Chapter Text
There is no such thing as happiness nor unhappiness; Everything will pass.
Osamu Dazai ponders as his eyes stare vacantly forward, fingertips searching the wood grain of the bartop in front of him for patterns. The man is currently slouched over, arms crossed and folded beneath him to create a pillow for his pounding head.
With an overly weighted sigh, the brunette turns his head back towards his hands, pressing his forehead into his wrist he hopes the pressure will alleviate at least a little of his pulsing headache. Alas, he has never been that lucky and the steady pain between his eyebrows holds strong. More of an annoyance than an actual problem, similar to a mosquito buzzing around one's ear, but still, he wishes the pain would buzz right off away from him, thank you. Dazai lets his eyelids flutter closed, if only for a moment, and the lack of stimulation seems to offer the miserable man some relief.
A comprehensive list of what shares the bartop with one, Osamu Dazai, includes: a well-loved copy of The Complete Suicide, a, for now, untouched glass of whiskey, a stolen pen belonging to one Doppo Kunikida, and a gaggle of empty glass tumblers just begging to be cleaned. Dazai rolls the thought of a cat knocking the tumblers off the counter one by one through his head. The bartender, ever suspicious, and balding, Dazai notes, eyes him warily from the back counter.
The seats surrounding Dazai are empty, just as he had predicted. His predictions were never wrong, after all.
With a furrowed brow, Dazai slowly opens his eyes, drifting his gaze towards the offending light above him as if thought alone could snuff out the dim fixture.
“Hey you. Still alive over there?” The bartender calls lazily from the back counter, phone in hand, Dazai notices how his attention flicks from the clock, to his phone, to Dazai, and then back again.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Dazai hums, adjusting his position on the bar stool to cuddle further into his own arms. Playing at a gentle sigh, he allows his eyelids to flutter closed once again. “Say bartender, do you offer any bleach based cocktails? I am looking for recommendations, you know.”
“Real funny” the man huffs, stretching out his back before crossing his arms over his chest, the phone now placed face down on the back counter behind him. Interesting habit. “But no, we do not.”
With a weighted sigh, Dazai pushes himself up, chin resting on one hand, the brunette tilts his head and sticks his lower lip out in a subtle pout. “Boo. What a shame. How about a glass of straight bleach…?”
“Sorry, all out.” The bartender snorts out his reply with a raised eyebrow and reaches back to flip the phone over, tapping the screen twice to check the time before huffing out a short sigh and turning away from Dazai.
Jests aside, based on the conditions of the facility, the brunette ponders if the bartender is telling the truth. It could use a thorough cleaning, not that Dazai was one to judge, he hadn´t even opened the window in his dorm once since he had moved in. Nevermind properly cleaned or disinfected it, although he wonders if his colleagues would permit him enough bleach in his space to even attempt it.
Dazai takes a sip of his lukewarm whiskey, unaffected by the burn in his sinuses as the amber liquid slides its way down his throat.
A knot begins to form in the detective's stomach, against his own will. His elegant fingers twitch ever so slightly as he reminisces his current predicament. He had successfully been a part of the infamous Armed Detective Agency for two years now, saved dozens of lives, spared a couple dozen more, and yet, the ever constant ache of longing was stronger than ever.
Living with the ADA had brought some color back into Dazai's life: his complexion was healthier, a hint of a tan graced his previously pasty pale disposition. The swap from long mafia nights to, often, lazy ADA afternoons showing on what little skin he allowed the public to view. The brunette, while still concerningly skinny, had managed to put on some weight. Just enough for his lengthy legs to gain some lean muscle, likely as a result of all the running around he did with the agency.
Dazai was not a man to actively search out mirrors. When he did catch his reflection, however, it felt like staring at a stranger or, more accurately, a creature: wearing the face of a gentle, charitable, trustworthy man.
What an excellent disguise he had built for himself, without even trying.
If the bartender were to turn around right now, and take note of his customers face, he would surely notice the emptiness present in the brunette's pupils. A fogged over, far off look, reminiscent of a lone dead fish caught in a net.
Inhaling through his nose, the brunette follows the feeling of his own breath as it travels from his lungs and upwards throughout his aching chest.
The light above Dazai flickers, he begins to absentmindedly keep track of the time in between pulses as he nurses his mediocre beverage, one finger tapping restlessly on the counter. That itching sensation of a- mosquito-that-you-can´t-quite-catch returns as the brunette stares steadily into his glass. He tilts his glass to swirl around the amber liquid, tilts his head back, swallows down the rest of his socially acceptable poison, and places it down on the rough countertop with a soft ´thunk´´.
“Going out for a smoke!” The brunette calls with a cheery lilt, waving one hand in a gentle salute to the bartender. His teeth curl up into his impression of a cheeky smirk to which the bartender replies with a dismissive hand and a rough nod. His mind seemingly off the lanky man's tab, and on whatever business he had on his phone. Perhaps, a lady friend? Lucky. Smoothly, Dazai scoops up The Complete Suicide and eyeballs the stolen pen for a moment before shoving both items deep into his trenchcoat pockets and sailing out the glass door of the bar. The doors accompanying bell tinkled cheerily in response on his way out.
The frigid air bites at Dazai´s skin as he steps out into the streets of Yokohama and the lanky man shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his trenchcoat. His fingertips brushing against Kunikida's pen the brunette absentmindedly begins to toy with the utensil twisting it up and apart then back down again as he walks leisurely down the street.
It is a pleasant night, despite the cold. The tips of Dazai´s ears are beginning to turn numb as he strolls down the sidewalk, the brunette's expression melting into a neutral stare. His dark eyes lose their cheery jest and instead settle into a steady twinkle of intelligence as Dazai drops his emotional mask in the relative privacy of his nighttime stroll. His slim shoulders rise as he yawns, the whiskey in his system making the detective's restless bones feel a bit heavier than usual. Dazai lets his mind drift to the futon back at his dorm and the man's leisurely steps begin to gain some purpose.
What a bore…
The man had decided to support a local business, meaning: drink outside his own apartment, in hopes of finding some company. Someone to entertain, or annoy, and as a result, feel some sort of purpose for the night. But alas, the only company he had found was a boring, balding, bartender and his own thoughts.
Walking by an alley, the brunette's eyebrow twitches as he hears the sound of a tinny crunch closely followed by the raucous barking of a dog. Dazai's nose twitches,the grating sound of the mutts barks echoing through the alleyway and into the street. The brunette clicks his tongue and sighs, gaze sliding to the side.
His own thoughts, and some dog.
“Hm...?” The brunette's eyes narrow, hands stuffed firmly in his pockets, he leans forward to glance down the alleyway. Squinting into the darkness, he makes out a trashcan, caved all the way in like a crushed soda can and tilted on its side. Next to the can is a dog, barking right at a brick wall. Well, at least dogs never fail to entertain with their own stupidity.
I suppose I should take some notes…?
Still, no mere dog could have crushed metal like that.
The dog jumps to place its paws flat on the brick wall, tilting its head up to growl, hackles tense. Dazai hums and tilts his gaze up to follow, his eyes narrowing as he catches sight of a shadow skittering out of view. Panic evident in the shadowy forms posture as it hurriedly pulls itself back from the edge of the rooftop it had been glancing over. Where it had been staring straight at the detective below, looking right at, or through, Dazai.
Interesting.
The lanky detective's shoulders tense, ever so slightly, fingers pinching the worn material of his pockets. There was an off chance that whatever had been in that alley was running away at the sight of a stranger. But, the ex-mafia executives' instincts were telling him that whoever was in that alley, recognized him, recognized Dazai.
The detective holds his ground, feet planted firmly into the concrete, hands in his pockets playing at a lazy and confident stance, the brunette's chin juts upwards to stare steadily at the edge of the rooftop. Waiting.
The dog growls, pressing its rough paws harder against the brick, baring its teeth in a cold snarl, attention focused solely on the rooftop.
Nothing.
And yet, they wait, detective and his unwittingly loyal dog.
Until, the dog's body language begrudgingly relaxes, shoulders losing their tension as all four paws steadily find their way to the ground.
Nothing.
With a passing glance towards Dazai, the dog growls low in its throat, assessing the detective as a foe or a friend. Meanwhile, with one final lengthy gaze at the rooftop, the brunette turns on his heel to resume his walk home.
Shoulders stiff beneath the well-worn material of the man's trench coat.
↞↟↠
The glass door to the bar opens with a tinkle, courtesy of the bell hanging at the top.
A figure trudges in, footsteps heavy, as they make their way across the not-so-polished wooden floor to a seat at the bar. Stool legs scraping roughly against the ground, the figure, a man seeming to be in his early twenties, heavily takes a seat. Removing his hat with one hand, he places it down on the countertop to his right with a shallow sigh, his left cheek cradled in one hand. The man's bones ache with exhaustion, the weight of it seeming to pull all of his actions down.
There is an awkward cough.
“Whew…rough night..?” the balding bartender whistles gently from his post at the back-counter “You look like you've seen a ghost.” The ragged man scoffs dryly, nose crinkling in cold irony. As the figure opens his mouth to reply, he pauses to swallow first, seeming to taste the words before responding “Rough fucking night”. Running a hand over his pale face, the man pushes his unruly bangs back and tense shoulders collapse under the weight of the bartenders gaze.
“Well, you´ve probably come to the right place, then.” The bartender's body language is stiff as he continues to engage with the man, a force of habit, tension hanging heavy over the bartop. The silence hangs heavy between the two men, neither feeling particularly inclined to fill the dead-space between them.
The silence stretches on for just too long. The bartender crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head to the side, surveying the mysterious new customer. He took note of the man's rumpled appearance: heavy eyebags staining pale skin, chapped lips, the whites of the man's eyes were bloodshot and yellow, hinting towards recent heavy alcohol use. The man was dressed for the frigid weather outside. A heavy black coat covered his figure, it looked too big for the man, he was absolutely swimming in it. Around the man's neck was a deep red scarf, long, and reaching to the man's shins. Everything on his battered body seemed three sizes too big, with the exception of the rumpled hat resting on the bar counter.
The bartender's eyes narrow, pressing his lips together in hesitation he cautiously makes his way over to the customer seated at the bartop. “What can I get ya´´..?”
Holy shit, this guy reeks.
The bartender couldn't help but crinkle his nose in response to the heavy scent coming off of the man. The customer smelled like he had just been rolling around in garbage. There was an underlying hint of something metallic as well. It set off warning bells in his head, and suddenly, stomach heavy with dread, the bartender wanted nothing more than for this guy to leave.
Hell, he would take the weirdo with the bandages being back here over this new customer. That bastard was sad and offputting, sure, but this man was unsettling.
“I just, need a minute…” The rumpled man gruffs, eyes squinting up at the flickering light above him. “Oi, that light is irritating. Can you turn it off?”
“No can do, and this isn't the library. I need you to order, or leave.” The tenseness of his shoulders spread to reach his chest, an uncomfortable tight feeling settling in. The bartender places his hands on the countertop next to his mysterious new customer.
The mysterious man's expression sours, jaw clenching in irritation, his eyes cold and distant as he makes eye contact with the bartender. “I said, I just need a minute. Turn it off.”
The two hold this staredown. The bartender tense, all the way from his head to his toes. The customer, disturbingly still as the light continues to flicker above him.
Suddenly, a red glow encompasses the light bulb and it shatters.
Shards rain down on the two men, or, they should have. And yet, somehow, the mysterious man seated at the bar does not manage to get a single shard on his coat. A coat, the bartender now realizes, is damp, despite the lack of rain or snow outdoors.
The man,shaking, takes a closer look. His breath hitches. This man's coat is caked in blood. In fact, upon closer inspection, the man's scarf is too. Amongst the blood is specs of what the bartender fears is brain matter.
“Get out.”
What the fuck…!
“I said…get out..!” Slamming his hands onto the mysterious figure's shoulders, he moves to push him off the chair. The smaller man's breath hitches in response, his hands closing into fists, as he remains still in the stool. Teeth clenched into a grimace, eyes far away and exhausted, this mysterious, dangerous, customer glares up at the bartender.
They remain in this standoff for a tense ten seconds.
The stranger stands up.
“Fine.” the man spits as he grabs the hat resting to his right, sweeping out of the stool, he turns to exit the bar. However, he pauses, facing the glass of the bar door: he cuts an imposing figure standing there, weight shifted onto one hip, posture tense. “A word of advice:” he calls over his shoulder, tone gruff, and laced with something sharp. “Work on that damn staring problem of yours”.
In the next moment, the mysterious man sweeps out the glass door, bell chiming with a joyful irony as he steps heavily out into the night, slamming the door shut behind him hard enough the impact seems to shake the air around the doorframe.
“Creepy bastard.” The bartender sighs, body language remaining tense, his pounding as it tries to regulate his nervous system which had, of course, been working overtime. In his remaining panic, the heavyset man failed to notice the glass shards resting on his shirt and the countertop around him began to glow crimson. They hover, higher, higher, and higher until—embedding themselves deep into the balding man's eyes.
He collapses to the floor, phone still placed on the back counter buzzing with messages from the date he was supposed to meet after his miserable shift ended.
What a rough, fucking night, indeed.