── ⟢ bsd oc one shot // characters in it: atsushi, dazai, ranpo and my oc, koemi;
notes: no shipping in this short drabble, as romance has no place in this situation lol // it's pretty easy to guess the person she's overthinking about when you know that she used be under dazai's command in the port mafia but because of her skill level she was fighting for a position as an executive which she never got because she left after dazai did
i was in A Mood when i wrote this, but,,,,, i like it (｡• ‸ •｡) my daughter gets all up in her head from time to time about her past, and i wish i could explore her dynamic with the ada members through small shots like this one raaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh
── ⟢
“Koemi-san?”
The voice was muted, light years away. Honey-yellow eyes saw nothing but the smooth texture of the desk in front of them. Saw wasn't even the right verb for this; they weren't seeing. They were simply… open. Perhaps they'd been open for longer than they should have, as the resident anxious weretiger was, in fact, becoming progressively more anxious as the seconds ticked. No answer was given to him by the woman with the black nest for hair.
This feeling of emptiness prevailed.
Of a heart misunderstood, or maybe not even unlocked. The static hum of darkness that couldn't be illuminated by the light, even in her eyes. For a person who tweaked light with the tips of her fingers, it couldn't quite reach the very depth of her soul.
Longing. Belonging. Needing to feel it, never being able to reach it. What's wrong with me?, she thought, and she had no answer. Everything and anything, maybe; it wasn't concrete.
…Why is it wrong? Now that one… that one was harder to process.
Why couldn't I stay? Why did I have to go? Why did we have to change? Why couldn't things stay the same?
These weren't her questions; they hadn't been her questions for a while. She knew that. Then why was her mind insisting on repeating them so often?
“...Koemi-chan?”
This voice was smooth, much more familiar than the other. Of course it was — Koemi's body responded to it faster than her brain could catch up. It was conditioned, really. A soldier straightening her spine at the sound of her captain's voice, even if her mind wasn't really into it. She felt her shoulders stiffen, tighten, but her eyes didn't budge. Her lashes didn't twitch. She kept staring down, even as the brunette strutted closer. A distant part of her noted that he didn't smell like river water this morning.
We used to be close, she thought, and she wasn't sure who exactly it was aimed at. Or she did, and she just wasn't ready to face that yet.
We were. Saying I wish we still are feels like getting choked with a dry cloth. I know we can't be — you're too far from me, and I can't get close. I was close. I was so close. You were right there.
Fingers snapped in front of her face. There, then gone, a quick snap that should have, by all means, broken the trance. It did not.
But I had to go, she told herself, and, some part of her — a large part of her — truly believed it. The desperation she felt, the need to explain it to him; that… she still wasn't used to.
We both know it, knew it, and will continue to know it. Perhaps, in another life, another world, another universe, you and I are stars orbiting each other yet again; and we'll both fall, we'll both collide, and we won't have to fade alone.
"Koemi.”
Third time's a charm, she supposed. But this voice actually did it. Whether because it was the third one to try, or maybe some tiny chunk of her soul jolted at it for whatever reason — she couldn't examine it right now.
Dark lashes fluttered against tan skin. Twin stars focused gradually and finally looked up. The soft sparkle of something golden in them hadn't vanished, but it had dimmed enough to paint a swirl inside those warm irises that hadn't been there before, not around them, not around anyone. Two heads peered down at her: one on her left, tilted in curiosity, heterochromatic yellow-and-purple eyes blinking; the other, on her right, tilted to the opposite side, dark brown irises fixated on every tiny expression flickering on Koemi's face. Waiting for a faulty, subtle sign of whatever had pulled his closest person into such a catatonic, uncharacteristic state.
A third head faced her beyond her wooden desk, green eyes slitted open with an unusual intensity Koemi hadn't experienced yet by the very person she was supposed to protect daily. There was no tilt to Ranpo's head — or lips. Just still flatness. It mirrored Koemi's to a fault.
“Yeah?”
The voice she found wasn't hers. It never was after moments like these — quiet moments where she sank deep into her head, only to be grasped by the very front of her shirt and pulled out of the metaphorical water with a vigor that left her breathless. Or maybe it wasn't the vigor this time. Maybe she'd just forgotten to take a full breath before diving into her thoughts. She always did, didn't she?
“You're taking a break.”
No room left for an argument, not even a sliver or a creak of a door. The oldest detective’s hand moved from where it had been resting on his hip, now rummaging through the inner pocket of his cape. The soft rustle of fabric drew both Dazai and Atsushi's attention but the object he produced had them grimacing with a familiar exasperation that even Dazai felt in his weary, lanky bones: a single red lollipop. The mentor and protegé exchanged a puzzled glance when the brilliant detective tugged off his deerstalker hat with his free hand — it found a new home on top of Koemi's head. The yellow-eyed detective blinked up at her new temporary possession in a way that made her look more like a bedazzled 16-year-old teenager rather than a seasoned 23-year-old ex-mafiosa.
“Let's go,” Ranpo prompted, beckoning Koemi with exaggerated waving hands. The lollipop had migrated past his lips, now melting inside his mouth. It barely muffled his childish voice, the firmness from before now a long-forgotten myth no one had dared to point out. “We're going to the café to grab some hot chocolate, and I'm paying this time!”
“Ranpo-san, are you spoiling me? And here I thought you were a cheapskate.” Koemi drawled, the tease in her voice softened just a smidge more than it usually was. She made a show of standing up from her desk chair with the speed of a smug, lazy cat, but her hand steadied the deerstalker hat over her head with uncharacteristic gentleness that had Dazai lifting a brow at his longtime colleague. Ranpo didn't let up; if anything, he swung an arm around the younger woman’s shoulders, steering her towards the main office door while jerking his lollipop stick over his shoulder in Dazai's direction without throwing him a single glance.
“Oi! The only cheapskate here is Dazai, and he's too busy being an emotionally constipated friend to offer you help. So, I'm stepping in. Don't say I don't do anything nice for you!”
“Hey now, that's rude! I'll have you know, Ranpo-san, I have emotional diarrhea, not constipation. There's a difference!”
Koemi shot Dazai a mild ‘shut the fuck up, don't ask, don't speak, don't utter another fucking word’ look, which had the brunette lifting his arms up in a faux-placating gesture, miming zipping up his lips. Koemi ruffled Atsushi's gray hair in passing, soliciting a flustered yelp by the weretiger, whose blinks at her departing back became slower than his brain felt at the moment.
They could tell. Both Dazai and Atsushi could tell something was up. Something was… rotting, in there, somewhere. While Atsushi could practically smell the physiological signs of Koemi's internal distress, Dazai had a much more intimate picture of it; after all, he himself experienced it occasionally, albeit in a different form, in a different skin. Even so, as the duo of detectives, one brilliant mastermind, one bodyguard, drifted down the stairs to the first floor (because the elevator was broken yet again and nobody cared enough to fix it), Dazai leaned against the main office doorframe, with his arms crossed over his chest and temple resting on the wooden surface.
He remained staring out into the hallway long after Koemi and Ranpo's voices faded off into a mere vocal suggestion. Even when Kunikida barked at him to stop loitering around, it took him a moment longer than usual to snap himself out of his contemplation, straighten his spine, and rattle something off about double suicide to his annoyed partner. Atsushi, who'd migrated to help Haruno with the printing machine, caught the silent thoughtfulness on his mentor's face from across the room. He often did, much to Dazai's dismay — alas, the anxious teen knew better than to put either Koemi, Dazai or Ranpo on the spot. Sometimes, the best way to handle a situation like that wasn't to poke the bear. It was to give the bear a choice over the stick and let it poke itself with it.
He figured that he could grab a dandelion bouquet on his way back from the docks after that investigation he and Kyouka had to go to later. After all, a couple of white flowers never hurt most emotionally constipated adults, right?
Usually, flowers didn't hurt at all, unless they had thorns. They were gentle and sweet, and smelled nice.
