Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“The hell you want, Dazai?” 

“Ah, Chuu-” a gloved hand slaps firmly over chapped lips, another one darting out to grab Dazai´s arm, the one not currently occupied by the phone,  in a tight, desperate, bruising grip. Fingers bite into the bandages covering the detective's arm, almost fang-like—and sure to leave a mark. 

“You gotta lot of nerve calling me after-”

The voice abruptly cuts off.

A heavy sigh, a resolute pause. 

Dazai could imagine the sour expression, the redhead glowering up at him—very unlike the fogged over, panicked expression twisting its way across this Chuuya´s face. 

“What do you want.” It´s a statement, not a question. Then, tacked on for extra measure, used similarly to how one would punctuate the end of a sentence: “Dipshit.” 

Ah, Chuuya. Eloquent, as always.

Dazai stares down at the strange Chuuya in front of him, intelligent brown eyes flicking over the smaller man, taking in detail after alarming detail. 

Greasy, tangled red hair indicating a total lack of care—incredibly unlike his put-together ex-partner. Pasty pale complexion, eye bags sitting heavy–almost bruiselike under foggy eyes that are currently locked on the detective's face as if searching for answers the executive should know he is not going to find. 

Gaze flicking downwards, Dazai's shoulders tense, taking note of the bloodstained cashmere scarf resting heavy over this Chuuya´s tense shoulders. 

There´s a faint rustling sound from the other end of the line, the rough voice noticeably louder–the mafia executive must have moved closer to the phone. 

The other Chuuya's grip tightens on Dazai's face. Leather covered fingers dig tightly into the skin of the detective's cheeks, resulting in a painful ache. At the same time, the imposter, clone, or whoever it was that was wearing his ex-partners face jolted, roughly pulling Dazai closer by the brunette's captured arm. 

The phone tumbles out of Dazai´s hand, plummeting to the floor with an audible ´clack´ against the cheap, laminate tiles. 

“Dazai?” 

The voice tries again, losing some of its accusatory edge as wariness fights its way through the man's scratchy tone.

After a moment, the voice chuffs “Did you just drop your phone? Idiot.”

It's as if time had frozen in the back hallway of that cursed bar. 

Dim L.E.D. lights buzz softly above the two men, casting the scene in a washed out, sickly glow. 

The strange Chuuya takes two stiff steps forward, sidestepping the phone and yanking Dazai closer before releasing his death grip, bruising the detective's bandaged arm. The brunette blinks owlishly, spreading chapped lips, skin catching and dragging on the rough material covering his mouth before resolutely sinking teeth into the soft, worn leather of the stranger's glove. 

As a result, Not-Chuuya's hand shoots up to the taller man's neck, yanking him down by the collar of his button down shirt and then grabbing a fistful of dark brown curls, drawing the taller detective into an uncomfortable forward curve. The top button of the detective's shirt pops off from the strain and clatters violently to the floor.

At this point, Dazai´s scalp stings from the needling pressure of the stranger's grip, the two men locked into a strange, violent, laughable imitation of a hug, almost. 

Or it would be, if it weren't for the hand still covering Dazai's mouth, teeth sunk into soft leather, pinching the skin of the strange man's palm.

Dazai releases an intentional, strained hiss from behind the stranger's gloved hand.

Well-worn brown leather meets shiny black leather, the material of the brunette's shoes groaning in protest as Not-Chuuya stomps down on the detective's foot. Hard. 

“Okay, what the hell is going on here?” 

The voice from the phone, anything but forgotten in its post at the two men's feet, speaks up angrily. There´s more shifting and rustling from the other end of the line, the sound of a heavy wooden chair scraping back before the muffled sound of confident footsteps become audible in the background. 

Dazai abruptly goes limp in the stranger's grasp, intent on dragging the man down to the floor with him. He succeeds momentarily, until the strange Chuuya goes limp as well, falling with him and causing the detective to bump the back of his head firmly against the laminate floor with a heavy thunk´. In the tussle, the hand trapping Dazai´s mouth is released, permitting the phone, ever listening in, to pick up on a slurred “Fuck.” 

Of course an establishment like this did not splurge on flooring. Underneath the worn tiles is the concrete the bar owners, lazily, attempted to hide. Therefore no cushion at all was provided for the poor detective's , now pounding, head.

Dazed and seeing stars, Dazai reaches out blindly, sluggishly for the phone, palms tapping haphazardly against cheap, dusty, tiles. 

“Dazai! Answer me. Now.” a scratchy, disgustingly familiar voice filters through Dazai´s ears. Sounding much too far away. 

The device is located about a foot in front of the detective's feet. 

The buzzing from the overhead L.E.D. lights seem to get louder, more insistent, in Dazai's ears as he feels strong gloved hands grip bony shoulders. The detective is being turned onto his stomach, buttons and bolo tie digging uncomfortably into the cold, hard floor as a weight settles firmly onto the bandaged man´s lower back. 

“Bastard, are you drunk or somethin´?” Clearer than before, a door slams on the other end of the phone, the sound of cars now present in the background. 

The detectives bandaged arms are, once again, caught in a bruising grip. This time, the brunette's shoulders ache in protest as the strange Chuuya gathers the taller man's arms into one fist, gripping his coat tightly as if afraid Dazai may slip away forever. 

A muffled frustrated scoff, “Answer me, Dazai! Or else I'm coming over to kick your ass.” 

Oh, Chuuya…if only you knew. 

Leaning forwards slowly, the strange Chuuya situates himself close to the detective's ear, lips ghosting against the outer shell and sending an uncomfortable shiver down the brunette's spine. The feeling is like nails scraping against a chalkboard, Dazai hates the sensation of the strangers breath against his face. 

Dazai, in his disgruntled state, notes a hesitant, shaky inhale coming from the redhead before lean thighs squeeze cruelly against his sides. A warning.

Dazai knows when he´s being told to shut up.

Another shallow inhale “Here´s what´s going to happen” the tight grip on Dazai's aching arms adjusts as the stranger lengthens his right leg, seemingly aiming to slide the phone closer to the duo. The tip of the man's black leather shoe catches the side of the device. 

Sliding it tantalizingly closer and closer to Dazai´s reach. 

Dazai´s Chuuya is concerningly quiet, the city sounds of Yokohama present on the other side of the line, paired with the roar of a motorcycle, car horns howling, and the occasional strangled “Damnit, Dazai…!”

“You” squeezing the detective's bandaged arms, the strange Chuuya quietly hisses the word like a slur “Are going to use that big brain of yours. Think of somethin' to make" the stranger pauses, as if hesitant “Him, go away.” 

“Dazai! Where are you?” 

Not-Chuuya´s other hand, the one not currently occupied with the lanky detective's arms, wraps firmly around the front of Dazai's throat, fingers pressing down slowly, threateningly, as leather kisses sweat soaked bandages. Sneering, the redhead presses the side of his face against Dazai's, further invading the man's space.  “No secret codes.” 

The “I´´ll know" is unspoken between them, and yet, deeply understood. 

Dazai swallows, Adams apple bobbing against Not-Chuuya´s leather covered palm as he stares blankly at the dingy white floor in front of him, head pounding. With a strained sigh, the brunette stiffly nods his head once, resolutely. 

“Tch.” 

The strange Chuuya releases Dazai´s neck, the redhead's free hand suddenly resting on top of the detective's shaggy brown curls.

Ignoring the sweat, dust, and other debris from the bar floor that have become ensnared in the brunette's previously clean curly locks. Thick fingers delicately card their way through the strands, catching on tangles,  before ruffling the unkempt curls hesitantly, almost affectionately. Seemingly satisfied, the stranger grabs Dazai´s, now even more cracked, mobile phone and holds it up in front of the detective's face. 

As Dazai takes a steadying breath, the strange Chuuya leans forward to place his chin on top of Dazai´s head, getting comfortable as he waits. 

“Ah! Chuuya!” Dazai chirps brightly, laying it on thick—using a warm, almost delighted tone despite the vacant look in his eye.

On the other end of the line, a car horn barks and the sound of tires whine against the pavement. 

“Dazai.”

The brunette trills “Yep! That's my name, alright. Congratulations, Chuuya!” 

Dazai´s tone is bright, mocking, and vague as ever. A direct contrast to the dead–eyed, far off look he is currently leveling at the tiles in front of him. Charcoal eyes sit heavy in the man's face as he levels his expression into an unreadable mask.

“You guessed it! I suppose that means I won´t be taking your first born child, boo.” 

“Rumpelstiltskin? Really, Dazai?” 

The strange Chuuya tenses, digging his gloved fingers tight into Dazai´s arms. 

No. Codes.

The corners of the detective's chapped lips turn up, mimicking the shape of a smile without the eyes crinkling or any sort of emotional connection, the bare minimum needed to create the cheery tone he sends his ex-partners' way. 

“Bastard. Where are you right now?” 

“Somewhere in Yokohama.” Dazai deadpans as the Chuuya on the other end of the line groans. 

“Hardy-har-har, we have a real comedian on our hands here.” The familiar dry tone of his ex-partner echoes dimly through the back hallway. Dazai's head pounds, thoughts working a mile a minute. The strange Chuuya shifts to place the mobile phone face up on the floor, returning his gloved hand to the detective's throat. Squeezing softly in a direct warning. 

Wrap it up. 

With a petulant sigh, Dazai purses his lips together in the imitation of a pout “Chuuuuya” lolling his head heavily to the side, the detective squishes his cheek into the cool floor, following the phone and forcing the redhead to lay flat against the taller man's back with a muffled grunt. 

“Dazai” Chuuya responds, plainly. Tone dryer than a desert, rough like the texture of a cat's tongue, grating to said man's ears and making his headache even worse. 

“Ugh, if the nosy slug must know, I´m at work right now.” Dazai admits, or, moreso whines. 

“Now, was that so hard?...How are things at the office?” 

Clever, slug. Trying to get his location.

The Not-Chuuya currently pressed up against Dazai's back, unfortunately, agrees. Resulting in a warning squeeze, leather creaking as the stranger momentarily cuts off the detective's air supply. 

Dazai masks the sound of his own choking as a disgusted gag, whining as soon as the leather covered hand leaves his bandaged throat “Sooooo hard, you have no idea, Chuuya.”

Vague answer, a real Dazai specialty. 

Not-Chuuya snorts, muffling the sound in Dazai´s sweat-soaked hair

“Bastard, stop saying my name.” a brief pause, Dazai can imagine the wheels turning in the mafioso's tiny head. “And if that was some shitty innuendo, gross.” he retches on the other end of the line "I'll hang up on your sorry ass.”

The two ex-partners pick up speed, rapid-fire responding to each other's banter:

“Ew, as if. So mean, slug. Don´t you know I have a headache? At least buy me a drink first”  A whine from Dazai “And you think you're the gentleman. Gross!”

“Poor baby, talking to you is giving ME a headache. I oughta come over and knock some sense into that thick skull of yours.” Chuuya barks in response.

“Oh? My head hurts so bad, I´m seeing double and still, Chuuya teases. Cruel! I expect nothing less from a Port Mafia dog. I need a drink just talking to you.” one dramatic ´harumph´ from the detective.

“Shut up, idiot”

“Stupid slug!”

“Slimy fish!”

“Dog!”

“Mummy!”

“Hat rack!”

“Grow up!”

“Heh.”

“Oh, shut the hell up! I´ll kill you dead, damn Dazai!”

It´s almost like the old days. The detective muses. 

Throughout this exchange, Dazai could almost forget the weight of Not-Chuuya pressing down on his back, almost, not really—that is,  until he felt the stranger tighten his grip on the detective, the fearful clench causing the brunette to wince and release a pained hiss. 

“Dazai…?”

“Slugggg, stop yelling, you´re making my head hurt worse.” Dazai covers, glaring up at the man holding him to the floor.  “Anyways, I'm hanging up now. Do me a favor, Chuuya?”

“Oi, Dazai-”

“Drive directly into traffic, for me. Okay, bye!” Dazai chirps, directing his glare from Not-Chuuya over to the phone positioned on the floor. The redhead dutifully follows the brunette's gaze and lurches forward. 

“Wait-” 

Whatever Chuuya was about to say is cut off by the other Chuuya abruptly hanging up the call. 

Silence.

The buzz of dingy L.E.D. lighting the only sound present, clouding over the back hallway like a bad omen. Dazai's phone buzzes against the floor, caller I.D. stating: “slug” flashing on the cracked screen glowing brightly against the dirty tile. 

The call goes ignored. 

“Anyday now.” Dazai drones, all playfulness dropped from the detective's smooth tone. The fake, yet warm, delivery of the brunette's words replaced with a cold, bored drawl. 

“What?”

“Get off me.”

The detective lays stiff as a board beneath Chuuya. Head turned at an uncomfortable angle to avoid the press of the redhead's mouth against his hair. 

Not-Chuuya ignores him, maintaining the bruising grip on the detective's arms. 

“Not until you tell me what I need to know.” After a moment, the redhead releases Dazai's arms, quickly pushing the lanky man onto his back. On the way, he grabs the bandaged arm that shoots out to slap him, slamming it onto the tiled floor, causing pain to flash across the brunette's features, arm protectively cradling to his chest on impulse.

“Fuck!” Dazai yelps at the pain shooting from his wrist, up into the tendons of his hand. 

Not-Chuuya at least has the decency to look a little guilty, hands hovering over the bandaged man's chest momentarily, inhaling sharply, before continuing to maneuver the brunette. 

The strange Chuuya pushes Dazai towards the wall, dragging him up into a seated position. Kicking the brunette's legs open, Not-Chuuya crawls to sit on the bandaged man's lap as he once again captures the detective's wrists. 

This time, Dazai´s lengthy arms are pinned above his head, Not-Chuuya invading his space. The disheveled man scans the brunette's face, seeking out every subtle line, freckle, acne scar, and all the details that make Dazai´s face, well, Dazai´s. 

The redheads faraway gaze settles for just too long on the soft yellow-green marks across Dazai´s cheeks, the ugly impression of fingers left over from their scuffle. The disheveled man's unfocused blue eyes wet, storming with emotion: guilt, frustration, relief, confusion, and something else—something almost soft, a look Dazai never wants to see on Chuuya´s face, ever again. 

Gross. 

Dazai´s face levels into a steely expression. A snide curl creeping across the detective's upper lip. He inhales, charcoal eyes cold and twinkling, twin pools of disgust, as the brunette's eyes narrow meanly at the imposter. 

Not-Chuuya shifts his grip, freeing a leather bound hand to pat Dazai down. Thick fingers dig their way into the deep pockets of the bandaged man's trenchcoat, pulling out and inspecting items as he comes across them.

Looking for clues, oh? Just what are you? 

Dazai's frigid gaze follows the stranger's methodical movements, boredly. Dissecting the strange Chuuya´s behavior, Dazai begins to draw some conclusions:

• Despite the man's erratic behavior, ultimately, he had pulled his punches. Yes, Dazai´s wrist, skull, shoulders, foot, and jaw were all screaming in disagreement, however, Dazai had watched his Chuuya shatter bone with minimal effort in the past. While rougher with Dazai than his own Chuuya, Not-Chuuya was still being incredibly gentle.

• Secondly, it was impossible to ignore that this Chuuya felt guilt for damaging Dazai. Not only that, he was frightened, seemingly by the idea of Dazai´s death. The evidence is clear in the green and yellow finger-shaped marks hidden beneath Dazai's bandages. The stranger's death grip left an impression on pasty pale skin when the real Chuuya had threatened Dazai´s life. 

• Not-Chuuya seems to know Dazai, seemingly very well, however, is unfamiliar with basic information about his ex-partner. Strange. 

• Speaking of strange, Not-Chuuya was weird. His movements erratic, jerky, and lurched: almost as if the dog hadn't had a proper night's rest in a long, long, time. Nevermind a shower. Dazai´s Chuuya wouldn´t be caught dead looking like such a mess.

Allowing his mind to drift away slightly, Dazai reminisces on his own Chuuya, just for the sake of comparison. Conjuring up the fiery red head at, what was technically his lowest: fresh out of N´s strange little torture chamber, shirtless, still managing to look proud and put together despite the suffering he endured in that tank. 

At the time, Dazai had showed up late on purpose, so that Chuuya would be tortured a bit. No biggie. Nothing really did any damage to his durable partner. Later on, Dazai discovered N had managed to do some damage, electrocuting the boy beyond his own limits, forcing him to murder a perfect copy of himself—among other things. 

Yep, the real Chuuya would never allow Dazai to see him looking like such a disgruntled, gross, sloppy mess. 

Dazai was, also, not going to allow his Chuuya to fight, yet another, copy of himself. Once was fun, twice? Now, that would just be cruel. Dazai wasn´t the best dog owner, but he did have standards. 

Oh, Dazai couldn´t forget, Not-Chuuya was wearing Mori's scarf. Wrapped around the man's shaking shoulders, covered in blood, and other bodily matter—a bad omen if Dazai had ever seen one.

Thankfully, Dazai decided to carry light today, Deigning to keep his pockets relatively empty. 

Not-Chuuya sits back, seemingly complete with his search of Dazai´s person—and total breach of the detective's privacy.

In the end, Not-Chuuya pulls out: a lighter, the cigarette Dazai bummed on his way back from the bar (unsmoked, he just wanted to see if he could get one), two of kunikida´s pens, pilfered from the office that morning. In the other pocket, Not-Chuuya discovers his handbook and the leather case that protects his A.D.A. license. 

Dazai´s belongings are all currently being hurriedly placed back in the detectives pockets. However, some key items lay in a pile to the detectives left, these items are as follows:

• The lighter.
• Dazai´s A.D.A. license, the leather bent back, now broken so that it lays open for Not-Chuuya to read as he places the “safe” items back in Dazai's trench coat pockets.

The strange Chuuya hesitates, eyes scanning the cover of Dazai´s handbook, The Complete Suicide, before shoving to the bottom of the bandaged mans pocket, disdain curling his upper lip. 

Dazai scoffs and whispers bitterly “Not to your taste, eh?” 

In response the redheads eyes narrow, blue eyes settling on the detective's face, searching the taller man's expression for something. What that is, Dazai has no clue. 

“Well, carry on, I suppose” Dazai drawls, turning his head stubbornly to the side, away from Not-Chuuya's glazed over stare. 

The strange Chuuya reaches a gloved hand towards the pile, the one clearly deemed “unsafe” for Dazai´s personhood. 

From this pile, Not-Chuuya picks up the first item, the lighter, and tucks it into his own breast pocket. Specifically, the one on the left side of the stranger's black vest. The vest with the weird, stiff, dark stain on the front of it. 

Gross.

Next, Not-Chuuya holds up the broken A.D.A. license in front of Dazai´s face. The detective stares directly ahead, as if looking through the object, charcoal eyes as deep and dark as a cave. 

“Explain” the redhead hisses, shoulders tense, the imposters grip tightens around the leather case. The plastic card inside creaking from the strain—anymore pressure and it was bound to snap. 

“Hm?” Dazai drawls lazily, blinking owlishly forwards.

“Why do you have this?” Not-Chuuya growls, a desperate edge to his rough, subdued tone. “Answer me, Dazai.” the man jolts Dazai from his trapped wrists, causing pain to blossom from the detective's injured wrist.

Dazai hisses at the grinding pain, charcoal eyes narrow as they focus on Not-Chuuya's nose. Decisively avoiding eye-contact, the detective hums “Explain what, exactly?” 

After a moment, the brunette gasps shallowly “Explain why I have a job? Oh, Chuuya. I knew you were dumb, but not that dumb.” The redhead's name is hissed, as if the very idea of the man was distasteful to the detective. There´s no playfulness present in the brunette's tone, whatsoever. 

Not-Chuuya's eye twitches in response, chapped, bitten, lips peeling back as his teeth bare in a frustrated snarl “Shut up! You don't know anything.”

“And, you do?” Dazai raises a single, judgemental eyebrow. “Oh, Chuuya-”

“The A.D.A., what´s your deal with them?” The redhead barks, cutting the detective off as he snaps the leather case closed, tucking it away in a coat pocket. 

The detective sighs, a mocking twinkle shining in the depths of his stare “What? Do you have a problem with them? The A.D.A., that is.”

“I know what the hell you're doin ', Daz-” 

“Dazai?”

The two men are interrupted by a gentle shout seeming to drift in from the front of the bar, precursed by a gentle tinkle, the cheery golden bell above the door. 

“Dazai?”

Fuck. Atsushi. 

Not-Chuuya tenses on top of Dazai.

Before the brunette, efficient as he may be, can think to react, Not-Chuuya´s reflexes win. 

A wild look flashes through the stranger's eyes as he quickly wraps an elbow around Dazai´s bandaged neck. Hoisting Dazai up and off the floor,the redhead presses the taller man's back to his heaving chest. Toned muscle holds the bandaged man in place, cutting off the brunette's air supply as Not-Chuuya hurriedly drags them both into the restroom. 

Once again choking, Dazai takes care to tilt his legs so that the side of his thighs glide smoothly across the tile, his nice, light dress pants picking up all sorts of dust, dirt, and debris along the way. 

Neither man notices the sapphire gem of Dazai's bolo tie clattering to the floor, kicked haphazardly out of the way by the taller detective's feet as he's manhandled towards the heavy green door. 

Not-Chuuya steps on Dazai's cracked phone, the now shattered screen still lighting up at the top with notifications. 

slug: which bar

slug: dazai

slug: what bar

slug: lupin?

slug: damnit

At this point, Dazai was going to need an entire new outfit, and a new phone, too. 

Once inside the restroom, Not-Chuuya becomes uncharacterically gentle as he presses the door closed. Taking extra care to muffle the sound. The lock clicks to the right, resolutely. 

As if that lock could keep Atsushi out. 

Dazai wishes it could. 

The detective's body is dumped roughly on the floor. Dazai´s head spins. 

Not-Chuuya places a foot over the lanky man's chest, the strange man's fine leather dress shoe leaving a dark, dusty stain on the taller man's white and blue button down shirt. Looming over Dazai, Not-Chuuya points to the door, then swivels that same gloved finger around to an ear, pointing decidedly to the eardrum.

The finger presses against chapped, bitten, pink lips: shushing Dazai.

Finally, Not-Chuuya  drags the finger across his own pale neck, mimicking the motion of a slit throat. 

Shut up, or else.

Dazai did not need to be reminded. 

Ah, so it seems that this Chuuya is familiar with Atsushi´s enhanced senses.

Dazai comes to three new realizations about this strange Chuuya clone:

• One, Not-Chuuya is way more familiar with Dazai´s mentee than his ex-partner. 

• Two, Not-Chuuya had a disturbingly alarmed reaction to Atsushi´s voice. 

• Three, Not-Chuuya is willing to kill to keep his hands on Dazai, at the moment.

Okay, new plan. Dazai had to get the two of them out of here. Right now. As soon as possible. No casualties. 

Them being Dazai and Not-Chuuya, somehow, without alerting Atsushi or the two officers to their unwelcome guest, who was clearly the murderer they had come to this accursed bar searching for. 

The detective lets loose a heavy, petulant sigh.

Not-Chuuya increases the pressure of his foot. Dazai's ribs creak in protest and the lanky man restrains a pained hiss. 

“Dazaiiii, hey, where did you go?” Atsushi's gentle voice crawls closer and closer. Still muffled as he seems to be traversing the length of the bar. The elder detective can practically picture the weretiger ducking around the bar carefully searching for his enigmatic mentor.

There´s a tense minute, the two men practically holding their breath as they wait in the dingy restroom. Yet another overhead lightbulb flashes lazily above them, causing both men's eyes to twitch. Dazai slips his eyes closed, focusing on his breathing pattern, attempting to slow down his heart rate as it jackrabbits out of control in the detective's chest. 

If Dazai were to look up, he would have surely noticed the absolute storm of emotions flashing across the strangers expression: Grief, hatred, anger, betrayal, frustration, pure-unbridled sadness, all of these emotions, and more too complex to name, paint a desperate picture. 

Not-Chuuya´s teeth creak as they grind together, the chips in the back of his molars straining, bad habit be damned.  The mafioso´s fists grabbed rough handfuls of the material of his own dress pants, gripping tight, the man shakes in place. A dull scarlet glow throbbing around him as he fights to control Tainted. 

Un-oiled hinges scream in warning. A heavy ´thunk´. Atsushi has entered the back hallway.

Dazai opens his eyes, charcoal gaze burning bright with focus as he sets his eyes on the heavy green door to the restroom. 

“Dazai? Are you okay?”

“Oh! Atsushi! What a pleasant surprise.” Dazai chirps from his position on the floor. The detective sits up, brushing his hands over the cotton material of his vest, mimicking adjusting his clothing. “Did you discover anything? Any secrets revealed?” with a teasing lilt, the brunette clears his throat, letting a soft smile grace his features. 

“Uh, kind of? Listen, are you okay in there? I see your gem thing on the ground over there.” 

Not-Chuuya glares down at Dazai's chest, right where the missing bolo tie should be, a dark, accusatory expression flashing over his taut features. Shoulders tight, the redhead raises a glowing scarlet arms towards the door, barely restraining his pulsating ability.  In response, the detective shrugs, eyebrows lowering as he mouths: “Not my fault.” 

“And…is that your phone?”

“Bolo tie.” the detective corrects, gently, ignoring the comment about his phone. “Ah, that old thing. Well, Atsushi—you see, in my rush to get to the restroom, I decided to shed some layers on the way to save time. Silly me, must have knocked the bolo clean off.” 

Accompanied by the mimicry of an embarrassed chuckle, Dazai takes a hand to the back of his own head, rustling the sweat-soaked hair softly. “Hey, do me a favor? Keep that safe for me, Atsushi.”

“Uh, Dazai. Why don't you just take care of it yourself?” hesitant, Atsushi's voice creeps closer and closer to the heavy green door. 

Not-Chuuya pulses a violent red, getting brighter and brighter, until the restroom is encased in a claustrophobic, scarlet glow.

Dazai's expression stiffens, rare dread seeping into the brunette's features, the detective loses careful control of his heartbeat as it skips a beat “Trust me, Atsushi.”

“Daz-”

Not-Chuuya´s fist clenches, leather creaking, Dazai responds quickly to cover the slip up, sighing fondly.

“Atsushi, what did I say to you before you left to check out the alleyway?” crossing his arms over his chest, the detective tilts his head to the side, sweat-soaked curls not-quite tumbling into his face, some of them clump together, sticking messily to the brunette's forehead.

 “Don´t…wait…up…!” with a short chuckle, Dazai smiles softly. “I´ll be right out.”

Time to throw his mentee a bone. 

Waiting a moment, Dazai slides greasy hairs out of his face, tucking the strands behind his ear as he adds: “Hey, do me a favor and show those two officers what's on the mobile phone on the counter. I did some guess work, the password is 5921.”

Not-Chuuya levels a mean glare towards Dazai. Distrust sharp in his features, the man twitches, clearly wanting to take a step towards the detective. Instead he crouches down, gloved fingers brushing against something beneath the sink. Making contact. 

“5..9..2..1.” Atsushi lists from directly outside the restroom door. The youthful detectives tone heavy with uncertainty.  “Okay, Dazai. Whatever you say, I trust you. But-”

“Atsushiiiiiiii” Dazai whines petulantly before making a shooing motion with his hands, wincing silently at the bend of his injured wrist “No buts! I insist.” 

From Not-Chuuya's palm, a concerning, concentrated red glow creeps its way across a small metal trashcan, dutiful in its placement beneath the sink.

“What exactly am I looking for? Dazai, are you really sure you're-"

“Contacts! Shoo! Go!”

Not-Chuuya´s shoulders are shaking, focusing hard as Tainted delicately levitates the, heavy enough, metal trashcan above Dazai's head threateningly. 

A long, petulant, whine comes from the detective as he grips the material of his trenchcoat tightly, twisting wool, bandages, and his own scarred skin alike. 

Dazai was panicking, just a little. In his own, Dazai way. 

Oh, sweet dutiful Atsushi. 

“Which o-”

“Pinned contact! On top!”

The trash can hovers higher, as Not-Chuuya stares darkly at the heavy, green door. At this height, if the man were to drop it on Dazai´s head, he would surely be out like a light upon contact. 

“Dazai, your heartbeat-”

Consciousness shattered like the lightbulb Not-Chuuya must have broken last night, killing the bartender. 

Dazai would be unable to stop Not-Chuuya from murdering Atsushi, the orphan he was trying so desperately to save. 

Dazai can only cancel out abilities after they make contact with his body, the trashcan will have done its job before then.

“Atsushi, you've forced my hand” Dazai's tone drops, suddenly serious. Spindly fingers desperately clutch at his own stomach, fingers brush over rough cotton, damp with sweat. 

Groaning, the detective forces his eyes to wet: plastic, salty, crocodile tears dropping down sharp cheekbones. 

Whining, the detective lets his head drop backwards, curls tumbling down as he stares wide-eyed at the trashcan hovering above him. “Atsushiiiii, leave me aloneeee.”

Dazai hopes Atsushi will fall for this particular trick for the second time, the third, if you count that little incident with Q at the train station.

“My stomach hurtssss.” 

And so, Dazai puts on an excellent performance. Whining and groaning like a young child throwing a tantrum, clutching at his stomach, glaring right at Not-Chuuya the entire time. Almost pleading, charcoal eyes leveling on baffled, angry, blue. 

“I need to use the restroom!” 

“Ah! Right! Oh, geez” The weretiger blanches, safe on the other side of the heavy green door.

“Oh man, I'm so sorry, Dazai” Atsushi's tone is suddenly shaking with embarrassment, if the elder detective closed his eyes tight, Dazai could picture the pink flush spreading over weretigers gentle features.

The trashcan drops.

“I´ll uh—I´ll leave you alone.” 

Fortunately, not on Dazai´s pounding head. 

“I really do trust you, Dazai—and uh, see you soon.” 

The metal contraption hovers lightly over the floor, halting in  its descent.

And with that, Atsushi is off. Steps hurried, Dazai can deduce the youthful detective is running on the balls of his feet. The weretiger is going to trip if he keeps that up.

Dazai calls out weakly, warbling "Don't forget the bolo!”

One pathetic sniff from Dazai later. 

“Oh, right! My bad. Sorry.”

Hinges shriek, a polite ´thunk´.

And Dazai can finally breathe.  

Looking up at Not-Chuuya, Dazai makes a show of locking eyes with the exhausted doppelganger. Palms drifting upwards in the performance of surrender, the detective gently raises his eyebrows. 

“We need to talk.”

Not-Chuuya snorts in response, glaring at Dazai from his post at the chipped restroom sink. 

“Listen, I need you to trust me.”

A flash of something difficult, something complex, passes over Not-Chuuya´s features—Something painful.

“No.” the strange man forces out, as if by reflex. 

“Fine, you don't need to trust me, but we can´t stay here.” Dazai responds quickly, keeping his palms open towards the stranger. “You need somewhere to stay, clearly, I can tell by your clothes. You need me-”

“No.” The redhead pauses, gaze flicking over Dazai's disheveled appearance. The detective spread out on the floor, shirt destroyed—missing buttons, bolo tie gone, giant footprint present on the bandaged man's chest, hair a sweat-soaked disaster, charcoal eyes showing a hasty edge that Chuuya has never seen before. Trepidation is heavy in the shorter man's shoulders, as his gaze lingers on the bruising, fingerprints a sickly yellow-green across the brunette's cheeks. 

Tear tracks, albeit plastic ones, decorate Dazai's face and the envoy strangles the urge to wipe them away with his dirty sleeve. 

“I don't need you.” 

A lie, if either man has ever heard one. 

Dazai projects his movements carefully, offering a singular hand forward—the injured one shoved deep in a trench coat pocket. 

“Come with me, Chuuya.”