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Breaking Conviction
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1
Mori Ougai
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After a few years of being acquintanced, Dazai understood better than most that the underground doctor who found pleasure in other’s pain is kind in his own way. Every time Dazai straggled into his run-down excuse of a medic ward, he’d click his tongue in exasperation, brows furrowing atop deep eyes in clear displeasure. Despite that, the older man would take care of his wounds all the same, warm hands ghosting over his cold skin.
The moment Dazai can walk on his own again, Mori would have no kindness to spare him, dedicating his time to extracting information out of the wounded and delirious on his cots. Most of the time Dazai will just stay out of the way, watching with rapt attention as sterilized scalpel cut into flesh and drew blood, as a large needle push beneath the skin to release medication or poison into bloodstream.
Observing and learning how to silently kill while putting on a smiling mask.
This was not one of those times. He just got out of his torture training session—half of the time it meant a man strapped to a slab of rock for the young Mafioso to take apart until he knew how to break someone effectively, sometime it was him who would be strapped to the rock awaiting the burn of injury with jaws set straight.
His trainers have decided he’s ready for something more intense, so today he dragged his body to the medic ward and saw for the first time Mori’s eyes widening in horror for a split second at his condition before the smiling mask of an uncaring doctor returned.
“Dazai-kun.” He greeted, motioning to the cot. “Please.”
Mori’s hands were warm on his skin as he checked his body over. It was painful to breathe and every movement hurts. His back was a mess of lacerations and bruises began to swell all over his body, some indicating either a fractured or even broken bones beneath their sickening color. Even through the haze that his mind has become, Dazai’s quite sure that his right shoulder was dislocated.
“I think I must speak with the torturers.” Mori said with displeasure clear in his tone as he checked Dazai’s back. The boy could imagine the sharp look in his eyes, the press of his lips as he fought not to grit his teeth like he did so many times when he’s really, really angry. “Putting wax in open wounds is an almost sure-fire way to get infection.”
“The order is that they can’t kill me.” Dazai said as he ignored the burn of dried candle wax being pried from his wounds. Sometimes the tweezers had to dig into the wound itself to get the contamination out, letting rivulet of blood run down his thin back, but he didn’t show any reaction save for the tightening of his eyes. “Maybe they’re hoping I’ll die if not from the shock then the infection.”
“Say, the scheduled torturer to teach you today are Takaoka-san and Hayashi-san right?” he asked in a conversational tone, but Dazai is sharp enough to hear the underlying darkness in his voice.
“No, they were replaced by Sawazaki-san and Omugi-san.” He answered, kicking his feet that didn’t quite reach the tiled floor from the cot.
“Unauthorized?”
“I believe so.”
After he extracted the names from the young member, because that’s what exactly Mori was doing—Dazai didn’t bother deceiving himself, the doctor stopped asking question and instead fussed over his wounds. When a man barged in half-carrying his comrade with stab injury bleeding all over the floor, Mori immediately turned them away with direction to another underground doctor without even sparing them a glance, too busy checking the reason for the blood clotting Dazai’s hair.
Almost three hours later, the young mafioso was once again almost completely mummified by bandages. His dislocated shoulder has been set and pressed against his chest, held there by a sling while his left was broken and encased in cast. Other than that, his whole torso is wrapped in bandages up to his neck which still bore the mark of strangulation.
He had a total of three broken fingers, two fractured ribs, one broken rib and various open wound with creative placement that made any minute movement doused in agony. His head was dizzy from the combination of blood loss and concussion. But he kept quiet and bore the pain, declining the offer of morphine.
Dazai will get stronger from this, relishing the heat of hellfire like a metal would in the hand of a blacksmith. And someday he will hurt the people that hurt him a thousand times worse with his edges.
A growling stomach cut his train of thought, snapping him back to reality. He realized he must have zoned out, dead to the world like he was still on that cold rock. The second thing he realized was Mori’s eyes on him and the smile that slowly crept up his face. “Hungry?”
Without hesitation, Dazai nodded. Mori left him to the back room and soon returned with a bowl of food. “It’s just a simple porridge—I’m afraid I was too busy to make anything more elaborate than the basic this morning.
Dazai pulled his legs up to the cot and turned to face the older man when he sat down beside the boy barely into his teen. Eyes flickered to his arms then Mori took the spoon and blew on the hot porridge before offering it to Dazai.
The boy stared at the spoonful of food, silently contemplating until a hand found his jaw and curled under his chin. It was jarring how tender it was when the memory of torture was still fresh in Dazai’s memory.
“Eat up, you’ll need it to recover.” Mori order him. Meeting the older man’s eyes, Dazai would have said what he saw in them was fondness if only the one in front of him wasn’t the master of acting and lies. Still, he opened his mouth and accepted the food, going down his throat comfortingly warm.
Yes. Being tortured half to death is not quite a bad thing when he can have this quiet moment afterward. There’s a high possibility that it’s just a charade for the doctor to gain leverage in the mafia, but Dazai let himself be deceived if just for a few hours as long as he can be nagged after.
As if there’s someone who genuinely care about his well-being.
The next day he heard his two torturers has disappeared—presumed desertion followed by an order to execute on sight—and he noticed that Mori gained two new sets of human organs for his patient in case they need transplant and some brand-new scalpels bought from the black market.
Mori gave him a coat, saying he bought it with Dazai’s share of money. Accepting it, Dazai ran his fingers through the jet black fabric. And as he placed it on, the weight almost felt like Mori’s hands on his injuries. Since then it never quite left his shoulders, hung there like the cloak of a reaper.
But all of that came to halt when Mori became the new boss of the Mafia. Everything changed rapidly and Dazai was never one to not adapt well to a new situation. With no reason to fight the change in hierarchy, he found himself being included in Mori’s inner circle. As the civil war for the boss’ seat became heated he spearheaded Mori’s force as his unofficial right hand man.
There was not really enough time to be wondering about healing hands under white gloves and he trashed his thought if he can ask Mori to tend of his wounds the moment it formed. The old man is now constantly at work to secure his position and even an hour out of focus would spell disaster for what was left of the Port Mafia.
He went to other doctors and their hands on him felt disgusting but necessary, so he bore it without complaint.
When the war quieted down and the enemy defeated, Port Mafia was once again whole with Mori sitting on top of the pile of corpses and blood with a smile still as impeccable as they were when Dazai first met him.
One night after a particularly grueling mission, he came to report while still bleeding. Mori offered to take care of the wounds but Dazai rejected him, saying he’d go to the medic ward after this.
Mori is now the boss and he’s a busy man, Dazai can see the testament of that in the exhausted lines on his face that he hid so well, the pile of work on his desk, the fact that Elise was de-summoned to spare energy. He can’t take the boss’ time when he’s now vital to the survival of the Mafia.
Dazai never asked for the tending again. There are other doctors whom he can turn to.
He convinced himself that he didn’t miss those times. He didn’t. He buried the memories of hands patching him up, that smile as the older man fed him, the rare days they have off together that was spent with harassing and being harassed by Elise while Mori was watching and laughing with a book and two children in his lap.
He buried those memories as deep as possible, until they can no longer be seen through the opaque surface of the sea of blood now stretching endlessly around him.
The coat around his shoulder was but a pale imitation of Mori, and as he let it hung there it made him feel colder than ever.
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2
Odas aku
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Odasaku…. Odasaku is… Dazai can’t really put him into word.
In a way he’s Dazai’s best friend but he never had a friend before to know the difference between a casual one and the ‘best’ one. The term is acceptable but not quite right for the man who silently stood by his side in darker nights listening to the empty words he chattered to the space between them.
Sometimes he thought that Odasaku was the older brother Dazai never had, protective and considerate in the way that only someone who knew how it is to be broken but still retain pride understand how to do so to another one of his kind.
But when he hung out in Odasaku’s run-down apartment filled with books and smelling of cigarette and coffee, wrapped in a blanket as he watched Odasaku reading with the rain pounding the window and water drops casting shadows over the room with the lights off, he felt like maybe he’s a little bit in love.
Yet most of the time, as he pressed himself up to Odasaku and chattered about his day and trivial matters, he found himself wondering if this is how it felt like to have a parent. Someone who would willingly indulge him, understand what needs to be understood without words, quietly watching over but giving him space to grow up into what he wanted to be with only subtle nudges here and there.
Now, Dazai won’t lie and say he never had his share of fantasy over the older man. After all, he was a healthy growing teenager who was alone most of the time and now found companion in someone who is attractive and caring—that’s just instinct. It made quite an entertainment for Ango, watching the teenager flounder in the face of oblivion on Odasaku’s part. The man can be extremely dense some(most of the)times.
But he felt the most content when they were just sitting together, not a word shared between them, simply enjoying the knowledge of having someone else close by.
He can’t really summarize what Odasaku is to him, almost as if ‘Odasaku’ is now an adjective of its own for him. It spelt comfort and respite, a beacon that would never lose its light even in the bleakest of night.
With patience that seemed endless, he was the ground that allowed Dazai to set roots in and finally grow from the nutrient of his affection.
One night when he was bone-tired from work and was just so done with the world, his feet took him not to the bridge where he can jump and attempt to end everything again. Instead he found himself in front of Odasaku’s door as if the response was automatic.
The older man opened the door, took one look at the tired boy in his doorstep and whisked him to the futon. If there were even a speck of dirty thought in Dazai’s mind, it was extinguished when Odasaku grabbed a blanket and rolled him in it like a sushi from torso down. Dazai struggled lightly in the cocoon to test the give and found none—it’s almost incredible how good Odasaku is at rendering his target unmoving.
The ex-assassin left for the kitchen then returned with a bowl, a bottle cradled in the crook of one arm and a beat-up laptop as old as his adopted kid. As the things were placed in front of him like an offering, Dazai noticed that the bowl is filled with ice cream and the bottle was the expensive whisky he bought for Odasaku from Germany.
The two of them sat down side-by-side on the futon, back to the wall and light switched off to watch a cheap action movie so unrealistic Dazai couldn’t stop laughing at the supposedly ‘cool’ scenes.
The ice cream was cream and cookies, his favorite, and it melted in his mouth as he laughed at the movie’s hilarious fighting choreography. After a while, he got tired of picking up the glass every time he wanted to sip the drink, so he just poured half the bottle into the ice cream bowl. Odasaku eyed the concoction and silently tried. After mulling on the taste, he shrugged and continued eating.
The ice cream/whisky medley has a terrible taste but it was almost as hilarious as the bad movie so Dazai kept watching and eating, laughing at the blank-toned commentary Oda gave when the shootout began.
Dazai shuffled until he was next to Odasaku and can lean on him without taking his eyes off the screen, scooping up ice cream and knowing the older man was also contributing to the dwindling amount of cold, bitter sweetness.
Odasaku didn’t ask anything—he never did. He just took care of his loved ones when they need him without ever needing that justification. There was an understanding in him of how there are a certain distance between them that will never be bridged, borne from the life of blood and the secrecy that partook largely in survival.
Instead, he expressed his devotion through action.
When the ice cream was gone and after Odasaku has fetched them a glass of water to chase the sugar, they watched the remainder of the movie with the younger man slowly sliding down until he was completely on Odasaku’s laps. He half-hoped the older man would pet his hair, but wasn’t really disappointed when it never came.
“You want to sleep now?” Odasaku asked when the credit rolled. Already halfway to slumber, Dazai nodded absently.
Trusting someone so completely is somehow liberating. Dazai mulled on that as he was tucked into the futon like a child and Odasaku left for the couch. It seems like childcaring has been hardwired into his DNA after all.
In the dim light of the room, he watched with rapt attention as Odasaku slowly fall asleep, chest rising and falling with a slight snore that vibrated the air.
Dazai slept like that, listening to the vibration of Odaskau’s breath and secure in the knowledge that the older man will protect him through the night. Somehow, he felt like a child who has found their comfort plushie and security blanket in the same being. If only that can last forever, maybe Dazai might have been able to be strong enough in the face of storm after all.
The purest thing he had in life and it all ended in blood, how typical.
In the trail of one last gunshot there was only silence broken by his own panting breath as he tried to reach Odasaku who was falling and falling with blood so red trailing after him from the mortal wound on his chest.
Even with one look he knew that Odasaku can no longer be saved. The hand that tangled into his hair was warm, so warm. For a moment there was an all-encompassing darkness but once again the beacon cut through the void and showed him the way to go. One last guidance, one last sacrifice.
“People live to save themselves, huh…? How true…” Odasaku voice trailed off into deafening nothingness and then it was over.
People live to save themselves… Dazai imagined Odasaku’s contentment when he took care of Dazai and the children. Has he saved himself by living?
Will Dazai be able to save himself by living?
In the silence that trails afterward, dissipating like the smoke Dazai now has between his lips, he wondered if he can make Odasaku proud, somehow.
So Dazai convinced himself that the blood pooling around him is placenta and the cocoon of warm blanket in his memory a womb. He would be reborn from this, into someone who can give rather than take. He’d try his damnedest to do so.
He told himself he can do it and ignored the part that nearly crumbled from the lack of support, exiling the child in him that cried so lonely in the darkness when the hands that used to held him has now gone cold in death.
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3
Chuuya
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From the very first time they met across wrestling mats, Dazai realized that Chuuya is warm. And Dazai is not saying about his body temperature, even though that is also constantly in the state of abnormal height, but also about his personality.
He was loud and competitive where Dazai complentative, awe-inspiringly bull-headed and stubborn to the last drop of his blood, topped by his fierce loyalty to the people who managed to gain his respect. Chuuya expressed his emotions with passion, letting people knew exactly when to cower in fear before him and when to sling their arms around his shoulder as they laughed together.
For him Chuuya is like the sun—in the worst way that term can be used. Every time he even glanced at the other boy, his eyes would be nearly blinded by him, so brightly lit it’s painful. So he ignored the boy while being sure that there would be another set of feet stepping by his side like twin beings, because the sun is a constant no matter how much he wanted the ball of flame will just be snuffed out.
To outside perspective they seemed like irredeemable rivals that would be tearing each other’s throat out the first chance available, and that is not quite wrong. But that’s not quite right either.
They clashed and they fought like the bane of each other’s life, but when there was no conflict to resolve and no one to kill, they would found themselves like this: in Chuuya’s apartment, Dazai lying on his front as he shoot zombie brains on the television screen and Chuuya’s warmth seeping into his skin as his partner laid his head on the small of his back, playing a racing game on the handheld console while sometimes cursing out loud.
There were not many people they can really trust in the Mafia, it was why this familiarity felt so nostalgic and so out of place, but so comforting. The smallest rustle of clothing as Chuuya rolled a little and grumble about a particularly difficult turn and Dazai’s huffs of frustration when the mini-boss kept jumping all around the place was the only thing that filled the air between them.
The soft, airy yukata Dazai wore was comfortable in contrast to his usual attire. Chuuya himself is relaxing in black tank top that showed off his muscular biceps and a pair of baggy shorts that would be highly inconvenient in a fight. But there were no mission and no paperwork so they decided that they could just be sloppy teenagers today.
Beneath his head, Dazai suddenly jerked up with a shout, dislodging the other who immediately lost his race because the jostling made his thumb accidently hit the wrong button. His cry of horror joined Dazai’s victorious one. A slam of elbow to the back made Dazai’s tone change from triumphant to pained.
“I was so damn close to winning that round you asshole!”
“Well, guess what? You’re ashes, Chuuya!” he grinned, pointing at the screen where his name is now the number one high score.
“Wha—how?!”
“Using the right strategy, unlike you who just shoot whatever’s moving. Sometimes I have to wonder if your brain’s function equals to a zombie after all.”
There was a growl of anger and suddenly there was something white and soft suffocating him. A pillow Dazai’s mind supplied as he struggled against the assault as distraction tactic while hands groped along the carpet until he found… yeah, there it is.
Chuuya grunted and was nearly thrown off when a pillow made impact with the side of his head. But the jar gave enough time for Dazai to roll them over and proceed to bludgeon his face in with the other pillow.
Defending himself with his pillow, Chuuya let out a battle cry and they were involved in one of the most violent and well-strategized pillow fight in the history. There was a reason why Chuuya chose the soft, impact-absorbing carpet after all. With that, he can throw Dazai around without fearing he’d break that slip of a neck.
Between Chuuya’s raw strength and Dazai’s tactics, any battle they fought is fated to be fierce and this was not an exception. In the end, though, the ding of new enemy available in the online server distracted Chuuya enough for Dazai to shout and barrel into him, sending both straight to the floor.
“God, you’re heavy. Off now, off!” Chuuya grumbled as he kicked his laughing partner away.
“I won!” Dazai sang. “Chuuya you have such small attention span. That’s going to get you killed someday.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not the one trying to kill myself every other day. It’s gonna be a fucking divine joke if I die before you.” He grumbled and crawled toward the Playstation controller, sending the clear message that he’s done with the physical playfight.
The taller teen stood up and left, gaining only a flicker of blue eyes following his back as he disappeared into the master bedroom.
Soon, Dazai returned to the gaming room with a brush in one hand and a hairband in the other. Glancing at the items, Chuuya grunted and sat facing the television, seemingly determined to re-break the high score.
As the game started again, Dazai sat behind him in seiza and ran the brush through fiery locks, untangling the knots. He kept careful attention to the little noises Chuuya was making to alert him whether or not he was pulling too tight knowing how sensitive Chuuya’s scalp is.
There was a lull as Dazai ran his hand through coarse curls and Chuuya decimating zombie forces. After a bout of consideration, Dazai tied Chuuya’s hair on the left side up so it formed fountain water on the left half of his head. The effect was hilarious seeing that there was a certain strand longer than the other that bopped around like an antenna.
Beneath his hands, Chuuya shifted to send a withering glare over his shoulder before returning his attention to the screen, game seemingly more important than the disgraceful hairstyle.
After all there was no one else around but his shitty partner who has seen him in his worst and beyond. A bit of sloppiness around him is not a problem especially when Dazai also become an utter slob around him in contrast to his usual work-place persona.
Chuuya leaned back until his head was supported by a broad if painfully thin shoulder, offering the second controller without looking back. “Come on, help me break international high score.”
“Do you want to get the name Double Black over the international stage on not one but two categories, Chuuya? What an overachiever.” Even with the playful complain, Dazai still took the controller to enable the multiplayer.
They unconsciously molded their bodies together, Dazai leaning back to the foot of the sofa to make himself a better cushion for the smaller teen. In turn Chuuya didn’t protest when he placed his chin on top of red hair, hand reaching over the slight yet muscular body to hold the controller over Chuuya’s thighs.
They stay like that for the duration of the game and when night fell, they finally carved the name Double Black in the international number one high score. They toasted over that and decided to eat out in celebration.
As they joked and elbowed each other’s rib in the close space of a ramen stand in the middle of the night, not even the chill of upcoming autumn can break through the warmth they shared under the yellow light bulb.
Chuuya is his partner. But as he stole Chuuya’s uzumaki and fought over the last bit of crabstick, he wondered if this is what it felt like to have a brother. A very loud and annoying brother that he felt the impulse to kill most of the time, but even that was tinged with fondness.
It came to an end when he placed bombs under Chuuya’s car, waiting until the smaller man slid in to detonate it. Chuuya would survive that, obviously. A simple explosion won’t be able to kill once of Port Mafia’s strongest combatant. He’d probably have his hair singed off, will be very pissed for losing his expensive car and that’s that.
He watched the orange blast of fire from a rooftop in the distance. If he strained his ears, he thought he could hear Chuuya’s roar of frustration and anger. The light soon disappeared, leaving him in the air that still held the vestiges of winter. He pulled his new tan coat around him tighter, shivering in the cold he has scarcely felt in so many years.
Dazai convinced himself that he no longer need that easy familiarity and camaraderie between them. That the bond they had was circumstantial and they would have killed each other if not for the fact they’re stuck as partner.
He doesn’t need the warm body pressed up against him in casual closeness or the absent-minded contact of two people too used with each other to really notice.
What an irony that he only realized how much he loved the warmth of the sun when the night has set in.
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4
Niflheim
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The four years during his two years period of laying low, Dazai found himself frequenting Lupin for no other reason than it was a familiar place away from most prying eyes. It was not a Mafia-owned property so the bartender has no obligation to inform the Organization about his regular patron and the establishment was technically still under the police’s radar so it’s relatively safe from them.
Dazai hated it in Lupin. He came to resent the gleaming rack of alcohol, the shiny counter, the soft cushion. He began to despise the very air inside the shop ever since he realized how everything in it still seemed the sane even after Ango’s betrayal and Odasaku’s death.
Most of all, he hated that sometimes he’d be drunk when the door opened and for a split second he thought ‘That must be them. Oh what a good night I chose to come here!’ only to have that hope be splintered and shattered on the ground between his feet just a few seconds later as he remembered how the three of them has been fractured.
That sort of thing can no longer happen now that one of his friends has betrayed him and the other was dead. He hated this place that rekindled his memory and his hope when it was impossible to ever achieve again.
But there was no other place for him to be. Not in the run-down single room he holed himself him to ride out the vestiges of the organization’s grudge, not to the his old apartment where Chuuya would probably still drop in every now and then just to check if he’s dead yet, not to the old abandoned room that used to serve as a clinic and not to the room full of books that must have been burned to the ground now.
He no longer have a place to belong and as he laid his cheek on the cool counter, sight swimming in and out of focus, he felt so, so cold.
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+1
Nakajima Atsushi
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Four years has passed since his defection of the Port Mafia and ever since then he has never seen eyes quite as pure and kind as he seen in blue-gray eyes.
Until now.
This boy, this ragged, painfully thin, penniless boy, has saved him from the river’s current even when he was visibly dizzy and weak from starvation. His eyes were arrhythmical pattern of purple and gold—Dazai nearly lost his breath when he saw how innocent they are. Such innocence would usually been crushed by cynicisms after the hard life this child seemed to have led. It made Dazai wonder where does he get his strength to stay so good?
When he brought the boy to the warehouse, clouds obscuring the moonlight that would surely harbing the Tiger, he had the full intention to make the boy realize what he is then turn him in to the Military Police. Dazai guessed he would either be imprisoned for the rest of his life or killed the moment he was in the hands of the officials.
But his resolve crumbled when he heard the boy mumbling almost to himself, curling into a fetal position like a child who doesn’t quite know how to protect himself from pain but trying anyway.
“No one would care if someone like me were to die in a ditch somewhere. Yeah, I may be better off eaten by a tiger…”
He ended up taking the boy in, like one stray licking the wound of another.
That despair, the visible loneliness, reminded Dazai so strongly of another boy who never dealt well with being alone, constantly needing others around him. Those eyes reminded him of another man who was calm and kind, pure of heart even with the wretched life they have traversed through. His love for the city that slowly yet surely grew to be strongly binding reminded him of a man who loved the city so much he was willing to sacrifice his light for it.
Sometimes he wondered who did he really saw in Atsushi.
“Dazai-san!” the voice called out for him and burgundy eyes blinked, thought broken by the boy standing beneath the bridge on the bank of the river.
“Ooh, Atsushi-kun! Good morning!”
“What are you doing here? It’s not even dawn yet!” Atsushi asked again, having to practically shout so his voice would reach the man perched delicately on the bridge railing.
“Well, I was thinking about trying to attempt suicide with this!” Dazai showed the twin weight he bought, five kilograms each tied to both legs. “Do you think I’ll be successful this time?”
“Dazai-san that’s dangerous!”
“That’s the point!”
Even from so far away he can hear the exasperated sigh as his protégé turned away from him and began to walk away with his shoulders raised like cat’s hackles. “This time I’m not helping you! Definitely not!” he sulkily said, stomping on the grass.
“How cold-hearted Atsushi-kun! But if that’s okay by you then alright!” Dazai laughed as he stood up and stood right by the edge, looking down the strong current of the river caused by the rain that has been falling over night. He can’t see his own reflection in the erratic flow of water.
Spreading his arms like embracing death, Dazai let himself close his eyes and relish the sound of water rushing onward toward the sea, a smile unconsciously painting his lips. With one last exhale, he let himself tilt down and fall to the body of water. Halfway down he heard Atsushi shouting his name and the cracking of bones.
Breaking water surface never got old. The sudden shock to his system from the cold, the blurring of his sight from the water and the lightheadedness that came from all of his air being expelled from his lungs as he gasped. It was just as calming as he remembered.
By now he’d usually float toward the surface, body naturally betraying his intent, but the weight of the two iron balls dragged him down, down, then they got dragged along with the strong current, taking him with them.
His sight got darker around the edges and with glee Dazai wondered if this is it, if he can finally end it all like this.
Something jerked him back and his body was seared by the pain of being torn into two directions by equal forces. There was a growl that vibrated the water around him and the clutch on his collar disappeared. Beside him, a large body swam past, two times his size and majestic even in the before-dawn river.
Teeth snapped the chains around his legs, one then another, and Dazai broke the water surface to take a large gasping breath, burning lungs rejoicing for the influx of oxygen. But the waves crashed and some water got into his mouth and down his windpipe, making him cough, natural survival instinct kicking in.
Beneath him the water shifted and suddenly the white tiger was beneath him, placing Dazai in the up his back and away from the waves. The fur under his hands were wet but warm as Dazai buried his face in it and laughed. “I thought you said you wouldn’t save me?”
There was a rumble from the tiger that sounded suspiciously like Atsushi grumpily mumbling to himself when Dazai went to do something stupid and made him so, so worried but so exasperated at the same time. Even with the river’s strong current, Atsushi swam to the edge easily, depositing the older man to the grass.
Dazai flopped down wetly to the soil, eyes facing the sky for one moment before he broke into raucous laughter. He turned to his side and held his stomach, wanting it to go away already.
Beside him there was a flash of light and the exuded warmth of tiger disappeared into the coughing of a young human.
“Dazai-san! Are you alright?” Atsushi asked as he crawled to the older man, gloved hand shaking his bicep “Dazai-san!”
“Atsushi, you’re too kind.” Dazai interjected before the boy can go into panic mode. “If even a single strand of hair touched you, then you would have reverted to human and dragged off by the current. You could have died.”
“It’s not like I can let you drown there.” Atsushi argued, butt planting to his calf in seiza, pouting to the side with warmth creeping up his face.
“Ah, that answer is just like you.” Dazai mumbled to himself, sounding barely like a murmur to Atsushi. “That’s really just like you.”
The cold was seeping into his skin from the drenched clothes and bandages. If he has to walk home like this, Dazai wondered if he would die from hypothermia somehow.
Before he can work out the logistic of dying from the cold, warmth enveloped him. Burgundy eyes blinked open to see Atsushi wrapped around him awkwardly, eyes squeezed shut and face flaming so red.
“Atsushi-kun…” he stared, bemused. “What are you doing?”
“I – I’m giving you a… giving you a hug.” He stuttered.
“Why?”
“I read on the internet that this can help suicidal people feel better or stuff…” he trailed off and buried his face on Dazai’s side, at this point he’s sure that Atsushi’s face could serve as a heater on its own.
“I appreciate it, Atsushi-kun,” he chuckled and sat up, patting the boy’s head.
Heterochromatic eyes found his and Atsushi let him go slowly. As the warmth of another body retracted, Dazai felt something in him became empty again, even emptier than before as if Atsushi took with him all the bandages on his skin, revealing him to the world with no barrier.
Still, Dazai smiled and hid all of them in favor of patting Atsushi’s cheek. “What a kind boy. Thank you.”
Afterward, Dazai would wonder what Atsushi saw in his face at that very moment. What defense he let slip to make purple-gold eyes widen in sorrow then harden back in determination.
Atsushi lunged forward and this time Dazai was enveloped in a full embrace, an arm around his shoulder which hand tangled in his brown hair and a palm on the center of his back, pressing his body to Atsushi’s warm torso. Even through the layers upon layers of wet clothing he can feel Atsushi’s heat.
Later, Dazai would deny that his breath hitched when Atsushi pressed a wet yet exuberantly warm cheek to his, breath tickling brown locks in a way he has forgotten. Burgundy eyes widened in shock as he was held, cradled like something precious.
“I—I’m--!” he started and Dazai’s confusion was pushed to the background, replaced by curiosity.
“What is it, Atsushi-kun?” Dazai asked the boy who seemed to be struggling to say something, raising a hand to tense shoulder in a gentle, confused touch.
“Dazai-san, I’m—“ he tried again but the words wouldn’t come out, so he took a deep breath, gulping them all and let them stay in his lungs before spitting them out in a near-shout of “I’m here!”
The moment seemed to freeze for Dazai. There was a burn behind his eyes as he soaked as much warmth as he could to fill his cold, cold body. Bandaged arms went around Atsushi, holding the boy closer to him.
“Yeah…” Dazai murmured with a smile, eyes closing as he buried his face into Atsushi’s shoulder. “You’re here.”
The cold disappeared.
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Final
Armed Detective Agency
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Ever since that day by the river, Atsushi made a point to hug Dazai every morning the moment they met.
Most of the time, because of Atsushi’s hardworking nature and Dazai’s laziness, it happened in the office. The older detective would stroll in, half an hour late for work, and Atsushi would greet him while bounding to the older man like an excitable kitten and envelope him in a hug.
The first time it happened, green irises peeked from beneath brown caps as Ranpo stared at them in surprise and consideration. Then slowly his eyes closed again with a contemplative “Huh.”
The next day Ranpo approached him at break time and shoved a candied apple his way, identical to the one the great detective himself is still holding. As Dazai ate it, Ranpo perched on his chair, pressing their sides together while bragging about the recent successful investigation.
Ranpo’s action created a domino effect in the whole office. The first one to realize what was happening was Yosano-sensei, eying them with a smile that said she has figured out something important and precious.
Since then, whenever she passed by the younger man she would pat his cheek with a fond smile. The first time she dropped a kiss to it playfully, Dazai would admit that he was gaping at her for a total of two seconds of pure surprise before he grinned and told her his other cheek is jealous.
By the second week, Kyouka joined Atsushi’s ambush by crashed-hugged him from behind just as Atsushi hugged his front. It made him incapable of escaping the impact that rattled his body from the two of them leaping at him, but Dazai just laughed and patted their heads, pain quickly forgotten in favor of Atsushi’s grin and Kyouka’s small, sweet smile.
Naomi would sometimes hang from his arm, chattering about something or the other as long as Tanizaki’s not around because the moment he appeared Naomi would disappear from his side glomp her brother with an excited squeal. It would always be followed by the horror screech of Tanizaki himself who nearly cracked his skull on the tiles—as entertaining as ever to watch.
The Tanizaki brother would be too shy to really do anything overt like his sister, but sometimes he’d hesitantly place an arm around Dazai’s shoulder for a few seconds before snatching it back, face burning red as he excused himself from the older man’s vicinity. It was exquisitely adorable, he agreed with Naomi.
Out of the whole Agency, Kenji became the most touchy-feely with him. It was not about the closeness of their relationship and more about his loving, carefree nature. He’d drape himself all over the older man, ask for head-pat with no reservation and hug him out of nowhere. Unknowingly, Kenji started a competition between the three youngest members who would now wrap themselves around a laughing Dazai day after day as if they had something to prove.
Kenji himself is oblivious to this, smiling happily when he saw the office is getting along well.
Once, when the president was around to hear Dazai’s strategy to counter terrorist attack on Yokohama, he nodded and placed his large hand on Dazai’s head. Everyone stopped and stared as the president petted his head for the grand total of fifteen second before leaving the office, exclaiming calmly that they can deal with the terrorists well.
Ranpo naturally threw a colossal fuss about that and now whenever he dropped by the president would pat Dazai then pat Ranpo for double the time he gave Dazai or the agency wouldn’t get anything done.
Naturally, it took Kunikida the longest to realize what was happening to the point where Dazai was almost sure that he only understood the situation because Yosano told him.
Now Kunikida would sometime awkwardly pat his head. The first time it happened, Dazai stared at him with a blank face, and Kunikida also did the same while his hand is still caressing brown hair. It lasted for a few minutes and the whole office was engulfed in silence, also watching them like it was some endurance contest.
The next few times were not so awkward by comparison, and somewhat predictable. It always came whenever Dazai solved a case, and Kunikida would shout at him about everything that’s wrong with his way of investigation in loud voice. When his tirade was over, he’d grudgingly admit in a small voice that his partner did well then pat his head. It was almost hilarious if it wasn’t so cute Dazai could die choking on it.
As the last vestiges of winter dissolved into spring then the blistering cheer of summer, Dazai opened the door to the office to be dogpiled by laughing operatives.
There were streamers in the air, colorful papers hanging on the wall and a cake on the tables pushed together to create a large dining table filled by sweets and other foods.
“Happy birthday, Dazai!”
The voices of the people were almost drowned by the ringing in Dazai’s ears as he took in the scene in front of him. It was his 23rd birthday now, as old as Odasaku was when he died. He wondered what the other man would say if he can see Dazai now, laughing genuinely with people he can call friends.
For the first time in his life, Dazai started to feel whole again.
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