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Dazai has barely spoken without being directly addressed for the entirety of the morning, which should’ve been their first sign that something is wrong. In fact, he’s stayed the entire time at his desk, for once diligently working on paperwork without any complaints or breaks aside from getting up to refill his coffee.
The office is mostly silent, aside from Junichirou and Naomi talking with each other in low tones and the occasional giggle, and the main offenders of such peace are either away on a case (Kunikida and Ranpo) or being unusually quiet (Dazai).
Yosano stopped by only one time before leaving for her shift at the hospital, and had arched a brow at the display before her of each agency member remaining on topic before meeting Dazai’s eyes and laughing. She’d said barely another word after that, only a quick goodbye, before walking off, and none of them had thought anything of it.
Dazai yawns, stretching his back and arms out so far that for a moment it appears almost as if he will tip over his chair and possibly break a bone, and chirps, “I’m off for lunch!” the second the clock reaches halfway past noon.
This, of course, means that he will disappear for what may very well be the rest of the afternoon, because he only ever declares his lunch break when he is not getting food. Otherwise, he either skips lunch entirely or lets Kunikida manhandle him down to the cafe to at least get a snack.
It is routine, at this point. The only difference is that with him out of the building for the foreseeable future, that leaves all agency members over the age of eighteen - excluding Fukuzawa, who will remain in his office with the exception of the most severe cases – gone.
Kyouka leans over to Naomi and says, “This is not going to end well.”
She shrugs. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Somehow, they miraculously manage to get through another hour. Junichirou leaves at one point to pick up food for the rest of them and comes back with takeout piled high in his arms. “Kunikida isn’t here,” is the only thing they say in response to Kyouka’s pointed look, but there’s mochi in one of the bags, so she chooses not to press the topic.
As always, Kenji wanders back in from the rooftops just in time to see the takeout boxes spread across an empty desk, and they all crowd around it to eat. He and Atsushi manage to devour a frankly impressive amount of food, though she can’t exactly blame either of them – both of their abilities leave them with a near-bottomless appetite.
It’s only when they’re done with their meal, cleaning up the stray napkins that had fluttered off of the desks and carrying the empty boxes to the trash, that it really starts.
It’s innocuous enough, so none of them know to stop Atsushi when he passes by Dazai’s desk and spots the cup that was supposedly filled with coffee. It’s still half-filled with the dark liquid, though it has long since gone cold. “Oh,” Atsushi says, “Dazai didn’t finish his coffee.” And because he doesn’t like two things – wasted food, and dirty dishes – he tips the rest of it down his throat and brings it out of the room to go wash it in the kitchen sink.
It’s not like Dazai will be back to finish it, and he wouldn’t have minded anyway. He’d spent most of his lunch breaks trying to push his food off of himself and onto Atsushi.
“That tasted weird,” he mutters just as he pushes the door open and leaves. “Is Dazai drinking grass? So bitter.”
Junichirou blinks and leans over to stare at the empty spot on Dazai’s desk where the cup once rested. “Grass?” they repeat, but he’s already gone. “Bitter?”
“Oh no,” Kyouka says in horror, meeting his eyes. It could mean a plethora of things, but when faced with the context of that cup having belonged to Dazai, there’s really only one answer.
Realization dawns on Junichirou’s face mere moments later. “Oh no,” they echo.
“‘Oh no’ what?” Naomi asks, leaning over from where she’d unceremoniously taken over the couch. Her sibling looks up with an expression on their face akin to a guilty man facing his execution, eyes wide and skin pale enough that she frowns immediately in concern.
“Dazai’s coffee was spiked,” Junichirou says, hushed, as if the man would suddenly appear behind them at the words. “And Atsushi just drank the rest of it.”
“Oh,” Naomi says. “Oh no.”
As all standard, typical detective agencies go, there is a running list of people in the agency and their tolerance to intoxication of varying types.
Atsushi says, “This really doesn’t seem normal at all.”
“You were locked in an orphanage for eighteen years. How would you know,” Ranpo claims immediately. Dazai snorts.
At the top of this list is, predictably, Dazai himself. He is also the number one suspect for the reason behind the creation of this list, but he refuses to admit it. Ranpo and Yosano think it’s funnier not to say, and Kunikida just flushes and sighs with disappointment simultaneously, so the younger members of the agency have resigned themselves to never knowing.
Of course, Yosano follows closely behind. Though she does not wield the same broad range of immunity as Dazai does, her alcohol tolerance – and also another assortment of drugs – is rather impressive. When questioned, she says that she merely enjoys trying different wines. When further questioned, she only says, “I was in med school.”
The list then goes on to Fukuzawa, who has yet to reveal anything more beyond quietly writing his name down under Yosano’s and immediately disappearing back to his office. When recounting this to the juniors, Kunikida shakes her head and sighs again. “We’ve been trying to get him to tell us for years,” she reveals with despair. “Somehow, he’s more elusive than Dazai.”
Underneath Fukuzawa’s name, Junichirou’s has been added. He blushes every time someone brings it up, using Yosano’s excuse shamelessly, because university is really just a very common source of drugs and alcohol.
For the same reason, Naomi added herself underneath her sibling. Junichirou mutters, “she should be higher than me,” and refuses to elaborate, but everyone decides wordlessly not to fight her on the subject.
Ranpo snickers, “Definitely higher in at least one way.”
Kunikida sighs again. It can’t be good for her lungs.
It’s Kyouka who goes next. Apparently, in the port mafia, she’d been exposed to enough that she’d slowly built up a tolerance. “Also,” she says, “Kouyou would poison my tea so that I could develop immunity.”
Dazai nods in understanding, mumbling something incomprehensible about suicide methods and stupid doctors under his breath, and Atsushi says, “oh, me too.”
There’s a pause where everyone turns to look at him in varying states of concern (most of the agency) and amusement (somehow… also most of the agency?). “Well, I don’t really know if immunity was the goal or not, but that kind of ended up being what happened,” he adds awkwardly. They keep staring at him. He shifts. “I don’t think he actually expected it to kill me or anything. It wasn’t, like, continuous murder attempts. Probably.”
“Please stop,” Kunikida says, pinching the bridge of her nose, but she adds Atsushi’s name underneath Kyouka’s. Then she pauses, and shifts her own name above hers silently.
Yosano whistles and Dazai elbows Ranpo with an unreasonably smug grin. Kunikida turns red again, steadfastly refusing to meet anyone’s eyes with one hand coming up to rest at her neck in embarrassment. She mumbles, “I was a teacher, sometimes I needed a drink,” like it explains everything. From Fukuzawa’s nod, it does, and the two of them share a commiserating glance.
“I don’t do drugs,” Ranpo calls out casually, waving a hand in the air. “My genius is too important, obviously. Anyway, candy’s all I need.”
“From what I’m hearing,” Dazai says, smile far too sharp, “is that you’re weak enough that a little dizziness is enough to throw you off. Atsushi, put his name at the bottom.”
“Oh, really?” Ranpo replies, opening his eyes just enough to glare at his coworker. “Sounds to me that you’re just trying to hide the fact that you’re so fucked up you can’t even face a normal day sober. Addiction and everything else you got going on?”
“The two of you are worse than children,” Yosano says, rolling her eyes, but there’s a smile playing at her lips regardless.
“Can the two of you stop,” Kunikida groans, and Junichirou suddenly realizes how much she acts like the agency’s mother. It’s a mildly terrifying thought for an organization filled entirely by orphans.
Actually, they aren’t really sure what the familial status is of Kenji or Kunikida. Or Fukuzawa, but they’re certainly not getting anywhere near that.
“So,” they interrupt, and they hear Atsushi sigh in relief, “after Kyouka, it’s Atsushi and then Ranpo?”
Naomi writes the names down diligently. “Is this list for tolerance or just frequency?” She asks.
“Tolerance,” Ranpo says confidently. “If it was frequency Kunikida would be much higher.”
There’s another pointed silence where the woman in question refuses to look at anyone. Her face must be permanently blushing by now. Yosano whistles again, smirking, and she physically turns away from her as if it would hide her embarrassment any further.
Junichirou decides not to question it any further.
Two days later, Kenji accidentally spills his thermos onto the floor. It’s no harm done, obviously, seeing as it didn’t get anywhere near the important paperwork Kunikida had leapt to defend, but when Yosano leans down to help wipe it up with a rag she pauses and looks up at Kenji with a glimmer in her eyes.
“Kenji,” she starts, glee curled into the corners of the word, “is this alcohol?”
“WHAT,” Kunikida shrieks. Atsushi twists around in his chair in shock.
“Are your drinks not?” Kenji asks innocently.
“Who let you drink,” Kunikida mumbles quietly, as if she wasn’t a complete delinquent in high school who got drunk on weekdays and weekends alike. Arguably, she hadn’t been much older than the farmboy himself.
“We grow extra wheat sometimes at the farm,” Kenji says, walking back over with another damp cloth to clean the floor properly. “And it gets made into whiskey.”
“Is that what you drink?” Junichirou asks in admiration.
“Oh, definitely not!” Kenji exclaims in horror. Kunikida begins to exhale, only to flinch once more when he continues with, “It’s diluted, that’s all.”
Kenji’s name appears on the list between Kunikida and Kyouka at some point after that. Nobody knows who wrote it in, but nobody bothers to remove it, either. It feels accurate. Junichirou has taken to occasionally stealing Kenji’s thermos (with permission, because taking something from Kenji is akin to the worst sin imaginable.)
Kyouka turns to Junichirou and says, with barely-concealed emotion, “Atsushi can’t handle drugs.”
“Maybe it’s wine,” they propose hopefully. “He has a somewhat okay tolerance to that.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Dazai doesn’t drink anything weak. And he likes to mix things.”
“So the chances of it being merely alcohol is nonexistent,” Junichirou mumbles, slumping in their seat. Naomi pats them on the shoulders sympathetically, a contemplative look on her face.
“So when Kunikida finds out Atsushi got high when it’s just us in the office, do you think she’ll ban you from being unaccompanied from now on?” she asks curiously.
Junichirou takes it back. She’s an absolute disgrace and is only here to see them suffer, and from the glint in her eyes, she’s fully aware of what she’s doing. “Do not say that,” they snap, “it’ll be fine.” Both Naomi and Kyouka give them near-identical doubtful looks. They wince. “Atsushi’s ability makes it so that he gets sober faster, so we just need to stop anything bad from happening for a couple of hours or something.”
Kyouka murmurs, “sometimes I feel like the agency shouldn’t be called detectives at all.”
Junichirou ignores her with years of practice of being an older sibling. “It will be fine.”
Of course, that’s exactly the second that Atsushi decides to stumble back into the office, having finished with cleaning up the dishes left over from their lunch. He blinks at them, huddled around the couch in a haphazard circle, and says, “where’d Kenji go?”
Junichirou looks up, scans the room, and shrugs. “Went back to the roof, probably.” He was – understandably – never a huge fan of staying indoors for too long. He often leaves early to return to work on the farm again during the warmer months anyway, so it’s highly possible he’d already left and they had simply all missed it.
“Oh, okay,” Atsushi says, and returns to his desk, somehow oblivious to the way that the three of them are eyeing him.
Perhaps this won’t go too badly, Junichirou dares to think, seeing as he appears completely unaffected so far. Maybe Dazai had decided to be sober for once in his godforsaken life.
(Much more unlikely, but optimism is supposed to be good for the soul.)
They keep sneaking glances at Atsushi, who remains upright and focused on his computer, with only the sounds of his keyboard clicking away and faint, high-pitched music from Naomi and Kyouka’s shared earbuds while she shows the younger girl k-pop videos, and yet nothing happens.
It’s suspiciously peaceful, and even Junichirou falls victim to it eventually, getting drawn into their work enough so that they completely forget that they’re meant to be keeping an eye on their friend.
It’s only when a thunk echoes through the room, dull and sudden, that they snap out of their concentration to look over to him.
Junichirou pauses. “Is he… asleep?”
Kyouka sighs with a gravity expressing something between surprise and disappointment. “Sad. He’s more of a lightweight than I thought he was,” she says blankly.
“That’s cold,” Naomi says approvingly.
All three of them stare at Atsushi, who had slumped over face-down on his desk and appeared to be truly knocked out, one cheek squished against the report he had been supposed to be cross-checking.
“It’s kind of cute,” Naomi says. It is, unfortunately, true, but also not Junichirou’s first priority.
“Is that – oh come on,” they groan. “I have to check that report too but I don’t want to wake him up.”
Kyouka turns around to stare at them with enough judgement that they find themself genuinely impressed, and she walks over with mafia-trained quiet steps to slowly tug the paper out from underneath Atsushi.
She wordlessly hands it over to them with a raised brow. They take both the report and the shame with as much dignity as they can.
“Eh?”
The three of them blink and turn back to Atsushi, who gingerly picks himself up from the desk and rubs at his eyes, squinting in their direction before swaying enough that he almost topples back onto it. “Kyouka… was that you?”
“Oh,” she says. “Sorry.”
“Nooo,” he says, drawn out, “no, don’t be sorry. Never – never be sorry, y’know, you’ve been through enough–”
“He’s drunk,” Naomi declares. “And awake.”
“Well,” Junichirou says faintly. “That can’t be good.”
“Kyouka,” Atsushi says, staring at the ceiling from where they’d dumped him on the couch. He hadn’t seemed to realize he had legs and arms to move with and had remained splayed out dramatically across the cushions, though at some point he’d sprouted cat ears. Naomi had already taken a minimum of six photos. “Have I ever – have I ever told you, like… um…”
Kyouka makes a noise of encouragement.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says finally, after what seems like a great amount of mental effort. “You’re my sister, you know?”
“Awwww,” Naomi says, squealing, and for once Junichirou finds themself inclined to agree with her reactions. Kyouka turns away from them immediately, but just slowly enough for them to catch the red that appears high on her cheeks.
“Like,” Atsushi continues, “do you think we’re biologically related? We kinda have the same eye shape. Y’know, not everyone – not the whole world has it, so it – it has to mean something.”
Kyouka’s face drops. “We’re Japanese, that’s why.”
“Oh,” he says. “We are?”
“She’s still your sister anyway, right?” Junichirou checks, trying very hard not to laugh, because it seems like Kyouka needs it.
“Yeah, of course!” Atsushi says immediately, eyes widening and almost falling off the couch from how quickly he bolts up. Then he seems to realize he shouldn’t be able to, and he falls back down again.
A small smile appears on Kyouka’s face again. Naomi coos.
“But like, I’m not sure I’m Japanese,” he informs them with all of the gravitas of declaring a death sentence.
“What,” Junichirou says.
“The director of the orphanage never told me,” he explains. He’s still looking at the ceiling. “I think everyone kinda assumed. Maybe I’m not. Maybe I wasn’t even born naturally.” His arm flops over the end of the couch and dangles there. “Maybe I’m a test tube baby.”
Kyouka, Naomi, and Junichirou all exchange eye contact. Naomi’s lips are white, pressed together, in an attempt to not burst out laughing. “I think you were a normal Japanese baby, Atsushi,” they answer, because he’s about to give them a secondhand existential crisis and they’re certainly not drunk enough for that.
Dazai’s coffee is much stronger than they were expecting, although they suppose they’ve never actually seen him finish the entire cup in a single sitting. Seeing the effects on Atsushi, it’s probably for the best.
That, or Atsushi’s tolerance is horrifically abysmal.
“Is this what it’s going to be for the next three hours,” Junichirou says blankly.
“I was locked in a closet for three hours once,” Atsushi pipes up, blinking hazily in their direction.
“Me too,” Kyouka says, and he cheers quietly.
“I really don’t think this is how drugs work,” Junichirou says quietly to Kyouka.
She doesn’t look away from Naomi and Atsushi, who’d finally sat up, crowded over a phone playing pop music at full volume. The chances of the video having lyrics is very high, seeing as the two of them are concerningly focused on trying to sing along.
Honestly, Naomi has talent, and Atsushi isn’t half-bad himself, when he puts enough effort to stay on the beat. The problem is that he keeps forgetting that he’s supposed to be singing at all and trying to speed through lyrics to catch up.
At least it’s not k-pop. They love Atsushi, really, but foreign languages are definitely not his strong suit. Naomi has a good grasp of Korean, likely because the two of them are half-Korean and half-Japanese, but if they have to listen to him try they might just knock him out until he sobers up.
Kyouka has her own phone out subtly filming them. She leans over and says, “Would you really put this past Dazai?”
It… is a rather typical scene were one to replace the weretiger by a taller, brown-haired suicidal maniac. “This explains so much,” they whisper with horror. Beside them, she nods.
Okay. The two of them are dancing now. That’s fine.
Well, dancing is subjective – it looks more like Naomi is just swinging Atsushi around. Junichirou is disappointed in him. They’ve seen him fight. More than that, they’ve seen him fight alongside Akutagawa – they know for a fact he can be graceful.
At the very least, they know he can avoid knocking into stuff when moving with another person. Somehow, that has completely disappeared. There are papers strewn across the room from where they keep getting accidentally swept off of the desk.
He doesn’t seem to notice at all.
Naomi definitely does, but like the annoying child she is, she’s purposefully acting oblivious.
“Step on his feet,” Kyouka calls out.
They are all children, apparently. Junichirou is going to get banned from any fieldwork for the next decade of their life and nobody cares enough to try to stop it.
And then, of course, Atsushi’s tail smacks into a potted flower and the entire thing falls on the ground in an impressively loud crash. They flinch. Kyouka has no time for unnecessary reactions like that and immediately dives into action as Naomi tugs him away from the scene of the crime by the arm.
Atsushi sniffles, standing loosely where she’d left him. “I’m so sorry,” he says, “it’s all my fault I break everything.”
“That’s a bit extreme,” Junichirou says, bending over to help Kyouka pick up the shards of pottery. The flower, somehow intact if not a bit dirtied, gets subtly re-planted in another pot where hopefully no one will notice it until it’s been long enough that it won’t be linked back to them.
“So is my life.”
There’s not much they can say to that, to be fair. Atsushi’s life is something out of an action series.
Of course the crash wasn’t soft enough to be ignored. When the knock on the door comes, at least Junichirou is partially ready for it, and they whip around to meet Naomi’s eyes and hiss out, “Quiet.”
Like someone who has known them for their entire life, she understands immediately, and grabs Atsushi with one hand and covers his mouth with the other. Junichirou turns around just in time to see Fukuzawa appear in the doorway, concern faintly visible in his eyes even if his expression is as implacable as ever.
“I heard a noise,” he says. “What happened?”
“Junichirou tripped,” Kyouka answers evenly. They try their best not to glare at her too visibly, because they can’t exactly say anything without giving it all away.
“Yeah,” they laugh awkwardly, one hand resting on their neck. “Fell down. Sorry to bother you.”
“Hm,” Fukuzawa says, eyes boring into them, and for one desperate, hopeless moment they’re about to confess everything and pray for mercy before he nods sharply. “Be careful,” he tells them, and then disappears again.
“Oh my god,” Junichirou says, exhaling what feels like six years’ worth of stress out of their lungs. “I thought I was going to die.”
Kyouka gives them another judgemental look and turns back around to face where Naomi and Atsushi had been. They turn, as well, finally releasing Light Snow in a shimmer of green light to reveal the two of them against the wall, their sister’s hand still kept firmly pressed against Atsushi’s mouth. Their ability doesn’t block sound, after all.
“I can’t believe that worked,” they say.
“I can’t believe Atsushi was so chill about me kidnapping him,” Naomi answers.
“That can’t be considered a kidnapping,” Kyouka says, rolling her eyes. “I’m going to go make tea.”
“Atsushi, look at me,” Junichirou says seriously. He shifts, looking at them with all the concentration he can muster, and nods in response. “I need you – I need you to tell me something, okay?” He nods again. “Okay – you and Akutagawa. What’s up with that?”
“The poor child, Junichirou, might as well be cursed to speak the truth right now,” Naomi says, aghast, but she starts cackling after making eye contact with them for only a second, so they doubt she really feels bad for Atsushi at all.
The boy in question is squinting blearily at nothing, with nothing but dead silence to accompany them, and then he starts to bawl. “I don’t know,” Atsushi wails. “He’s so annoying he refuses to have a conversation with me and it’s like, we’ll fight together, yeah? We’ve saved each others’ lives, but noooo we can’t even talk.”
“Wow,” Junichirou says. “How are so many people in Yokohama emotionally repressed?”
“Probably the fact that, like, half of the city are criminals,” their sister provides helpfully.
“Yeah, that sounds about right,” they say, nodding.
Atsushi wipes at his eyes clumsily. “He only works with me for my ability.”
“He only wants me for my body,” Naomi stage-whispers.
“YEAH.”
“The two of you should go to couples’ therapy,” Junichirou says. There is actually a long and extensive list of people that they know that should go to couples’ therapy. Dazai is part of at least half of those couples. He is part of the reason for the others.
Also, everyone they’ve ever talked to in Yokohama should probably go to regular therapy as well. Atsushi is definitely one of the first on this list. Hell, they’ll go themself if it has a chance of working and isn’t just a mafia-hired psychologist.
Or worse – government–hired psychologist. The agency has yet to be successfully arrested and they refuse to be the reason that all of the very illegal activities get unearthed.
“We’re not a couple, we’re barely even partners! He won't even admit that we work well together half the time because he’s an asshole.” Atsushi snaps, brow furrowing. At least he isn’t crying anymore, even if it’s offset by the faint drug-induced flush on his cheeks.
“But you do work well together,” Naomi goads, half-asking and half-teasing.
“Well I thought we did,” he says, and the comically angry face he made shifts into a pout just as quickly. He’s such a cat sometimes it’s almost funny. “But he never talks to me, ever, outside of yelling at me.”
“Repression,” Junichirou repeats. Atsushi nods emphatically.
“Like, I can’t even blame him for it too much,” he says, “because he was practically raised by Dazai for three years – I think? – and that would fuck anyone up,” Naomi and Junichirou shudder in unison at the mere idea, “but like. I’m trying, you know, he should also put in the effort. I have trauma, too, is that not enough?”
“This is so unfair to you,” she says, nodding.
“You need to communicate. What do you want out of your partnership, and tell that to him,” they add, ignoring how much partnership is sounding like relationship by the second.
Atsushi freezes, eyes widening in horror. “Junichirou, what do I want out of my partnership with Akutagawa?”
“Oh god,” they say. Naomi cackles again. “Why would I know?”
“I don’t know,” he says, looking visibly distressed. “Is this why we keep fighting?”
No, it’s because you’re both incredibly traumatized and you both have Dazai issues, Junichirou kindly does not say. If the two of them were ordinary people, then maybe, but this really feels kind of miniscule compared to the things they all deal with on a daily basis.
“Text him, then,” they suggest, annoyed.
“I don’t have his number. I don’t even know if he has a phone.”
“I thought the sickly Victorian child act was like, a thing he likes to do, not the actual era he’s from,” Junichirou says.
“How did you know he’s sickly?”
“He coughs all the damn time, Atsushi, it’s really fucking obvious.” Nobody in this agency should get the right to call themselves a detective.
“I think it’s hot,” Naomi says, because she’s a strange person with strange interests. Or perhaps she’s just looking for the inheritance from the will. It had been maybe sixty percent of her reasoning for hooking up with that rich girl back when she’d been in high school and Junichirou had been in university.
She’d scammed the girl for nearly all she’d been worth. They’re so proud.
Atsushi bolts up, cat ears that are for some reason still there pinned flat against his head, and his tail – when did that get here? – spiking. He might be hissing, actually.
“There’s your answer,” she says, unfazed. He pauses in a moment of realization and then wilts pathetically.
“How am I supposed to look him in the eye now,” he starts wailing again.
“Did you before?”
There’s a pointed pause. “...No.”
“Anyway,” Junichirou says, patting him on the back sympathetically, “you probably won’t even remember this conversation, so you’ll be fine.”
“I’ll feel it,” Atsushi continues to sob, curling into the couch more to try to bury himself between the cushions.
Of course, it is at this exact moment that Kyouka walks back in and makes eye contact with them, locating the half-hidden tiger between the two siblings with impressive accuracy and speed. None of them speak for a moment.
“What are you doing.”
They exchange a glance with Naomi. Atsushi has already mentally left the conversation, so it’s up to either of them to try to explain to the fourteen-year-old ex-assassin that her older brother figure is helplessly in love with the man that tried to kill him and also ruined her life for six months.
They aren’t actually sure what her and Akutagawa’s relationship is anymore. They worked together briefly during the war, which implies that they’re on slightly better terms now. They hope so, at least, because Kyouka has enough emotional maturity to make up for the rest of them.
A voice in the back of their head says, that’s also the trauma.
Junichirou is not paid enough for this. “He’s really drunk. That’s all.”
She gives them a look that lets them know exactly how little she believes them, but lets the matter drop regardless. “I have tea. It might sober him up.”
“Please,” they say immediately.
“Is the agency better or worse than university?” Atsushi asks.
Junichirou blinks and then immediately says, “better. You could not pay me to do that again.”
“I thought it was fun,” Naomi says, as someone who did not go to university and simply leant on their reputation and status to be able to wander around campus freely and enjoy all the perks without having to suffer. This is, of course, factually correct and without any bias or resentment. Then she turns to them and adds, “Remember when you and your classmates had that twenty-minute argument on whether you’d let yourself get tased for a grade?”
“Oh,” Junichirou says. Then they snort. “Yeah, that was hilarious.”
“What was that even about,” Kyouka asks, mystified. It makes sense that she would not understand, seeing as she stopped going to school by the age of thirteen.
“It was a genuine conversation,” they defend. “I forgot who, but someone asked whether you would get tased for an automatic 100 on a final exam.”
“And your answer was,” Atsushi prompts.
“Atsushi,” Junichirou says seriously, “I need you to understand that getting pseudo-killed during the war was still better than finals week. Does that answer your question?”
“Oh – okay,” he says. “Yeah.” And then he pauses and mumbles, “the director tased me a couple of times to see if I could take it once.”
“Why does every word out of your mouth somehow get worse.”
“Hey,” Junichirou says after a moment. “Once you and Akutagawa get your shit sorted out, can you ask him for the redhead’s number?”
Kyouka turns around in her chair. “The Hunting Dog?”
Naomi gasps excitedly and shoves herself up. “The one who tried to kill you?”
They take a second to contemplate it, and then nod. “Yeah. He was fun.”
Atsushi stares at them, and grins brightly. It makes sense that he, of all people, wouldn’t be bothered by murder attempts between potential partners at all. “Okay!”
Naomi says, “Junichirou we are absolutely talking about this. I want to know more.”
“No, the fuck,” they say eloquently, and summon their ability to hide them and walk out of the door.
A second after it clicks shut, they hear her screech of realization. They might get smothered in their sleep tonight, but they’re not having this conversation in front of Kyouka and still-drunk Atsushi.
They’d prefer not to have it at all, but they know when to pick their battles.
“We’ve barely done any work,” Kyouka mutters.
“Don’t say it out loud,” Junichirou responds, swallowing an ibuprofen and getting up in search of a glass of water. “If it’s not said out loud, it doesn’t exist.”
“Yeah, you guys totally aren’t going to get banned from ever being left alone in the office again,” Naomi chimes in brightly with all of the eagerness of someone who stays in the office all day as a secretary and therefore is not in any sort of danger at all.
“I’m going to commit sororicide.”
“Ooh, university vocabulary, I’m so proud of you!”
Atsushi wheezes. Junichirou whips around. “You are the reason! You cannot be laughing right now!”
“He’s asleep again,” Kyouka says quietly.
“Oh,” Naomi whispers, “do we think he’ll be sober when he wakes up?”
Junichirou takes a look at Atsushi, curled up on the couch again in a manner not unlike a cat, and says, “I hope so.”
“Huh,” Naomi says. “I can’t believe we made it through.”
It is, of course, at that exact moment that Kunikida and Ranpo walk through the door.
“So,” Kunikida says, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose, “you’re telling me that Atsushi accidentally got drunk–”
“And-slash-or high,” Naomi pitches in helpfully.
“Oh my god,” she says, “and-slash-or high, and that’s why he’s passed out on the couch right now and there’s a broken pot in the trash.”
“Oh,” Junichirou says. “Did you notice that?”
“We are detectives.”
Kyouka makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like I told you so. Ranpo has not stopped laughing since entering the office, choosing instead to beeline towards his desk and toss chips into his mouth like they’re television entertainment instead of real people. Real people who are going to be banned from ever getting left alone in the office again.
Naomi absolutely jinxed them. They knew that saying things like that always ends badly, and yet they hadn’t been able to stop her.
“Just blame it on Dazai,” Ranpo says through a mouthful of chips, waving one carelessly in their direction. “That’s pretty much what happened anyway.”
“Atsushi is underage, he shouldn’t be drunk!” Kunikida says. “It’s not just about breaking laws; it could be harmful.”
There’s a moment of pointed silence, because no one here has forgotten the intoxication-tolerance list (name pending). Ranpo breaks it bluntly by saying, “Kunikida, you were getting drunk way younger. Half the agency did, really.”
“AND LOOK HOW WE TURNED OUT.”
“We’re going to die,” Junichirou despairs. “I’m going to get murdered. Again.”
She very visibly takes in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I’m not mad at you.”
Junichirou stares at her, and says slowly, “Are you sure you’re not mad?” The hands clenched tightly around her notebook, enough so that her knuckles are turning white, tell a different story.
“Yes,” She exclaims. “I mean no, I’m not mad. At you. I am going to strangle Dazai.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Ranpo cheers, like a normal person does when hearing of a death threat against their boyfriend. Or whatever the two of them are. Junichirou does not want to know.
Kunikida takes in another deep breath and then turns to them again. “I’m sorry. I am just – worried. Not mad.”
“Okay,” Junichirou says slowly. “Um. I’m sorry, too.”
Her eyes soften and she awkwardly reaches out to place a hand on their shoulder for a second before drawing it back. “I know. Thank you.”
“So is Junichirou getting banned from ever getting left alone in the office again?” Naomi interrupts casually. Sororicide seems more and more tempting every hour.
“What?” Kunikida says, lost. “No.”
“Thank you,” they say politely, “I appreciate it,” and then they turn around to make eye contact with their sister. “Because I could not stop it!” Then, of course, they lunge forward to try to tackle their sister to the ground. Behind them, someone who sounds a lot like Kyouka lets out a long-suffering sigh.
“Great,” Ranpo chirps. “Everyone’s alive. Onto more important things. I want to see the photos you took.”
Naomi shoves herself up from where they’d knocked her over, hair askew, and knocks them out of the way as she starts to smile mischievously. It matches the grin on Ranpo’s face perfectly.
Junichirou despairs once more.
“What happened?” Atsushi chokes out, face very, very red. “Oh god.”
Dazai laughs hysterically, completely unrepentant for the chaos that he’d accidentally unleashed the day before.
“You should really talk to Akutagawa,” Naomi says brazenly. The laughing gets, somehow, even louder.
“WHAT.”