Work Text:
Kunikida has had an exhausting day, he’s been running in circles— literally, metaphorically and Kunikida was sure it would ascend into the spiritual realm if it was dragged out any longer—the whole day because some goddamn criminal decided that superhuman speed was a good ability. Every time that Kunikida thought he cornered him, the guy’d vanish and that only led to Kunikida’s poor patience being pushed to it’s limits.
To top it all off, like the cherry on top of a sad excuse for a cake, Dazai called in sick for work. Great.
Wonderful.
Nothing new, it was just a blunt message of “Sick, can’t come in today”.
This thwarted most of Kunikida’s plans for the day and he had to spend some precious time rewriting them. Kunikida really ought to smack some sense through Dazai’s thick skull and he didn’t know why his traitorous brain couldn’t shake the lingering sense of regret, tiredness or something Kunikida didn’t want to label that told him to let it go.
He’s sitting at his desk, tapping his pen rhythmically, though it was rather erratic. The sound being the only one in the empty room. Fukuzawa had left a while ago, trusting Kunikida to lock up, as usual. Kunikida scribbled his plan and work for tomorrow. He needs to make dinner, do the laundry, maybe run a few errands—
—And oh, he needs to check on Dazai, he flies that thought to deal with when he gets home.
He puts his laptop in his workbag and takes his coat from the break room. It’s been chilly recently, however it’s Kunikida’s favourite season. The crimson and hazel leaves dusting sidewalks and just the right amount of cold in the air for it to feel comfortable, almost poetic.
He walks home, the area not being too far from the Agency. His mind wanders through his responsibilities though somehow, his uncooperative brain keeps bringing Dazai up.
Burying those thoughts in the midst of his unfinished paperwork and case files to go through in his mind, he continues his walk home, the autumn breeze brushing against his face.
Something claws insistingly at him, the urge to see Dazai, he doesn’t know what or why overcomes him until something nudges him to quicken his pace and his steps started to pick up.
He’s walking through the street and his mind flashes with urgency to go faster and his body seems to operate blindly. Suddenly, he’s broken into a full-on run across the streets.
His vision starts to blur, instinct taking over him. The autumn chill bites his cheeks and makes his hair bob with each step. The city chaos starts to fade behind him. He doesn’t know why he’s going, what’s possessing him but he’s too tired to argue.
A sharp right turn leads him to the front of a door he knows all too well, this is the place Dazai calls home although according to Kunikida’s repeated judgement it’s a shithole. Although he doesn’t have time to ponder over aesthetics, he fiddles with his coat pocket and pulls out his notebook.
He scribbles down the word “key” and this isn’t new to him at all, like muscle memory now. A key materialises, the metal cold against his skin, he shoves it into the lock, cranking it open. Kunikida takes a brief glance at the living room, it reeks of alcohol as it usually does but there’s this stillness in the air that makes Kunikida even more unsettled than before.
Hesitation dissolved, he marches to the bedroom and frantically knocks on the door while barking out a: “Dazai, I know you’re in there!”
No response, no eccentric greeting.
He all but kicks the door open and the sight inside makes Kunikida stop in his tracks, eyes going wide.
Working with Dazai means you get to witness all kinds of things, including his fervent desire for death and Kunikida has pulled Dazai out of countless rivers but that doesn’t mean that it became any less concerning.
A noose hangs from the fan, almost looking as if it wanted to be used and Dazai..
He’s not in it.
Not yet.
He sits idly on the bed, his eyes disoriented from the world. His form sinking into itself.
Snapping himself from his daze, Kunikida yanks Dazai from his bed and before he can even resist, formulate a sentence or comprehend the situation, insults were spewed at him.
Something along the lines of “You suicidal maniac!” and all Dazai could do was sit and watch as yet again, his attempt remained unsuccessful. Kunikida’s voice was raw, full of emotion.
Kunikida spilled words out, his worry and desperation catching up to him.
What caught his attention was when Kunikida said “Have you ever stopped to think once that people care about you?!”
If Dazai wasn’t speechless before then by now he had to have been.
Dazai blinked, once, twice.
He could only stare baffled, as Kunikida looked at him pleadingly and said in a voice barely above a whisper “That I care?” Kunikida’s voice breaks as he says that.
They both ignore it.
Dazai then laughs, because what the fuck is he supposed to do when someone says that they care about him, his laugh is humourless and hollow as if devoid of meaning.
How is he supposed to tell Kunikida, that he doesn’t deserve this much love or care, that he’s brutally hurt people and that he has some twisted fate that brings anyone who interacts with him to ruin their life.
There are tears glinting in his eyes, threatening to spill out and Dazai knows it and he doesn’t have the energy to push them back right now. He knows Kunikida can see them and he wants to wipe that stupid, pitiful expression lining Kunikida’s features.
Instead he does neither and wordlessly obliges as Kunikida makes him something to eat and cleans up the bottles of alcohol sporadically decorating the room.
They don’t speak of it again and Dazai is eternally grateful.