⋆⭒ ࣪𝔀e can 𝒇uck about it later, if you 𝔀ant.⋆
𝒪. Dazai -`♡´-
requested by a lovely anon
♡
synopsis: normally, your fights with dazai never end like this. however, one wrong thing said by you for a change gets you sent out of your own apartment, and you can't exactly bring yourself to blame him for that decision.
introduction: couples fight literally all the time! this isn't any different than all those other times... hm? you said what? oh... uhm, well, i'm not good on the advice; may i interest you in a sarcastic comment?
you and dazai fight often, despite your undying devotion to each other. you unfortunately take it a step too far, and you witness - for the first time since knowing him - your boyfriend crack.
contents: ~5.3k words; sfw but mentions/alludes to sex, angst with happy ending; fem, ada member!reader, implied history of self-harm and suicidal ideology/tendencies by reader; post canon; established relationship/breakup/make up; brief jealous!dazai; bff!ranpo
i was actually just thinking about something like this earlier.
The air is cold, freezing, actually, while you sit there in your desk chair, arms folded over your chest while your leg is thrown over the other. Your heel lightly dangles off your foot, knee bouncing that causes it to threaten hitting the ground in the corporate silence of the agency office. Your teeth had been gnawing at the inside of your cheek since placing yourself at your desk, staring — glaring — in front of you, across the way, not much to look at other than the wall, the window, the various small plants or other decorations, the few books of records, and… Dazai. You have done everything you could to avoid so much as sparing him a glance, battling hard against the emotions you have been burying deep down since the other night, and not letting anyone else notice your struggles.
You couldn’t help it, though, seeing from your peripheral that he is sitting there, calmly, nary a care in the world, just as he always acts. He is diligently working on his paperwork, which is strange, his hand flying across the pages with his pen in hand, not speaking to anyone around him — not even Atsushi. Not even setting time aside to annoy Kunikida. They’ve been giving passing, concerned glances his way since he plopped down too, due to Dazai having made it very clear to all of his colleagues he’d rather watch paint dry than do his mandatory reports. That is their clue, alongside Atsushi daring to peek in your direction only to see your tongue poking out your cheek, and you aren’t doing a lick of work like you normally do, that something is entirely wrong.
Ranpo, the all-knowing, can’t handle the tension anymore, none of it seemingly worth bothering to pester you or Dazai about like he normally would, walking by with his hands in his pockets and a soft ‘told you so’ as he exits the room to wander off for the break area. Your eyes widen briefly at that remark, moving slowly, carefully, to your feet and making steady but rushed strides out of the room in search of elsewhere to be. Literally anywhere else.
You didn’t mean to. You don’t know how this happened. You don’t know why you said what you did, but you also know you can’t take it back. Part of you feels lucky all he did was tell you leave, tell you to give him some space, time to think. Another part of you wishes that he had fought a little harder. A very tiny part of you just thinks maybe I should have tried harder.
Your relationship with Dazai is — was — a bit strained. You love each other, oh, how much you love each other so. Meeting him truly made you feel more alive, awakening something you didn’t know hid itself away in the dark crevices, wanting to abandon reason and embrace his newfound views on life. He was so silly, relaxed, joking often, smiling, laughing — it was the perfect disguise. With all the laughter and joy came dreary nights at a standstill because one of you was trying to see who could out self-sabotage who. You two fought, a little too often for a couple “so madly in love”, and both of you knew it was because neither of you could stand the thought of losing the other. Out of the two, usually, you would be the first to say he is the meanest, the harshest, more willing to jump at an opportunity to make verbal jabs that paralyze you completely. Arguments end the same way though: you a sobbing mess in your shared bedroom with the door closed, lock latched, keeping him out until you decide to emerge; he is waiting on the other side, sitting on the floor with his back against the surface, replaying everything he said in a blind hatefulness that he couldn’t believe came out of his mouth while coming up with a dozen different ways to apologize.
And it is always resolved with mumbling into one another’s mouths how sorry you both are between apologetic kisses, and, depending on how bad it is, cuddling into one another in the couch or making it up to each other on the bed with vulnerability wrapping you completely in a mess of tears, moans, whimpers, panting, and maybe a soft ‘I love you’.
The other night didn’t end like that, though. There were no apologies or hiding away to cry alone. There wasn’t any resolution at all. In fact, he basically dumped you. He didn’t say the words, but it was there in his glassy eyes filled with hurt — not daring to be so weak and let you see the tears fall, his jaw setting, and his finger pointing at the door as he just uttered a simple: “Leave.”
“I-I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, caught off guard by your own words, your own vitriol, unaware you of all people could be so cruel — him the emotional mess for once instead. “Osamu, I’m seriously so sorry, I don’t know why—”
“I said leave,” he repeated, his voice dropped down an octave, and whispered. It was startling, terrifying, and your brows twitched together. “I’m not in any mood to hear anymore from you. Get out.” Your mouth fell open, stumbling a bit to collect yourself, surprised that the first and only time you said something hurtful he had the audacity to throw you out when he had been the one to continuously break your heart relentlessly.
“Osamu, you have to believe me—”
“Dammit, fucking leave!” He screamed, you jumping back and staring at him with wide eyes, seeing a couple tears slip from his eyes that he quickly swiped away, turning his head to avoid looking at you. In all your fights and arguments, he never raised his voice like that at you before. You’d heard it hurled toward others, but never to you. You stood there on your side of the battlefield, the smoke clearing, and he stood on his side with his back turned to you, hand up near his face, and you didn’t want to leave. You knew deep down you shouldn’t, but with a yell like that, how could you have ignored his request? You nodded once, some tears of your own slipping as you shuffled a pair of shoes on and snagged a jacket, rushing out of the door with no general idea of where you were going to go.
It’s been three days since then, you having called out of work because you couldn’t sort your feelings out enough to be around people, Fukuzawa concerned since you rarely miss work. You muttered it was just “personal stuff”, but he had asked, point blank, if it was regarding Dazai – apparently he was more obvious than usual that something was bothering him, also, spitting out it too was “personal stuff”. You didn’t answer him, saying you’ll be back when you’re ready, then hung up.
“How’s the hotel treatin’ you?” Ranpo asks when you mistakenly step into the breakroom, head snapping up to see him sprawled out on the couch, hands behind his head and feet kicked up. The most relaxed one here. You eye him up and down, frozen in place, midstep, and you keep your mouth closed. “I mean, at least it’s quiet.” He adds off-handedly. You accidentally give him a dirty look, storming over to the counter to noisily rummage through the drink assortments. “I have to admit, I also thought Dazai would have caved by now. Guess sex can’t fix everything.” He shrugs, saying all of this out loud as if no one else is around. You try ignoring his comment, getting a mug down from the cabinet with a box of tea, moving to turn on the electric kettle when your hand stops. Your body comes to an abrupt halt, a wave crashing down around you that is so great it will surely take you under. You can’t move, standing there silently, gazing down at the bottom of the porcelain, and a lump forms in your throat. Tight, unavoidable.
“We… We didn’t solve everything with sex, Ranpo,” you whisper, choking up at the thought of everyone believing that was all your relationship used to be. Wondering how many others were murmuring right now about your failure at keeping Dazai, if they are saying something similar to the master detective.
“Kid, you guys are loud,” he sighs, exaggerated, head falling backward so he can see your back. “All of Yokohama can hear the before and after of your arguments.” You roll your eyes, sniffling and swiftly wiping under your eyes, hoping to keep your makeup intact for once since the fight. “I can turn the other way if you two happen to go near the closet–”
“Ranpo,” you warn, but your throat is so closed up, the words shake. “Knock it off. Please.” You beg, flipping the switch and tapping your finger on the surface. His features drop, brow raising while he watches you, fingers reaching for his glasses to slip on and begin his deductions – not that he needed too much assistance, what with you wearing your emotions on your sleeve with your first day back to work.
“What exactly did you say to him?” He asks slowly, folding his arms across his chest, green eyes fixated.
“I’m not repeating it,” you tell him, picking a random tea bag and tearing it open as a distraction, tossing it into your mug as the water rages from the rising temperature.
“Have you tried apologizing?”
“He won’t let me near him,” you murmur, recalling how you tried going back home that same night, the door locked, no keys, and Dazai wasn’t answering your calls or texts. You tried going back the next morning, but the door was still locked, he wasn’t answering you, and people were asking where you had gone off to. You tried going back when you knew he’d be home – a note was left on the door, in his handwriting, that said: “Stop coming around.” The only good news that came from it was that you knew he was alive.
You hadn’t texted him, called him, checked on his social medias, asked anyone how he was doing, just sat in your hotel room crying into a pillow. The devastation felt well-deserved, the proper punishment for what you had said, but it obviously wasn’t tolerable. You only decided to go back to work because being around colleagues for eight or so hours a day is better than being trapped in the unwelcoming confinement of your temporary place of residence. You have laid awake into all hours of the night, staring at the ceiling, a bitter thought soaring through your mind of why is Dazai always capable of worming his way out of our fights but when it’s my turn, I can’t even be in the same apartment as him?
“I do know one thing without needing my ability,” Ranpo’s voice slices through your melancholic reminiscence of the past few nights, another sigh coming out as he sits upright then on his feet. He purposefully pauses, noticing you haven’t given him much reaction, not even so much as peered over your shoulder, and your hand is inching toward the hot plate of the kettle.
“Don’t leave me hanging,” you mutter. “You always know more than me as it is.” His eyes travel from the top of your head to the heels you rarely wear, an attempt to catch Dazai’s attention, paired with a barely professional skirt and tights. Green irises soften as he continues analyzing you, getting the grasp of the situation just from how you’re holding yourself, and maybe he actually wants to see this work out.
“He loves you, and misses you,” his words strike a chord with you, running up your spine and sparks more tears to well up. You don’t want to hear it from someone else, but it doesn’t hurt hearing it at all. “He was worried these past two days when you weren’t here. He of course tried to hide it, but he failed miserably. Atsushi’s caught on at this point, that’s how obvious he is.” Obvious to everyone but you, it seems – unless you were doing such a great job of ignoring and avoiding him you couldn’t have noticed if it was something he wanted you to.
“Right,” you nod, hand carefully drawing away from the hot plate, and the master detective continues to linger. “Just a matter of time.”
ﾒ
It’s been almost two weeks. Two weeks of going to the agency, engaging with your colleagues as if nothing in the world matters other than helping people; speaking to Dazai only if the occasion called for it, neither of you sure how to initiate the conversation, poor Atsushi or Kyouka inserting between you to play messenger; having a meeting with the president almost every day to check on your health – mental and physical; and Ranpo checking in on your periodically whenever he notices you getting near something you’re not allowed to. He’s been hovering around you to a degree that has caught the amber eyes of your ex-lover, and while he never would suspect anything, the proximity is enough to spike his unwarranted jealousy.
“You two seem to have gotten close,” Dazai mumbled off-handedly, nonchalant, one evening to Ranpo while working late on a case, ballpoint pen scribbling doodles in the margins. Ranpo’s brow arched, not daring to look in his direction, as he sorted through some paperwork.
“She’s seeming to return to some dangerous coping mechanisms,” he responded, just as casual, readjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “We’re keeping an eye on her, that’s all.” Dazai’s movements falter, slight, enough for the other to catch it, a sidelong glance from jealous and doubtful amber eyes.
“No one bothered to tell me?” His question was more rhetorical, voice gravely, distressed.
“In fairness, Dazai, you put a note on the door telling her to stop coming around,” Ranpo sighed, pushing his chair out to stretch his limbs. “Would you blame us for not bothering you with this?” He shoved his hands in pockets, offered a half-hearted ‘goodnight’ before strolling out of the office to head home. A bandaged hand came up to hold his forehead, a sudden guilt eating away at him that he wanted to push down. He wasn’t your keeper, what you said hurt him more than anything that has ever been said to him before – and so many nasty things have been thrown at him in an instance by anyone he has ever encountered.
However, he didn’t want to do the usual: fuck about it and move on. He also wasn’t too keen on hearing anything else you may have to say, your apologies not nearly as authentic as he’d like to believe. He sat there, alone with the moon casting in through the window, and he couldn’t stop thinking about you. His hand rummaged around in his pants pocket, pulling out his phone and unlocking it, seeing if you kept your location on – of course you did, you wanted him to know where you were in case he was ready to see you again. In case you tried anything dangerous. Suppose I can make use of this later. He sighed, stuffing it back in his pocket, thumb lingering on the messages for far too long, having to force himself not to crumble, not yet at least. Although, he still worried.
Another week passed by, the hope you were holding out for working things out dwindling, sitting at your desk with your hands in your lap, staring ahead blankly at the wall, almost everyone out on cases, leaving you with the secretaries and Fukuzawa – who is working quietly on his own important paperwork, door ajar in case you call for him. You didn’t sleep the night before, not unlike the other nights leading up to now, and everything is a haze anymore. You never thought yourself to be someone that would fall into such dramatizations over something as silly as a breakup, yet here you are. Your fists ball up, resting on your thighs, then relax, fingers flexing, before balling up again. Promised Ranpo, promised Ranpo, promised Ranpo… you chant in your head, eyes closing briefly, inhaling, then getting to your feet, forcing them to step over the threshold of the president’s office. Knuckles lightly connect with the doorframe, making his light eyes tear from his work to look up at you, hiding his mild aghast at how you look.
“Hey there,” he greets, gesturing you in. “Everything okay?”
“Was gonna ask if I can leave early,” you state, monotonous, hands folding in front of you.
“You want to go early?” He echoes, disbelief prominent. You simply nod. “Have you finished any of your work?” You shake your head. He sits up straighter, his shoulders correcting, then eyes you up and down: stoic, nearly dead expression, a huge contrast to your typical “sunshine” personality; eyes clearly showing you’re hardly present; cheeks pale; and stiff as a board. “See if anyone is willing to cover for you, otherwise, you’ll have a lot to catch up on tomorrow.”
“Might stay out tomorrow,” you mention, unable to form coherent sentences.
“Sweetheart,” Fukuzawa sighs, pressing his fingers into his eyes that come together to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Is this personal matter regarding Dazai?” He asks you again, not necessarily wanting to pry further into your personal business, but he is a glutton for gossip, hearing whispers – primarily from Ranpo, who was so kind as to keep the issue a secret from anyone that tried to dig it out of him, including his own boss and father figure.
“What exactly can there be done if the answer’s yes?” You bluntly let out. “We both work here, he’s more useful than I am, especially right now. Will I be fired? Are you going to separate us like a couple of grade school kids?” He blinks, parted lips of shock covered by his mouth. You’re not one to be defiant, let alone rude. “Not to sound disrespectful, sir, but other than letting one of us go, there isn’t anything you or Ranpo or Kunikida or Yosano or whoever else feels it necessary to try to fix things can do. No one can force the two of us together to work it out.” His hand slowly comes down to the surface, fidgeting with his pen, then clears his throat.
“Listen–”
“I’m leaving,” you abruptly turn on your heel, storming out of the office, scrambling to aggressively grab your things, then barge your way past a couple of people walking in, not bothering to apologize for shoulder checking them as you begin your journey back to your hotel room. The front desk people haven’t said anything, but they have it written all over their faces wondering how much longer you intended to stay.
Fukuzawa stares at the spot you had abandoned, tongue poking out his cheek, thinking to himself about everything you had said – most of it being the truth. He exhales through his nose, not sure how much longer he can allow all of this to go on.
As you have been, you lay sprawled out on the hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, now with dry eyes. You believe that you’re all cried out, nothing left to shed, nothing left to mourn, wondering if now is the time to start working toward moving on. To stop being overdramatic, stop looking for his face in every person you pass, stop thinking about death. It’d be hypocritical, to say the least. You don’t know how long it had been where you stayed in that position, the sunset pouring in the only illumination, a mere slit in the curtains you allowed to pretend you were a little more normal than before.
There’s a knock at the door, one that makes you sigh and close your eyes, taking a moment to force your body upward, the knocking echoing after a minute of no answer, and you trudge across the floor with the reluctance of a recluse, before making it to the door to hold the knob. You’re fairly certain you know who it is, not necessarily in the mood to speak to anyone, and opening the door confirms your suspicions.
“Hey, kid,” Ranpo greets, a touch of seriousness laced in his tone. “Fukuzawa told me you got upset and left early.”
“I’m fine, Ranpo,” you move to close the door in his face, but his foot comes out to stop it.
“I know you’re fine, but I still wanted to drop by, make sure you’re eating,” he lifts an arm, revealing a bag in his hand from the convenience store. Your gaze darts from it to his smiling face, an attempt at being friendly.
“Thank you,” you carefully take it from him, eyes accidentally flickering around behind him, and his head cocks. “I’d like to eat alone.”
“Will you be at work tomorrow?” He persists.
“I’m not sure.”
“How am I supposed to have a good day if my favorite detective isn’t there?” He fake pouts, shoulders slumping, a common tactic he’s pulled to get you to keep showing up to the agency, despite yourself.
“Not sure, guess you gotta figure it out, Master Detective,” you meant that to come out as a joke, but you’re so drained and over the constant babysitting, it falls flat, straight to the floor. He sighs inwardly, reaching out to lightly tap under your chin, offering one more sympathetic glance, then taking his leave. After closing the door, you shuffle along the carpet, setting the bag on the table parallel to the bed, and rub your temple from the lovable nuisance. He is just making sure I’m okay, you tell yourself, brows coming together, eyes drifting out the window to gaze at the skyline. The serenity is a mockery to you, the color of the evening’s setting sun reminding you of the stunning irises you miss terribly.
The knocking on the door draws you back, eyes rolling, and trying to ignore it. It does stop, long enough to cause you to believe he left, only for the knocking to start up again. You have one knee at the edge of the bed, getting ready to climb back in for the night, but you’re stalling, deciding if you want to answer and have Ranpo bug you some more. Another round of knocking causes you to groan, pushing off the mattress and making way for the door again, working to fix your expression so he doesn’t see your evident annoyance.
“Ranpo, I told you I was fine. You don’t need to keep checking–” You freeze up when you open the door, seeing not Ranpo on the other side, but Dazai standing there with his hands in his pockets and eye bags worse than you last left him carrying.
“Sorry, want me to go track him down instead?” He tosses a thumb over his shoulder, tone matching yours, the lighthearted joke coming out as anything but. You blink rapidly, gripping the doorknob so tightly it hurts, gawking at his presence, wholeheartedly believing he’s a ghost. It isn’t real, it can’t be. Three weeks of no contact, dodging stares, avoiding flitting touches or accidental brushes, left wondering who would make the first move or who would ultimately decide everything is completely finished.
“Osamu…” You croak, still baffled to see him here, standing before you as much of a mess as you are, but here all the same. His hand comes up, involuntarily, fingertips gently grazing along your mouth, following the outline of your lips, and a shuddering breath escapes at the feeling of his touch once again.
“Can I come in?” He asks, thumb caressing your cheek, obvious he’s missed touching you equally as much. You nod slightly, stepping to the side and opening the door more so he can step in. As you close the door behind him, you try to collect yourself, chewing on your lip to hold everything together, telling yourself he is here to talk, and it can very well go two different ways. “Room’s nice.” He mumbles, taking in your living space, somewhere you thought would have been temporary, but you’ve been here far longer than you originally anticipated.
“Yeah, I guess,” you shrug, staying near the door, fearful this is a dream and if you reach out to touch him, he’ll disappear and you’ll wake up. His gaze is elsewhere, nowhere in particular, hand still in his pocket, tone remaining solemn.
“Heard you’re getting back into old habits,” he doesn’t hold back, addressing the disturbing news first and foremost.
“Not entirely,” you correct. “Working hard not to, at the very least. With the help of Ranpo.” He nods, not looking in your direction.
“Right, of course, Ranpo,” he sighs, shoulders sagging by accident.
“He’s been a good friend–”
“Yeah,” he cuts you off, rubbing the back of his neck. You eye him up and down, arms coming up to fold over your chest, and shifting your weight around while your feet shuffle.
“What brings you here?” You finally ask. “I was under the impression you wanted nothing to do with me.”
“Never said that.”
“Didn’t have to,” the words hang in the open between you two, a smog filling the room from both of your rotting hearts beginning to air themselves out.
“I’m here ‘cause I want you home,” he admits, almost easily. “But… I can’t just… forget what you said to me.” He finally looks at you, the pain from that night filling his eyes again, and they don’t look right. Duller, sadder, standard lifeless brown instead of his stunning amber that shines like the setting sun behind him.
“Osamu, you have to believe me that I didn’t mean it,” you immediately start a defense, authenticity coursing through your words and feelings. “I don’t know why I said it, it isn’t true, not in the slightest. I don’t know…” You shake your head, hugging yourself, to prevent your arms from reaching for him. You don’t deserve his solace, his comfort, but you crave it, a begging dog for attention. “I’m so sorry.” You whisper, lower lip trembling then, and he decides to let you see how upset he is. He has been hiding it, the best he can, from everyone else, and he doesn’t want to anymore.
“That was so cruel,” he breathes out, his hand coming up over his chest, above his heart, and his voice cracks. “My darling, I’ve been shot and it hurt less than what you said.”
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, tears you thought dried up resurging, nails digging into your upper arm. “I don’t know how to fix it, but I’ll do whatever it takes. I never meant…” You cut yourself off when he extends his hand to you, palm up, and visible tears are lining his lash line that he can’t control anymore. Your hand comes out, shaking, fingertips brushing his before they grab you completely, gently squeezing, unwilling to let you slip away. “Please, I’d gut my own heart for you.” You say without thinking, vision blurring as he nods, the careful tug of his hand pulling your body closer, closer, closer… His other arm wraps swiftly around your shoulders, pressing you into his chest, letting you sob into his shirt while you cling to him.
“My darling girl, I know you would,” he whispers into your hair, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I watched you try for three weeks.” You weep, holding onto him for dear life, never daring to let him go again, willing to never speak unless spoken to if it meant never saying anything atrocious again. “You hurt me, but seeing you like this hurts worse.” He confesses, holding you as tightly as he can, hoping it’s enough to put all the broken pieces back together.
“I’d miss you!” You wail, shoulders shaking, referring to the argument you had. “I’d miss you terribly, the most anyone could ever do if you died!” Your arms throw themselves around him, clawing and clamoring to be as close as possible to his body, resembling a child in need. “Osa, I didn’t mean any of it! I’d die without you!” You hiccup, him hushing you, hand rubbing your back while the other’s fingers run through your hair. It isn’t fair to him, to console you when you are in the wrong, but this is always how it ends. Dazai holding you tight, the fear of losing you preventing you from the allowance of air, telling you in his sweetest voice that everything will be okay, he isn’t going anywhere, and that you are his one and only girl.
“I’ve missed you so much,” he starts pressing kiss after kiss after affectionate and warm kiss to your face, beginning at your temple and trailing down the side, across your cheek, over your nose to the other cheek, the corner of your eye to capture the tears spilling nonstop, and making way to your forehead as he cups your soaked face. “Pretty crybaby.” He admires, another gentle kiss making it on your nose, followed by your sniffling and crying. “Tell me again what you really meant.” He requests, gazing down at you with love and adoration, things you don’t believe you deserve, alongside his soft care.
“I-I…” You swallow, sniffing a little more as you try recouping, but you’re overwhelmed with love and joy and the sadness you let harbor that you can’t stop the overflow. “I’d miss you if you did die, Osamu. I’d follow you, you know that.” You tell him, looking up at him with tears clinging to your lashes, cheeks flushed, nose pink, and eyes red.
“I do know,” he soothes, brushing your hair back from your eyes, nose carefully nudging against yours. “Show me how much you missed me?” He whispers, breath fanning over your lips, and you begin to nod, but stop when it registers what he means.
“But…” You swipe away at your tears, his thumb following suit before using his gauze-covered wrist to clean up your mess. “I thought you were tired of fucking about it after every fight?” You ask, a touch of innocence in your tone, and he can’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I am, but I think we’ve suffered enough,” his lips ghost over yours, a harmless tease that causes butterflies to swarm around in your stomach and want to bum-rush up your throat. “I love you, my darling. Let me have you completely again. I thought you missed me?”
“I did,” your hands slide up his chest and cup his face in return, and an audible breath of relief slips past his lips right into yours when he pulls you closer, letting the passion and reverence known in the way he kisses you. The way he holds you, the way he repeatedly utters ‘I love you, I love you, I love you’ between every break, keeping your body flush to his, fingers tangling in your hair, and it hurts.
It hurts to know how easy it is for him to forgive you. It almost makes you change your mind: maybe it isn’t him who is the cruelest of the two, but maybe it’s you.
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