’s sanity unraveling—it was all just the regular background noise of working with Dazai. Only Kunikida seemed to grasp the true horror of what was unfolding, and his comrades’ indifference left him feeling utterly alone.

The use of his first name snagged in Kunikida’s mind, strange and wrong—but not half as chilling as the implication of Dazai’s words. At least now he knew what must be done.

He immediately shot out of his chair, the force sending it flying backward into Atsushi’s. His notebook clattered onto the glossy tile floor of the office. The boy yelped, nearly toppling forward onto his desk. Kyouka, who had pulled a chair up beside Atsushi’s desk to work with him, let out the faintest laugh—soft but unmistakable. Kunikida, barely noticing the assault his desk chair just inflicted on Atsushi, snatched up his fallen notebook with shaking hands.

“Wait here. I’ll call Yosano-sensei in and inform the president.”

The ponytail-bearing detective turned on his heel and began booking it down the hall to Fukuzawa’s office, leaving Dazai and his black hole eyes in the main room.

His hands shook, his joints creaking, his heart hammering with each frenzied step. The normally pleasant breeze of the office’s air conditioning felt hostile against his skin. Every part of him felt rigid, and he found himself fighting the urge to hyperventilate. He forced himself to stop once he reached the office door, unable to muster the dignity to pull himself together before entering.

Fukuzawa was sitting at his desk, peacefully constructing a LEGO bonsai tree, as if the world beyond his desk were not collapsing.

“President,” he stammered breathlessly, gritting his teeth until they creaked. “President, it’s Crab Day. Please, help me locate Yosano-sensei. We are all sure to suffer if she’s not found and brought to Dazai soon.”

Usually the epitome of tranquility, Fukuzawa’s reaction only motivated Kunikida’s knees to nearly give out under him. 

The president audibly gasped, color draining from his face. He swept the LEGOs off his desk with a smooth, measured swing of his arm, causing them to clatter haphazardly to the floor. Eyes widened with concern, he nodded curtly and reached for his Nokia, which was nestled in a sunflower bowl (crocheted—albeit poorly—by Kyouka) at the end of his desk. 

Kunikida, now having taken a seat in the chair across from the president’s desk, watched as Fukuzawa punched Yosano’s phone number into the Nokia with great fervor. Neither man could bring themselves to breathe as the dial tone rang out, echoing into the deafening silence of the room.

The line clicked.

“You have reached the voicemail box of [Yosano Akiko]. No one is available to take your call. At the tone, please record your message.”

Kunikida had endured countless threats during his time at the agency. Robberies, murders, the constant, looming threat of Yokohama’s destruction, assassination attempts from the Port Mafia—nothing had shaken him like this. He slowly lifted his green eyes to meet Fukuzawa’s, fighting back the sting of tears welling in them. The agency president appeared listless, with eyes glazed over and hair that had somehow turned greyer.

“President—” Kunikida tested in the softest whisper he could muster, “where could Yosano-sensei possibly be right now?”

“We must summon Ranpo.”

Chapter Text

Ninety-six hours had passed since he last knew sleep, let alone the familiar walls of the detective agency office. He rarely used the cramped dorm now, most nights finding himself tangled in Chuuya’s lavish, overpriced bedsheets. The warm night air drifting in might have felt nice, if only he could feel his face. 

He also could not, to save his life, remember how to close the window.

Empty bottles of sake and magazines littered the dingy floor of his domicile. The only light permitted in his space was that which bled in from the moon and streetlamps outside. His phone, long dead and abandoned on the bathroom tile, guaranteed his solitude. 

Lying limply on his futon, Dazai stared at a worn photo of him, Odasaku, and Ango, its edges frayed and softened by age. Their expressions held a fragile peace, delicate but unsteady. At night, the silence was palpable. The soft hum of the fridge he’d recently plugged back in, its motor stirring to life again after long months of disuse, carried on its purpose, obvious to him if to no one else.

Unfortunately for Dazai, he had been unable to enjoy the tranquility that nighttime afforded him, not since it started. A memory, his voice—needling at the edges of his mind. He tried to shake it off, drown it in drink, but the thought always circled its way back. 

He peeled himself from the futon, head hanging heavily as if loaded with wet sand. Stumbling his way toward the open window proved perilous—he hadn’t been this drunk since Odasaku was taken from him.

A rogue sake bottle dripped into the cracks of the old floorboards, its betrayal sudden and sharp as he tripped over it. His lanky form thudded unceremoniously back onto the floor. He debated vomiting, but the logistics felt exhausting. Lying still was easier. If he stayed down long enough, the floor might claim him for good, a fittingly efficient end.

Finally, he hauled himself up again, this time allowing his palm to skim the wall for stability. He blinked hard, lids heavy and raw from exhaustion. 

Relief washed over him as the breeze caressed his face, easing the nausea bubbling in his throat. He leaned heavily on the sill, head sagging out to better drink in the air. A fall from this height wouldn’t be glamorous, but it promised peace that sleep could never match.

Chuuya would absolutely not approve, which proved reason enough to hesitate. He could picture the scowl, the hands on his hips—splattering on the pavement paled in comparison to a tirade from Yokohama’s smallest, loudest headache. He felt it was decidedly safer to let his thoughts wander to the cityscape instead. 

Gaze settling on the city port, he remembered the sting of cold as he lay in his futon inside the shipping container. His fingers traced over the faded matchbox he always pocketed, the motion mindless. Oda’s laugh came to mind—the warmth in his voice, the way he carried himself. His thoughts turned to Ango, and Dazai wondered if he was sitting at Lupin alone, as he so often had on nights like this.

Lupin. The thought of it alone tumbled into the memory of meeting him there.

The small bar sat in its usual quiet reserve. Rain beat a steady rhythm into the roof, leaking in through the ceiling to drip onto the mahogany counter. The warm, low lights buzzed faintly, enveloping the room in comfortable shadow. Dazai sat alone at the counter, long returned from investigating the Mimic case with Oda. His finger circled the smooth rim of the glass–the round ball of ice inside was already half melted, leaving water where whiskey had once been. His eyes lingered on the water-stained wood. 

As much as he longed for the return of Oda’s company, Dazai couldn’t find a reason compelling enough to call him. He toyed with excuses to coax Oda from his orphans, but conceded as each sounded more pathetic than the last. Besides, Oda would see straight through him, and Dazai wasn’t sure he could stand being read that easily.

He hardly stirred when a man appeared in the doorway, dripping so heavily it looked like he’d swum there, then shuffled toward the bar.

“Terrible fucking weather we’re having, isn’t it?” the man barked in a brash, hearty voice. A lopsided grin spread across his face as he wiped droplets from his forehead. 

Dazai hummed a quiet, indifferent reply. The man’s damp frame loomed too close, carrying with him the faint aroma of seafood.

Joe shrugged off his raincoat and draped it over the empty stool beside him. Now, having shed a layer, his bulk became obvious—broad, rounded shoulders and chest like a barrel. His balding head glistened under the tungsten lighting, accentuating the deep laugh lines worn into his face. Everything about him spoke of years dedicated to grunt work, the skin over his knuckles thick with calluses and pale tan lines peeking from under his stained sleeve.

“What’s a kid like you doing holed up in a lonesome dive like this?”

The mafioso cocked his head toward Joe, eyebrow twitching slightly. Drawing on years of Mori’s tutelage, he stifled the annoyance flickering in his chest and met Joe’s eyes with a stony, inscrutable glare. He discreetly slid a hand into the leather of his coat pocket, fingers brushing over the familiar grip of the pistol inside. The lot of it—pistol, leather, and habit alike—an unwanted inheritance from Mori. 

Joe narrowed his gaze, deepening the creases at their edges, determined to make conversation.

“Come on, humor an old man, would ya? Just got off shift, and damn, what a day. First month at my brand-new spot right outside Yokohama, and this storm rolls in outta nowhere, lights flickering, half the place flooding, customers shouting at me like I control the weather. Thought I was gonna lose my head tryin’ to keep it all together. I’ve never seen so many—”

“If you intend to keep prattling on like this, kindly let me know now,” Dazai muttered in a low, gravelly tone. 

“Prattling, huh? If this is prattling, wait ‘til I’ve had a couple beers. Speaking of drinks—what’s yours?” Joe flicked his hand, summoning the barkeep.  

“Not drinking,” he said curtly, though the flush in his gaunt face and the drained glass still slack in his hand spoke otherwise. 

“Not drinking, my ass. Kid, I’ve seen fish lie more convincingly.” He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly before asking, “Barkeep—a Sapporo for me and the same again for him.”

His unbandaged eye now fixed on the man, Dazai's hand tightened around the grip of his gun as he shifted, tense in his seat. He had no reason to linger, to subject himself to the stranger’s droning. For all he knew, the man could have been a spy—an enemy of the Port Mafia that Dazai would be better off luring outside and vanquishing in an alley.

Unfortunately, Mori had drilled into him the value of diplomacy, a harsh lesson delivered in ways only Mori could devise. He’d been taught that efficiency mattered above all else—every action deliberate and purposeful, every cruelty economical. Anyway, the Port Mafia’s reach touched every part of Yokohama; he didn’t need to waste his time. Mori would call it strategy. Dazai called it not caring, which, in practice, was close enough.

Setting his glass on the counter soundlessly, Dazai began to rise from his seat. Joe gently laid a textured, sun-reddened hand on the brunette’s shoulder.

“Hold on there—you still got another drink comin’.”

He flashed a crooked smirk in earnest.

“I’m Joe. ​And you? Or do you prefer sittin’ there lookin’ mysterious?” 

As his senses trickled back, Dazai told himself it was nothing—just a scrap of memory refusing to burn away. Even so, each night it pressed harder than the last, whispering, insisting. 

By morning, he knew it wasn’t a matter of if he gave in, but when. 

Wisps of morning light crept further into the room, an indicator of time’s unrelenting forward march that mocked his hollow dissociation. The ceiling, no more interesting than it had been for hours, finally drove him to rub the bleariness from his eyes. Every muscle in his body shivered—courtesy of a sinister cocktail of borderline malnutrition, incessant hangover, and lack of sleep.

Finally having reached a passable degree of sobriety, Dazai lifted gracelessly from his futon. Darkness bled into the edges of his vision as he stood, skull throbbing viciously while the room tilted around him. His stomach lurched, prompting his legs to carry him toward the bathroom before he’d had any say in the matter.

After a miserable ten minutes, the dry heaving subsided. Drained—but finally able to breathe—he eased back from the toilet to rest against the cool ceramic of the shower’s edge. Once able to force his head upright, the glimmer of fluorescent light bouncing off his phone’s fractured screen caught his eye, slumped on the tile like it had given up too.

Reluctant to move from his post by the shower, Dazai sluggishly raised a gangly leg over the phone, dragging it toward him with his heel. Once in his grasp, he tested the power button, letting his head thud back against the slab behind him when it refused to wake. Mustering the little strength left in his body, he staggered upright, stamping the floor to chase the pins and needles from his feet. He shuffled to his desk and plugged the device in, dropping it onto the marred wood—discarded like one of Chuuya’s cigarette butts. Unwilling to be confronted with the certainty of missed calls and texts, he turned to seek refuge in a hot shower. 

The shower handle squeaked as he turned it, sputtering before settling into a steady stream. He shed his sleepclothes and went to work unraveling the bandages that bound him, more out of ritual than necessity. As the weak stream trickled over him, Dazai hoped the—unfortunately lukewarm—spray would wash away the stink of sake, maybe even smother the craving Joe had left festering in him.

Just as it began, the water sputtered to a stop—once again leaving Dazai at the mercy of silence, broken only by the swishing of his toothbrush. What a shame to be alive, as he stood there nude, dismal, only his head and chest wetted by the sorry stream. He stepped out, running a towel across his hair as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes blinked too fast, hair sticking in damp tufts, his face bearing a sickly pallor. He tilted his head—left, then right—studying the stranger in the glass, before smirking faintly as if the joke were on him.

The muted buzz of his revived phone saved him from finishing the thought. As expected, several missed calls and texts clamored for attention, most from Chuuya. 

~ You’re not gonna believe what your little scourge Akutagawa said to me just now. I’ll tell u about it at home

~ Ane-san brought me a silk scarf from Kyoto. Don’t laugh but it actually suits me

~ Did you know Hirostu has a pet turtle?? 

~ Its name is Kiko

~ Where the hell are u? It’s late. Leaving the window unlocked. Don’t break ur neck climbing up the fire escape

~ Answer your damn phone

~ If you’re dead in a ditch somewhere I’m not dragging u out

Reading as he sat down in the desk chair, he rewrapped himself with new bandages, lacking his usual meticulous intent. As fond as he was of Chuuya—and of provoking his temper— it was never satisfying to be seen in such a state if it could be avoided.

— I answered. See? Alive and well. Buuuut a tongue-lashing from you might still kill meeeee, fingers crossed

~ Stupid Mackerel 

~ I called u five times and I haven’t actually seen u since Thursday. You’ve been dodging me since then and now you’re texting me back at 7:30am when I usually can’t get a response until AT LEAST 10

— And each one made my little heart flutter

— Consider me wooed 

~ Cut the crap asshole where are u?

— Here, irritating you, as is my solemn duty

~ Think you’re cute huh? Seriously where are you so I can go work with a clear head

— Omw to the office 

— I’ve turned over a new leaf to become the most dedicated, strikingly handsome, hardworking detective the agency has ever known

~ Bullshit. Yosano told me you haven’t shown up to work for days now

— Exactly. It’s a difficult job keeping Kunikida and company on their toes

— Thankfully shock and awe is my specialty. I would hate to deprive them of my shining presence

Suddenly reinvigorated by the reminder of his mission, Dazai quickly finished rebandaging and clothed himself in his everyday attire. Pocketing his beloved matchbox, he rifled through his small closet for anything that might suit his purpose. He settled on a large black backpack, several fanny packs—unflattering, but useful gifts from one of Kenji’s ill-fated bulk purchases—and a headlamp, one of Chuuya’s measures to keep him from ending up crumpled beneath the fire escape. 

Mind suspended, clouded in the wilderness of thought, Dazai flinched as the spry chime of his phone pinged.

~ U sound really off

~ Just come over I have some time before Mori needs me anywhere  

— Tempting, but no. Later

— After

~ Tf does that mean?

…

~ Osamu?

Dazai thought it wiser to leave things there—leaving Chuuya confused was preferable over lighting his fuse and walking away, at the very least sparing himself the damage control he would inevitably have to perform. Slipping the still battery-depleted phone into his pocket, the detective looped the empty backpack over his shoulders. The plastic clasps of the fanny packs dug into his ribs as he clumsily strapped them over his frame. 

He swept one last glance over the modest dormitory, checking for latched windows, shadows in their proper place, nothing left unsecured—old stains of Mori’s tact seeping out against his will. The photo, now laid facedown on his desk, trapped his gaze longer than he noticed. 

He pulled the door shut, imagining his time there would permit him to leave his ills behind, futile as it was. Something inside him ached, reminded of Mori’s disdain for childish ideals.

Halfway down the creaking, narrow steps to ground level, he noticed the foreign brush of air on his right arm. Slowing his pace, he ogled at the pale, unbandaged skin for a long moment, then let the omission stand. It hardly mattered now.

Overcast skies loomed above, rainclouds making good on their threat to spill over the city. Echoes of Joe’s promise swathed him in a trance. Yokohama could have fallen to ruin around him, and he would not have stirred. He tried to anchor himself in the faint sting of petrichor in his nostrils, the tack of damp clothing on his skin— but still, the craving gnawed at him like a second pulse with each step toward the agency.

By the time he reached the outer door, the tremor in his hands returned. He forced them still against the frame before slipping inside, footsteps quiet against the mossy green tile. The headlamp nestled in his backpack seemed to beckon him. Dazai obliged, strapping it on.

Instead of heading straight for the main office, he turned down the hall toward Yosano’s room, finding it devastatingly empty. 

Her absence rang inside him, and, for a moment, the air felt too thin to breathe.

He shut the door, wide-eyed and twitching with frustration. Realizing the solution to his dilemma, a strange calm settled in place of aggravation. 

He spun back into the hall, darting toward the main office. Kunikida would have answers.

Mad dash melting into a gentle waltz, he entered.

Chapter Text

Kunikida’s abandoned desk chair spun lazily with the force of his hasty departure. Silence clung to the office in his absence, each detective left to their own interpretation of what just unfolded before them. Junichirō, unwilling to involve himself, swiveled toward the window and feigned interest in the passersby outside. Kenji, assuming the panic was born of Dazai’s usual antics, beamed blissfully, untouched by the tension gripping the room. The young farmer stood, traipsing out of the office in search of something to eat. 

Atsushi and Kyouka stood frozen, wide-eyed, exchanging frantic glances—a wordless exchange of shock and disbelief. 

Dazai registered the unnatural quiet first, then the gawks boring into the back of his head. The unease emanating from his young peers was enough to remind him—yes, best to smile now. So he forced a practiced grin into bloom, hoping it was enough to settle them. Pivoting on his heel theatrically, he spread his arms in a showman’s flourish.

“At-suuu-shi! You’ll have to excuse Kunikida’s rude behavior; clearly, he was rattled by my new fashion choices. Tragic, really, how one man’s headlamp can invoke such distress. I wasn’t aware that flinging chairs at his fellow detectives was on today’s plann—”

“Dazai-san…I’m not sure what you did, but it was enough to make Kunikida-san run from his work,” Atsushi mumbled nervously, one hand fidgeting with the ends of his bangs.

Kyouka rose—still stifling a giggle—discreetly pushing her chair into the side of the desk, now unobtrusive. 

She glided to Atsushi, raising a small hand to pat the top of his head. “It wasn’t the work that he was running from…right, Dazai-san?”

He allowed his arms to drop to his sides, forcing his expression into something approaching ordinary. Getting to a phone was his main priority—placating the kids was a secondary concern at best. The nauseating spin of the room only bolstered his urgency.

“Of course not, Kyouka-chan! How could I be so blind—who could stand in the presence of my radiance for long? Any mortal would simply wilt at a glance.”

“Strange. I don’t feel wilty at all.”

Atsushi’s lips shaping into a little ‘o’, he clasped a hand over his mouth and turned in his chair to conceal a giggle.

Uncharacteristic as it was, Dazai was distracted. His eyes tracked Kunikida and Fukuzawa as they slipped into the conference room where the self-proclaimed office oracle slumbered.

Ranpo did not wish to be summoned.

Remnants of a calamitous Monopoly game littered the stretch of the conference room table: dice, toppled hotels, and a scatter of mauled snack wrappers. Sunlight bled in through the edges of the tightly drawn window shades, casting an eerie shadow over Ranpo. Several chairs stood in a row, lined with throw pillows from the agency’s lobby couch—a makeshift bed of his own creation.

He did not take kindly to being roused—even by Fukuzawa’s inoffensive hand at his shoulder. Jade-colored eyes snapped open as his head lifted from its rest on the cushioned chair. He turned instinctively and bit the swordsman’s hand, never breaking eye contact.

Lids fluttering closed, he sighed deeply, barely tolerating the gesture. This, he reminded himself, was a mild reaction compared to Ranpo’s earlier years.

Out in the main office, Dazai strained to hear the muffled sounds from behind the conference room door over ceaseless, nervous rambling. Atsushi, ever the supportive (and oblivious) comrade, was insistent that he just had to see Kyouka’s amazing drawings of her favorite places in Yokohama. Truth be told, the girl’s slight fidgeting and the hue of her cheeks made it clear she was more mortified than proud of her work.

Better to keep the children pacified, he thought as his pupil laid the papers on his desk. 

Nod here. Say “mhm.” Blink. Nod again, slower this time.

The rhythm was easy enough to carry on as he rifled through a mental list of at least ten different schemes forming behind that goddamn door. Each possibility ended with more trouble than he was willing to address civilly. Nod. Say “ah,” this time. Blink. They were obviously talking about him. With Kunikida prophesying the end of days and the president pressing the point, Ranpo must have pieced it all together by now. Blink. Nod again. Where would Yosano be right now? Holiday. No—Tuesday. She hates Tuesdays. She’d never choose today. A rain-dampened sleeve brushing against his unbandaged wrist made him shiver. He should have left after Kunikida bolted. Would she be at her apartment? Or the market? Or— 

“…zai-san? Maybe you should have a seat. You’ve been nodding at Kyouka’s sketch of the Ferris wheel for a little while now…and you haven’t blinked the whole time.” 

Fuck. 

His thoughts jammed to a stop, leaving him face-to-face with reality again. 

Before Dazai’s next play came to mind, Atsushi’s face suddenly loosened, shifting from uncertainty to near-joy. 

“I know! We could all take a break to visit the café! They just started serving seasonal parfaits—”

“I want hot cocoa. Good idea, Atsushi,” Kyouka blurted. 

“Oh…uh…okay! The parfaits can always wai—”

“My star pupil blossoms into a sapling before my eyes! Light us the way forward!” He chimed impatiently, laying both hands on Atsushi’s shoulders from behind to steer him toward the door. Humming cheerfully as he wheeled the boy out, Dazai plotted his departure.

Once the opportunity presented itself, Kyouka seized it, quickly gathering and hiding the drawings out of sight.

After an uncomfortably long stretch, Ranpo relented, releasing the man from both murderous scowl and maw. 

Fukuzawa drifted away, settling at his usual place at the head of the table—hands folded with his intrinsic poise. Kunikida, still tottering on restless legs, was unable to hide his agitation despite his best effort to appear calm. He paced the room, searching for anything to occupy himself with; restoring the scattered chairs to their rightful posts at the table kept him busy enough.

“Ranpo, we need your assessment on a…sensitive matter concerning Dazai-san. He urgently wants to see Yosano-sensei—unfortunately, she is out of the office and has chosen to decline phone calls. Kunikida-san believes that you may have a way to reach his old partner. Is that true?”

“You guys woke me up because Dazai’s being Dazai? Uh-uh. That’s your problem—” he swirled a finger in a lazy circle, “—not mine. Yosano told me not to be a snitch—and I’m not crossing her for free. Just slip him one of her mystery pills; she keeps them in her leftmost cabinet. And don’t ask me to do it, after I got him last time, he’ll see me coming from a kilometer away.”

Fluffing his pillow, he flopped back onto the not-bed, dramatically flying his legs in the air.

“With that, the great and powerful Ranpo has earned another nap! Wake me when Dazai finally combusts.” 

Kunikida felt an ache bloom in his jaw from gritting his teeth. That last jab was enough to make him bubble over. His eye twitched. He stomped toward the brat, snatching pillows out from under him. 

“Hey! Bad dog! NO! Does destroying my nest make you feel good after I destroyed you in Monopoly?” 

“I don’t have time for your ridiculous blabbering. If we can’t get a hold of Yosano-sensei, we need you to call Nakahara-san. And give me that pillow—I’ll bring it back to where it belongs in the lobby.”

“You lost Boardwalk in ten minutes flat,” Ranpo deadpanned. “The pillow is much safer with me.”

Kunikida leaped into action. The pillow never stood a chance. The pair yanked from both ends, neither willing to let go. Losing his grip as it tore open, Kunikida flew backward with a yelp, stumbling into the whiteboard. 

“Honestly, your little notebook has more backbone than you!”

He sprang up from the floor, ready to strangle Ranpo, when an idea struck. Without a moment’s notice, he pitched toward the windows, triumphantly throwing the shades open. 

Golden light incessantly washed over the room—Ranpo shrieked, recoiling like a vampire in the daylight.

Cutting the chaos short, Fukuzawa stepped between Ranpo and the offending sunlight. One piercing look froze the room.

Once sure he was recovered from the solar assault, the president studied the boy, noting the scrunch of his nose and hand massaging the back of his neck—both born of a sugar-induced headache. With a small, almost imperceptible motion, he produced two small painkiller pills from his silky sleeve and placed them on the table within Ranpo’s reach. 

Ranpo squinted at them for a moment, assessing. His mind was still shedding the rust of oversleep. 

“...Aleve…from the sleeve. …indeed,” he muttered, then popped them into his mouth, swallowing dry and stealing a glance at Fukuzawa. The faint twitch of his brow and slight downturn of his lips spoke for themselves.

“You’re worried?”

“Take a look for yourself,” Fukuzawa motioned a steady hand toward the window that lent a view of the main office.

Now fully awake, Ranpo sighed, long and loud, as though billing them for every second of inconvenience. By some miracle, Kunikida managed to refrain from hurling a chair.

“Fiiiiine,” he groaned, “but if it’s something stupid, you’re not gonna hear the end of it from me for a whole week.”

The green-eyed nuisance dragged himself up from his ravaged table-bed, taking care to appear as bothered as possible to his fellow detectives. Lethargically shambling to the window, he plucked open a space in the blinds, his focus falling onto the rigid, worn creature dressed as Dazai as it trailed Atsushi and Kyouka.

“...Fuuuck. Crab Day. How inconvenient.” 

“Language, please, Ranpo,” Fukuzawa chided.

Letting the blinds snap shut, he turned to face the room once again. “They’re leaving. Odds are fifty-fifty that Dazai throws them down the stairs. Should we start a bet? My money is on—”

“That’s why we need you to contact Nakahara-san’s you little fre—” the rest caught in Kunikida’s throat under the president’s watchful eye. 

Drawing in a long, centering breath, he revised.

“Ranpo-san, please reach out to Nakahara-san on our behalf.”

“Only if you admit I bankrupted you in under an hour—right here, in front of our stoic leader.” He rocked on his heels like a child waiting for applause. “And, you must proclaim me the world’s greatest detective, unparalleled and eternal, the likes of which you could never, ever touch.”

“Ranpo!” Fukuzawa snapped, but quickly faltered after seeing his problem child startle. 

”You know this behavior is unworthy of the trust I place in both of you.” 

The two shrank under the weight of their superior’s oppressive gaze, Ranpo crossing his arms in a feeble act of defiance. Fukuzawa flicked his eyes back toward the blond—sharp, urgent. 

“Kunikida-san, please follow them downstairs and do your best to keep Dazai-san in the building. At the very least, don’t let him get too far in case Nakahara-san agrees to assist us.”

Kunikida bowed reverently, hesitating a beat too long before leaving Ranpo’s conference room circus.

Returning to Ranpo, Fukuzawa hung his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I must, I will give you something in return if you help us now.”

Interest piqued, Ranpo cocked his head, inquiring.

“I will accompany you to Tokyo to get konpeitō from that shop you like.”

“You could…Or I could just drag one of the kids along to navigate the trains for me.”

“I will fund the excursion. And provide private transportation, snacks included.”

“Not interested, old man.”

“I find it interesting how time has failed to erode your petulance…you leave me no choice.”

The president eased into the nearest chair, its cushion sighing with him. He rested his elbows on the table, leaning his forehead heavily into steepled hands. After a brief meditation, he stirred. 

“I will give you…praise, Ranpo—” he lamented, “—but you will hold up your end of the bargain.” 

For the second time that day, verdigris eyes flew open, locking with the man’s grey stare. Any trace of his capriciousness vanished along with his thoughts. 

Neglecting to blink or breathe, he thrust a hand into his pocket, producing a small cellphone. The tiny raccoon charm hanging from the case spun wildly as he jabbed at the screen with manic focus. 

The soft clink of mugs and the familiar aroma of freshly ground coffee greeted the blond as he stepped into the café. Crab Day just couldn’t wait until after the first coffee of the day, he thought.

Atsushi and Kyouka sat at the sleek counter, flanking the fanny pack effigy as the waitress took their orders. Unsurprisingly, he asked for nothing. Instead, headlamp buzzing faintly above a jumble of fanny packs and an oversized backpack slumped on the stool beside him, Dazai reached for the waitress’s hand and loudly proposed yet another double-suicide. 

She froze—not at the idea, but at the sight of him. His getup pushed the whole stunt from “troubling” to “troubling and ridiculous.” Crimson, Atsushi pretended to study the espresso machine. Kyouka watched intently as if it were a TV drama. 

No time to waste; Kunikida sped straight to the counter. Knowing that gremlin, an escape plan was already underway. 

As he approached, the waitress lifted a hand to Dazai. 

“I love the enthusiasm, but your…um…costume? I don’t serve double-suicides to men dressed for spelunking.”

“Clothes can be shed, my elegant flower! We could leave this world so beautifully—together!”

“I also don’t spend time with detectives who refuse to pay their tabs.”

Pausing a beat too long, Dazai squinted, then swooned with exaggerated gravitas. “My pride is wounded, but fair. I’ll settle my debt—one of these days.”

He swiveled to face Kunikida in his seat, the whiskey of his irises too dark and clouded to be harmless.

“Ahh, Kunikida. What a joy,” he crooned, each word drenched in sarcasm.

“Don’t act too excited, now. Listen up—I spoke with Ranpo and the president. Yosano-sensei is unreachable, so we’ll need to come up with a solution to your…dilemma, without her.”

Hands clasped to his chest, voice syrupy sweet, “It’s SO wonderful to see you—especially after you abandoned me mid-conversation for that…dramatic bathroom dash. All is well in the land of Kunikida’s tummy now, I presume?”

The younger detectives turned, both gripping the back of their seats and ogling, their stares holding all the curiosity their small bodies could muster. Kunikida stiffened, heat creeping up his neck. He shoved his hands into his pockets, failing to convince himself or his audience that it stemmed from frustration rather than embarrassment.

“That’s not the reason I left, and you know it, you bandage-wasting machine. Though you do seem better now, well enough to drag the kids down here.” 

Better was far from the right word—it was controlled chaos, at best.

“Oh, yes. Atsushi-kun and Kyouka-chan have been sooo kind as to entertain me.” His bottom lip protruded from a caricature frown, tar-pool eyes drilling into his partner’s, “But sadly, there’s no room left for you. Soooo sad! You’ll just have to frolic back to the office—your paperwork awaits!”

Kunikida’s voice burst into a shout.“Maybe it wouldn’t if you would do some of yours for once!”

“I wish I could, but alas—I’m indispensable!” He clasped a hand over the back of his fledgling’s neck, “Who else would guide these lost, young souls?”

Shuddering, Atsushi recoiled, peeling away from his mentor’s clammy hand. He slid closer to Kyouka, who was still laser-focused on their growing sugar packet tower. 

Before his partner could retort, Dazai stood too fast, knocking his empty backpack from the stool. The bag met the floor with a hollow thud. 

The accessorized flight risk stooped, not to pick it up, but to bow emphatically toward his beloved server. 

“Forgive me. Gravity is a cruel mistress.”

Leaning across the counter, she interlaced delicate fingers beneath her chin. 

“Speaking of cruel mistresses—you still owe me, dead or alive,” her smile radiant, voice saccharine. 

He staggered back, clutching his chest as though wounded. “Belladonna! To bind a man to this world with such debt—it’s heinous!”

Between Ranpo and the menace before him, Kunikida’s nerves were shot.  Every second wasted here brought that jackass closer to his great escape. 

Trading glares, both sensed the other’s trepidation. Lunging forward, the taller man grabbed a fistful of fanny pack, yanking the brunette back into his seat. 

“Not too rough, please—I haven’t confirmed that he’s got a good life insurance policy yet,” the waitress lilted. She slid a decadent parfait toward a very delighted Atsushi, then busied herself behind the counter.

The kids barely flinched, calmly continuing their joint effort at building a sugar packet tower. Oblivious to the stakes, they relaxed—nothing was more comforting than Dazai and Kunikida screaming at each other like normal.

Dazai batted his lashes, suggestively tilting his head back in mock invitation. 

“Ohhh, now I see! Poor Kunikida is jealous—always the best man, never the bride!”

Kunikida dragged a hand down his face, drawing in a deep, calming breath. At least, he intended for it to be calming. 

“Enough with the theatrics, idiot Dazai. We both know EXACTLY where you’re headed,” 

Fingers tightening on Dazai (as diverting any attention from holding him captive required extra measure), he turned, fixing stony blue eyes on Atsushi. “Go upstairs. Get an update from Ranpo. Now.”

The boy hesitated, glancing at the blond, then at his seatmate, then at his parfait glass— a silent lament of their impending separation. She gave him a solemn, sympathetic nod. “Go ahead. I’ll help down here. I’ll protect Castle Sugar-Packet and your parfait…with my life.” 

He smiled softly, shaken by her intensity but equally as grateful for her intuition. Feeling Kunikida’s glower on him, he turned and half-jogged toward the stairs. 

Once Atsushi was out of sight, Dazai sighed, his face as flat as his voice as he stared at Kyouka. “Ah, my little executioner-in-training. Betrayed by my own ward. How cruel.” 

“Sorry, Dazai-san. I promised. So I’ll have to cut you down if you try to escape now.”

He lolled his head back, now eyeing Kunikida upside-down. “I see now. The boss got Ranpo to make the call, hm? I was sure he’d resist longer.”

“You left us no choice. If Yosano-sensei is unavailable, someone needs to keep you in check.” 

Unable to resist the opening, Dazai flickered back to life, the corners of his mouth upturned in mischief. “And you believe that Chuuya is the man for the job? Then I should warn you—tragic news, really. He’s recently contracted a dreadful, disfiguring ailment. Very contagious. What terrible timing!”

“Just keep quiet for once in your miserable life, or so help me—”

“Or so help you what, Kuuu-niii-kidaaa?” the pest cut in, fidgeting under Kunikida’s vise grip. “You’ll strangle me here? In front of our youngest and most impressionable member?” 

Kunikida gritted his teeth, thumping the back of his partner’s head. Just before he moved to strangle Dazai, the waitress returned with a large mug, piled high with whipped cream. She set it in front of a glittery-eyed Kyouka, who wrapped small hands around the long-awaited treat.

“Kunikida-san, if you’re going to throttle anyone, I’ll need you to take it outside—I would hate to be forced into adding damage costs onto Dazai-san’s tab,” the woman sang. 

It was now or never.

With Kyouka’s attention diverted, Dazai took advantage. His lanky body crumpled to the ground as he went completely limp, dead weight taking his stool down with him and forcing Kunikida to stumble. Kyouka turned to watch, heart dropping as she witnessed the result of her brief inattention.

Once the man’s grip loosened, Dazai sprang up and kicked the stool at him, then darted to the door. 

“Auf Wiedersehen!"

“Wha—DAMN IT DAZAI!” he growled. Too late—the ingrate had already slipped outside.

“Ow,” Kyouka said blankly, sticking the tip of her cocoa-burnt tongue out. She locked eyes with Kunikida. “He’s going east.”

Kunikida blinked incredulously. 

“As soon as he gets here, I'm formally requesting that Nakahara-san return you to the Port Mafia.”

When Atsushi arrived, Ranpo was pacing the main office as he spoke into his phone, obviously exasperated. A sleeping Junichirō snored softly, head resting on folded arms at his desk.

The weretiger slunk further into the room, hoping to catch the caped detective’s attention. A moment later, Fukuzawa emerged from the hall, just returning from his solemn gathering of the LEGO bonsai’s remains. 

“Atsushi, good morning. How are things downstairs?”

“Morning, shachou!” he squeaked, wiping sweaty palms against his trousers. “It’s tense. Really tense. Kunikida-san asked me to come check in with you here, but I think we should all go back down there. At this rate, those two will never get started on their mission for today.”

“Thank you, Atsushi.” The man nodded graciously, then approached Ranpo, placing a hand on his shoulder and gesturing toward the door.

“I do NOT owe you any favors! You’re that guy’s emergency contact, not me.” Ranpo paused, pressing a palm to his forehead. “...thanks, Chuuya. See you next week.”

Ranpo hung up and turned to face the two, slightly taken aback by their puzzled expressions.

“What? Yosano occasionally drags me out to get drinks with him.”

...

Silence.

...

 “Okay—once a month. It’s fine.”

Hoping to escape their unspoken inquisition, he marched toward the door. The president followed behind, concealing a small smile. He couldn’t deny the relief he felt learning of Ranpo’s growing social circle. 

Still slightly bewildered, Atsushi followed, already wishing to go home for the day. 

As the three reached the cafe, the door chime jingled patronizingly in Dazai’s wake.

“Shachou!” Kunikida startled, a lump forming in his throat as he fell into an instinctive bow. “I deeply apologize—he just left.” 

Deadpanning, Ranpo crossed his arms. “I’d have bet on that.”

The older man shot a stern glare at Ranpo, then held up a forgiving hand to his future successor. “I trust that you gave your best, Kunikida. Fortunately, Nakahara-san has agreed to assist us—I’d like for you all to get back to work until he arrives, but please, stay in the office for now.” 

He bowed slightly, then turned, drifting back up to his office. 

Silence blanketed the room. The group exchanged defeated looks before trickling out of the cafe, each uttering a soundless prayer for a normal goddamn Tuesday.

Atsushi found himself alone, standing oafishly in the aisle. Kyouka’s soft hum of cocoa-bliss returned him to his senses—taking up his spoon, he began poking at his lopsided parfait, the once pristine yogurt now swirled with berry-colored secretion. They sat contentedly, quietly enjoying each other’s company as much as their desserts.