Chapter Text
Dazai Osamu has seen a great many terrors in his lifetime. Despite his age, despite his tendency of being overcome with pessimism, he chuckles at the most insensitive of things. Whether it be the trails of smoke from trembling buildings, or the wounded souls traversing the land, he has not a note of seriousness toward any of it in his eye. In the search of fault, in the search of reason, man struggles to pick himself up amongst the remains of his former self. The sky is but a cage entrapping a bird who has escaped the cat’s mouth more times than the cat has tried to bite. In short, Dazai is a very contradictory person if you claw deep enough inside of him. Beyond layers and layers of punished skin, you will find a knife of conversations that will keep you up for the rest of eternity. Dazai knows exactly who he is and hates that man more than he hates any other. He is something that must be undone. That is his heinous desire. His one charity, his exception… A certain gravity-defying man who has tipped the glass.
“Ah, Chuuya Nakahara, fancy seeing you here. Are you not supposed to be erasing crime within crime, in your Mafia?” Dazai wiggles the toothpick between his teeth until it snaps. (it gets lodged in his gums)
“Dazai, why the hell are you at this parking lot? …You know I make my deals here, do you now? Bite your tongue, faggot.”
“Pretty hypocritical of you,” he mumbles frivolously as he rubs his sleeve against his bleeding gums.
Dazai finds it lovely to bear witness to Chuuya’s shockingly pathetic means of sustenance. He’d seen it in his Mafioso days, however, he assumed age would water the firecracker down. He pulls the broken toothpick end out and chucks it at Chuuya. “What the hell, Dazai! Get out of here, my supplier will arrive in a matter of minutes. If you want attention so badly, I suggest you get it from one of your colleagues.”
Dazai strides closer to Chuuya in response to this. A masquerade of selfish desire to come out on top. Dazai is a man of very dominant nature. He will never be beaten, not by the hands of such a slug, at least. “Perhaps you could share some with me? It would benefit the both of us, considering the fact that if you don’t, I will report your dubious endeavors to the authorities.” Twenty-two years old, has tried far harsher things than the smaller, yet still Dazai loves to puppeteer his former partner. Chuuya Nakahara stops; a deer in headlights, his hands glowing crimson as the vehicle approaches. “Just fucking hide behind my god damn motorcycle until he leaves, dickhead Dazai.”
“Well, that’s a new one. Alright then, cockhead Chuuya.”
Dazai skips over to the motorcycle with a raised brow. One hand caresses a tire, the other enters a pocket. Perhaps the switch is better left turned off. Does the evil one notice this? Yes. Does he mind? Not in the slightest. Toying with others is the sweetest taste for Dazai Osamu. As the dealer takes his leave, Chuuya turns around, and as if in a slow-motion slasher scene, his eyes widen and he drops his box to the ground. There lies his precious motorcycle, engulfed in flames, as the perpetrator sprints out of view, laughter sounding from the distance. First his car. Now his motorcycle. The redhead falls to his knees, as his mind fills with an array of memories. His friend had entrusted it to him. Chuuya was to take care of it as if it were his own kin.
Meanwhile, Dazai tosses his matches aside, preparing for Chuuya to come up with some sort of murder plan. If you asked him why he did such a thing to the motorcycle, his answer would make your head spin. He simply wants to cause chaos. He wants to be caught. Nobody would ever pay his presence a glance if it weren’t for his inconsistent nature. Provoking women is preferable to him, but regardless of this, Dazai doesn’t mind a male every now and again. Especially Chuuya. Comparable to that of an angered dog, the gravity manipulator manipulates more than just physical properties.
Chuuya has had something of a chokehold on Dazai for years. He isn’t sure if he would call it romantic feelings. It is like lighting a candle just to accidentally burn your fingers. The twist is that the person who ignited the flame is a masochist, and they burn their body as often as they can.
As he walks along the streetlight-infested sidewalk, he stumbles upon a rock beneath his feet. Curiosity always decides to kill the cat. He grabs the rock as he returns to his feet. The rock seems to be counterfeit. More notably, there is a small note taped to the bottom. Reading aloud, he raises a brow in interest.
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“Osamu Dazai, 22 years old, member of the Armed Detective Agency. An ability user that intrigues me in the most strenuous and unnerving way. Continues on and on about suicide, but never acts upon his circumventions. Has killed a great deal and ruined the lives of many more. You are a face among flat flesh. Find me and perhaps I will be able to find you. Creep inside if you dare. I know you enjoy a challenge.”
-Your watcher
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Dazai bites his lip. Waves of heat course through his system. A challenger? All these awakened excitements are suppressed by the sheer desperation to meet this mountain. A blockade to his plans. Who might this one be? The writing style seems to be falsified. Perhaps a mockery of Dazai who never writes in his own signature style in letters either. For now, thoughts of Chuuya vanish in his conscience. Rather, the intensity of a surprise after years of flat-lined discoveries engulfs him. Forget the smears, Dazai. This is no traditional day.
The list of suspects consists of the following: a delusional individual who Dazai doesn’t know personally, Mori Ogai trying to pry reactions out of him, Fyodor Dostoevsky attempting to prove some sort of higher level of intelligence, a member of the agency trying to see if Dazai can truly display detective work, a family member of one of Dazai’s victims, or Chuuya trying to get a scare out of him.
Mori Ogai can be ruled out for now, as he is still recovering from the cannibalism incident. Despite his cruel and unforgiving nature, he only instigates necessary events that benefit the mafia. Dazai’s downfall is far on his list of needed actions for the Mafia to take. Next, Fyodor Dostoevsky can easily be ruled out. Dazai knows exactly what his chess mate is planning. He is too busy at work shelving out orders to the rats to focus on Dazai for the time being. As for the Decay, the clown one is brewing plans to end his fellow Decay of Angels member. The casino manager is completely focused on his casino and its customers. The undead king is still in a slumber, unable to carry out any of Fyodor’s commands at the moment. Finally, Kamui is too busy planning his own dictatorship to worry about Fyodor and his desires. Therefore, none of the Decay of Angels could be doing this for Fyodor either.
Following this, the agency wouldn’t possibly be ignorant enough to do this at such desperate times. Battles are still being fought. Ranpo Edogawa is the most likely of the agency to test Dazai, and even he knows better than to conduct such things as stalker games at such a time. Dazai decides, after some heavenly hellish deliberations, that the final two options are the most feasible. Someone is most likely trying to play with Dazai’s confidence and lead him into some sort of a trap as revenge for Dazai’s cruelty in the mafia. That, or Chuuya Nakahara had planted this using his gravity manipulation moments before Dazai stepped here. The largest question remains unanswered, however. How could someone possibly be sure that Dazai would come this way and read this note before someone else?
Dazai smirks darkly as he realizes it. This “watcher” is most likely observing him at this very moment. Perhaps they were following him, and they knew of Dazai’s confrontation with Chuuya, so they hurried along and put this on the path where they knew Dazai would have to walk. The sidewalk leading to his house.
“So you know where I live, do you?” Dazai chuckles darkly, as he tears the note off of the stone and shoves it into his pocket. Unable to conduct further deliberation, he hears a loud force of sound coming right in his direction. Before he can step aside, a body flies into his own, and Dazai’s back is slammed into the thick bark of a tall tree. Dirt flutters in the air, allowing itself into Dazai’s mouth alongside the blood that he is coughing up. His eyes open slowly despite feeling as though he is mouth-open under water. “Dazai! I’m going to fucking kill you!” Chuuya’s raspy, enraged voice pummels the trembling man’s head and renders him…annoyed. He lays on his back on the dirt, unable to move. Blood trickles down his chin and splatters on his bolo tie.
“How does it feel for something important of yours to be ruined? If that tie is even important to you anymore, that is. I know you stopped caring for me years ago despite how much I forfeited for you, Dazai. You just keep trying to take from me! Take my happiness! Take my possessions! What is next? Will you try to take my life?”
Dazai forgets Japanese for a moment, forgets who Chuuya is and where his filthy mouth has been. His skull pounds, his blood turns to magma, he tries to open his mouth and all that comes out are moans. “Ch…” He squints up at Chuuya. The redhead is straddling him, with his legs on either side of his body. Dazai remembers other times, form-fitted to what he still wants deep down despite never admitting it. Less bloody instances where they were in this same position. “Ah…what a horrible time for me to be recalling our past…”
Chuuya’s face reddens, with both anger and regret. The two of them are still. Chuuya’s fists hover above Dazai’s face. If people were to be passing by, they might believe time has stopped. Here before Chuuya is a man who always reaches into his psyche, into his heart, and mashes them into pieces. Again and again he is put under Dazai’s siren-like spell. “Fucking asshole. Why did you do that? You know that motorcycle was important to me…”
Silence ensues for a following minute. The sky darkens as rain clouds create a vice around the two of them. Shining down on them is the desire to embrace one last time as they once did, even amongst the fury.
“I saw you getting on with someone in an alleyway yesterday. Seems you moved on from me fairly fast, so I decided to repay the favor. A man makes his way past the gates of karma eventually, am I wrong, Chuuya?”
Chuuya’s arm retracts to his side, and he stares blankly at Dazai. “You left me years ago. Do you want me to never move on? What we had was just a young fling, I see that now. So are you regretting your actions? You are mad at yourself and you’re taking it out on me. You’ve always been selfish like that. Never fucking speak to me again you narcissistic chemical.” Dazai’s mouth is gaping wide. Chemical, he repeats in his blurred mind. Meanwhile, Chuuya stands up and brushes himself off nonchalantly. “I’m not giving you what you want. Physical pain to drown out the emotional pain, eh? Pretty fucking childish, Osamu. I don’t ever want to see your face again. Go find someone else to ruin.” Chuuya empties Dazai’s pockets as he speaks. He steals every dollar and then turns away, his cape obscuring him from view.
Chuuya storms off. Dazai is left alone in the dirt with a broken lip and a black eye. Rain pummels his face as if to amplify the gloom he has been left in. Well, this is an interesting turn of events. He reaches into his pocket once again and scans over the note that had been on the rock. If Chuuya doesn’t want to pursue these perilous games anymore, perhaps Dazai’s watcher will. Had the watcher been observing this pathetic display? Regardless of the answer, Dazai has a more pressing issue to attend to. After several minutes have passed, he wills himself to his feet and continues on the path to his house. Each drag of his feet along the cold, wet concrete makes his body seethe with discomfort. Upon arriving at his house, he notices that something is taped to the front door.
Without hesitation, he gently picks away at the tape until the note can be removed from the door.
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“Osamu Dazai, please do excuse my abysmal scribble. I had to focus on a profligate pace lest you catch sight of me. I had no inkling of your down-low maneuvers. Were you trembling from ache or from orgasm just now, I wonder? Not that it concerns me. I am simply enjoying unearthing this catastrophic symphony of yours. It does rouse concern within me that you are damaging your friend over such petty motivations. I just explored the interior of your house and confiscated a thing or two. Do not worry, however, as I only took trivial items as souvenirs for my first visitation. I hope you will clean your home better for me tomorrow. I’ll be coming often. I have already learned much about you. I do not plan to stop. If you would, take a walk around the town and you might just learn more about me, too.”
-Your watcher
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Dazai’s heart sinks in his chest. His breath becomes increasingly erratic as he reaches for the door knob. Ah, already unlocked. Stepping into the front room is like stepping into a casket. Dazai is six feet under. He instantly hurries along to the bathroom. The mirror reflects a particularly unruly sight. He washes his face impatiently, inhaling as the water stings against his many cuts. Shortly thereafter, he practically stumbles into his bedroom. Most people would assume that he had consumed one too many drinks if it weren’t for his present expression.
His eyes flick across the words on the note. The words melt into his brain and unlock a new goal; to uncover the identity of his stalker. They must be increasingly intelligent, that is a given. From the way they write, he would assume them to be female or nonbinary, since males these days usually do not use such complicated wording. Even narrowing this down, it only makes it more difficult, as his previous suspect list had been mostly that of males. He sighs, before grasping the other note and holding it up beside the new one.
“Who are you? Can you hear me now? I’m assuming you’ve already bugged my house, however, lucky for you I’m too tired to search right now. Good night, my watcher.” His voice is hoarse from the beating, but he hopes the watcher can make his words out anyways.
Throughout the night, Dazai’s pillow is soaked red in his sin, and he tosses and turns in agonizing restlessness. At one point, as dreams slowly and craftily approach him, he is returned to his teenage dilemmas. His pants grow stiff. He is none the wiser to this, too preoccupied with his watcher. “Ah, don’t watch me, it’s humiliating…” He means the opposite of what he says to the blank-faced god. Is the watcher’s ability dream manipulation? What is this unusual circumstance? He only has such dreams after blossoming amidst the aftereffects.
When morning approaches, and the sun knocks rudely along the windows, Dazai continues drifting further into the realm of reveries. It isn’t until an actual knock can be heard from the door that Dazai groggily wipes his eyes and sits up. As if in a corset of corkscrews, he pictures his early visitor to be Chuuya. Without hesitation, he pulls the covers over his head further. Moments later, however, it dawns on him. Could the watcher have already arranged a meeting? The covers seem to disintegrate from the speed of Dazai’s sprinting. He peers out of the window, and his expression darkens. A pair of eyes spot him from outside, and then a rock is thrown at the window. “Dazai! You’re late to work! Fukuzawa told me to make sure you aren’t dead, for Christ sakes! Get to work, now!”
Kunikida rattles the doorknob with a dog’s scowl. Dazai closes the blinds and slides along the wall until he is curled up with his knees beneath his face. “Go awayyy Kunikida-kuuuun…I’m sick, I need a day off.”
“Like hell you’re sick! You’ll be fired if you keep this up!” His ornery voice indicates that he has yet to have his daily dose of coffee. So, Dazai pulls his trump card… Unlocking the front door, and evading Kunikida’s attempts at grabbing him, he smirks widely.
“Kunikida, come on in! I’ve just brewed your favorite coffee. Take a seat, my favorite coworker~” Kunikida fumbles with his glasses for a good few seconds before inhaling sharply and stepping inside. Just as the blonde make his way into Dazai’s front room, Dazai runs out past him and slams the door in his face, chuckling and running as he listens to Kunikida’s squabbling from afar. All he ever does is run from unfavorable situations. Then again, what is he supposed to do? Go to work? There are obviously far more important matters…such as his secret admirer, or so he imagines them to be.
He hides behind a nearby tree and watches with a proud expression only comparable to that of ecstasy. Kunikida paces down the sidewalk past Dazai’s hiding spot spouting obscenities. Once the coast is clear, he takes a moment to decide the next course of action. His desperation to meet this “watcher” of his boils inside of his body and relaxes his muscles. Honey trickles along his limbs. So warm, in a lovely depravity, a haze of difference. Any difference, good or bad, is still new and enlightening. Dazai begins taking a walk, and he doesn’t know where his destination lies, other than within the hold of his observer. Why is he so enamored with this novel presence? It is surely abnormal to obsess over someone whose face has never been seen by the obsessed. Looks aren’t all that counts, this displays, because the nerve of this person to challenge Dazai is enough to break down his composition and make it melt into a heated puddle.
Each tree along the path is to be examined. No stone left unturned, literally. The hopes for a note envelope him, and time stretches further than he had anticipated. Was the letter simply a jest? Bait to lead Dazai on a wild goose chase? His watch surely hasn’t malfunctioned. Three hours have truly drizzled away and Dazai is in a city he has never been in before searching for something that wasn’t even guaranteed to be found. He has learned nothing of this stalker. Disappointments, as usual. He dials Chuuya, but he is led to voicemail, so he has no other choice but to leave a message. “Hey Chuuya, I know how guilty you must be for hurting me like that, so if you want to make it up to me, come pick me up? I need a ride.” He lists the name of the city and his surroundings next before going silent and expecting that Chuuya will respond.
He leans against a tree and wipes sweaty palms over an eye-bag infested face. After the first few minutes have passed, he plucks a blade of grass, spinning it between his fingertips. He loses hold of the grass, and it falls among the other blades. “Fall, fall down…”
He has been humming his suicide song for numerous minutes, and as much as he likes the song, it begins to grate on his nerves. He has been left with a final resort. “Kunikida? I need a hand…”
Kunikida takes about fifteen minutes to arrive at Dazai’s location. How pathetic he feels doesn’t compare to the tiredness. “I’ll work later tomorrow. Thanks for saving me~ Kunikida’s a knight in shining armor.” The blonde doesn’t seem to take the words as a compliment. “Just get in the car and shut up, you’ve been a particular thorn in my side lately. I had to work twice as hard to cover for you.” Dazai mocks a guilty face and takes a seat behind the fuming blonde’s car seat. “You can’t do…a double suicide, just by yourself~ Grab a friend…” Kunikida doesn’t seem to like the song. Dazai wonders why.
The ride back to Dazai’s house feels much longer than Dazai would desire it to feel. The windows are rolled down, and the wind threads itself throughout Dazai’s hair and whips it in his face. His face throbs, but that isn’t the only thing. Why would discomfort invoke such a response? Is the physical reaction some sort of escape from mental reaction? It does sound fairly immature, but Dazai isn’t the most mature man known to mankind. He doesn’t think of his watcher during the full duration of the car ride. To be fair, he is too exhausted to think of much of anything.
When Kunikida stops at Dazai’s house, his heart drops in his chest. Dazai is slumped over and frothing at the mouth on the seat behind him. No wonder Dazai had finally stopped blabbing on about suicide after a few minutes had passed. He pulls him out of the car and shoves two shaking fingers into his colleague's throat. Despite the horrid smell and presentation of the vomit, Dazai seems to almost immediately regain some color in his eyes. You see, this sudden change of events is the product of a secret that you aren’t expected to have unraveled. Dazai took a little something before the he’d went to sleep that night, which in turn created the strange string of dreams and the sudden burst of energy. Dazai, however, has no recollection of this.
Sometime later, Dazai’s eyes open and he is hit with a strong sense of warmth. He is wrapped in a blanket on the couch in his front room with Kunikida sitting across from him on the loveseat. “I guess you’ll need a babysitter from now on. Was that intentional?” Dazai smiles lopsidedly and feels no obligation to answer such questions. Perhaps the watcher was simply a figment of his trip. It oddly gives him some relief, as he had felt quite hurt that no more letters had been presented to him. This is all Chuuya’s fault, he decides, if what happened the other day was even real, that is. Was that a day ago? Or was it a year ago? He doesn’t seem to know, nor does he need to know. “Thanks for saving me, Kunikida-kun! You want that coffee that I had promised earlier, by chance?” Kunikida grits his teeth, and without warning, slams his fist into the coffee table in front of him. “Dazai! This isn’t a joke! You would have most likely overdosed if I hadn’t been there! You’re lucky I don’t contact the authorities and have you committed. I don’t expect you to come in to work tomorrow, but I am also afraid to leave you on your own. What were you thinking? Do you know how many people would suffer if you were to die? The agency needs you, regardless of your…antics.”
Kunikida’s words blur together and take the form of a demon. Dazai decides Kunikida is attacking him, somehow, just as anyone else who has ever said anything similar ends up doing. “You’re probably tired. I didn’t do it on purpose, you know. I won’t take anything by myself again. Why don’t you head home for the night, Kunikida-kun? And I don’t mind coming into work tomorrow, all though I am a bit out of my element.”
“Dazai, if you end up dead, Atsushi and the others won’t ever forgive you. And I do care for you too, so…just take care of yourself and get some rest? Oh, and drink some water before you go to sleep. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you all of this, since you probably already know, but still. Don’t die. You are an adult. I can’t make your decisions, but I can try to influence you to do what is right. Good night, and if anything goes wrong again, please call me, regardless of the time.” Kunikida swallows nervously and leaves Dazai’s house. Dazai lies on his side, the couch soft and forgiving, unlike everything else. The only things that will ever choose to comfort him in honesty are inanimate objects. Better than nothing, he supposes.
The remainder of the night is a rainy, dull one. It fits the situation rather well. Almost being taken by overdose isn’t a beautiful way to go. You only die once, after all. It must be a spectacle. Yes, Dazai at least deserves the apologetic, loving embrace of a memorable death. Being forgotten and dying brutally are the most depressing concepts Dazai could conjure up. Well, other than Oda Sakunosuke, addiction, and anticipation, that is. Though all three of those things are one in the same, he supposes. The moon shines through the blinds and it illuminates Dazai’s tragic form. He glances at his hands, the dried blood on them, and the contrasting, clean, white shirt that Kunikida must have changed him into. Dazai is no detective. He is no ally to others. He is not trying to change. He is no longer human.
Sleep claims him, and this time, he is dream-free, which for him is a blessing, since he has never had anything other than nightmares. When he awakens the following morning, the alarm has a use for once. He brushes his teeth for 5 minutes, brushes his hair thoroughly, washes his face so hard that his skin burns, washes off his bolo tie, adds a small amount of mascara to his eyelashes, and uses a lovely vanilla bottle of cologne. You would think he was preparing for a fancy date, with the amount of effort he had been pouring into his appearance.
He arrives early at the agency with a spring in his step. Dazai bursts through the door as though he is auditioning for Hamilton. “Good morning, my friends!! I missed you all on my day off~”
…
Dazai giggles awkwardly, as he realizes that he was the first to arrive at the agency. No one else is around to have heard his statement. Once he approaches his swivel chair, he notices that his computer is on. Had he left it on for such a long time? Obviously if that had been the case, the device would’ve just powered off automatically, and yet it is on, and the documents list is opened. There is a new file, one that he had no recollection of naming. He reads it out loud. “Creep inside, if you dare…”