Chapter Text
The Armed Detective Agency was, for once, almost quiet.
Almost — because it was impossible to have true silence when Dazai Osamu existed within a twenty-meter radius.
Kunikida had, miraculously, been enjoying a stretch of relative calm these past few days. Fukuzawa had decided that each member of the Agency would be given three days off in rotation — a small mercy after a month of unending assignments and one near-explosion in the records room that no one wanted to talk about again.
The schedule was carefully arranged: no overlapping days, no risk of the Agency being left unmanned. In theory, it was a perfect plan. In practice, it fell apart the moment Dazai saw Kunikida’s name on the list and noticed the overlap.
Tomorrow was Kunikida’s first day off.
Tomorrow was also Dazai’s last.
Which meant, naturally, that Dazai had declared it fate. And that fate, according to him, required a date.
Today, however, was still officially Dazai’s day off.
So of course he had come to work.
“Dazai,” Kunikida said without looking up from his papers, “why are you here?”
“Why..” came the immediate, wounded reply, “..do you sound so unwelcoming, my dear partner?”
“Because this is a workplace,” Kunikida said, pen tapping against his notebook. “A workplace that you are not scheduled to be in.”
“Ah, but isn’t one supposed to spend their day off doing what they love most?” Dazai leaned against Kunikida’s desk with the kind of practiced laziness that made it seem like the furniture existed solely to support his dramatic weight. “And what I love, Kunikida-kun, is you.”
A few heads turned.
Atsushi froze mid-sentence. Tanizaki’s typing audibly faltered.
Kunikida didn’t so much as flinch, though his jaw tensed. “You love bothering me. There’s a difference.”
“Semantics!” Dazai said cheerfully. “Besides, I had a sudden craving for coffee made by the hands of justice itself~”
“You could have made your own.”
“I could have,” Dazai admitted, with a tragic sigh, “but then I wouldn’t have gotten to see that little vein on your temple twitch when I talk!”
Kunikida exhaled through his nose.
He’d learned long ago that silence was sometimes more effective than argument — though with Dazai, even that was a gamble.
He was halfway through returning to his paperwork when his phone buzzed beside the stack of case reports. A notification popped up:
Email: Shin Tsuruya Institute Alumni Association.
Kunikida paused.
The name sparked something warm and faintly nostalgic in his chest. It had been nearly six months since the last reunion — the one that had left him unexpectedly reflective for days after. He hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for another until now.
Curiosity tugged him into opening it.
Across the office, Yosano was doing her version of mentorship — which, as usual, sounded suspiciously like cruelty disguised as kindness.
Atsushi sat rigid in a chair, a towel draped over his shoulders. Yosano rifled through a sleek black case filled with scissors, clips, and combs, humming under her breath like a surgeon about to begin an operation.
“You said you wanted to pick up a new skill, right?” she asked.
“I said I was thinking about it—” Atsushi protested, eyes wide as she held up a pair of shears that gleamed under the fluorescent light.
“Perfect! Let’s think with our hands.”
Yosano gestured toward a mannequin head fitted with a long, brown wig. “Today, we’re learning precision.”
“W–wait, we’re cutting that?”
“Of course.” She smiled, too serenely to be trusted. “I borrowed it from the disguise trunk, Dazai volunteered it.”
Atsushi blinked. “Dazai-san… has... wigs?”
“Several,” Yosano said matter-of-factly. “You’ll understand when you’ve been here long enough.”
As if summoned by his own mischief, Dazai appeared from behind Kunikida’s desk, cradling a cup of coffee like a prop. “Did I hear someone say my name with an air of impending regret?”
“Perfect timing!” Yosano said brightly. “Sit. You’ll be the model.”
“Model? As in—” His gaze fell on the wig. “Oh, That kind of model.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not letting Atsushi near your actual hair! we’re practicing on this.”
Dazai pressed a hand to his chest, dramatically relieved. “Ah, so my luscious locks remain untouched!”
Yosano smirked. “For now.”
Atsushi gave a nervous laugh, scissors trembling as he took them. “I’ll, uh… do my best..”
The first few snips were cautious. Then — less so. Hair began to fall in uneven tufts around the mannequin’s shoulders.
“Ah—maybe—just—” Yosano reached out too late. “You’re… improvising.”
“It’s— I-I’m so so-” Atsushi blurted.
“-It's abstract art, Atsushi-kun!” Dazai corrected, staring mournfully at the wig as another uneven clump fell to the floor. “That poor thing’s going to need therapy.”
Kunikida’s pen froze mid-word at the growing noise behind him. “Do I even want to know what’s happening?”
“No,” Dazai said without looking up, “but you’re going to anyway! ”
Kunikida sighed and turned back to his phone.
The email opened to a short, neatly formatted message:
Subject: Shin Tsuruya Institute — Autumn Alumni Gathering 🍂
Dear Alumni,
We’re delighted to invite you to our semi-annual reunion!
The event will be held this weekend at the Institute’s main hall.
We hope to see many familiar faces and share new stories from where life has taken us.
RSVP below to join the group chat and confirm attendance.
— Shin Tsuruya Alumni Committee
Kunikida felt something in his chest ease. It had been too long. Six months wasn’t a lifetime, but the thought of stepping back into those halls, seeing the students and colleagues — it stirred something that had been sleeping quietly inside him.
“Hmm?” Dazai leaned over, reading upside-down with predatory ease. “Oh? An invitation?”
Kunikida immediately shifted his phone out of reach. “Personal.”
“Personal, meaning ‘private,’ meaning ‘I’m allowed to pry!’”
“Meaning ‘don’t even think about it.’”
Dazai ignored him, tilting his head with mock innocence. “A reunion, isn’t it? How nostalgic~ Will you go?”
Kunikida hesitated. “I might.”
“You should,” Dazai said. “I bet your students will faint when they see you! their beloved, impossibly strict, secretly softhearted teacher, returning like a legend!”
Kunikida rolled his eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m insightful!” Dazai corrected, sipping his coffee. “Besides, you can tell them all about your thrilling life now — fighting criminals, saving the city, dating a devastatingly handsome genius—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
“—with poor taste in timing!” Dazai concluded lightly, grin curling at the corner of his mouth.
Kunikida turned to him, exasperation already brewing. “You think this is funny?”
“I think it’s adorable.” Dazai said. “Your ears are pink!”
“They are not—” Kunikida stopped, aware that indeed, they might be. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Honestly. Must you make everything into a spectacle?”
“Only the things I find endearing~”
Kunikida looked at him then — really looked. The faint curve of Dazai’s smile wasn’t entirely teasing. There was that flicker of warmth again, the one that caught him off guard every time: gentle, unguarded, and infuriatingly genuine.
“…You’re impossible.” he murmured.
“And yet you agreed to a date tomorrow.” Dazai reminded him cheerfully.
“That’s because I lost a bet.”
“You lost to yourself,” Dazai countered, setting his cup down. “Because you’re secretly excited!”
“I’m—”
“Mmhmm~!”
Kunikida’s retort was cut off when Dazai reached over, plucked something from the desk, and dangled it between two fingers — the freshly butchered wig, somehow retrieved from Yosano’s station when no one was looking.
“I’ll wear this tomorrow.” Dazai declared.
Kunikida blinked. “You will not—!”
“Oh, but imagine! Romantic strolls, starlit conversations, you with your ideals, me with my new haircut—”
“It’s a wig!"
Dazai grinned wider. “Blah blah, minor details!”
Kunikida stared at him, wordless. There was no winning. There never was. But there was warmth, ridiculous as it was — a warmth that crept in despite himself, despite all logic and irritation and years of denial.
What was he going to do with this man?
He already knew the answer. Love him anyway.
From the couch nearby, Ranpo peered over his snack bag. “Hey, lovebirds!” he called out lazily. “If you’re done flirting in 4K, some of us are trying to enjoy our chips in peace.”
Kunikida’s head snapped up. “We aren’t—”
“Sure, sure,” Ranpo said, crunching loudly. “Just saying, maybe take the heart eyes outside next time.”
Dazai turned to Kunikida with the most unhelpful smirk imaginable. “Hear that, Kunikida-kun? We’re distracting~”
“Get back to work!” Kunikida snapped.
“It’s my day off~!”
“Then leave!”
But Dazai didn’t leave. He only leaned against the edge of Kunikida’s desk again, smiling like he’d already won. Maybe he had.
Because Kunikida didn’t tell him to stop smiling.
And when he checked his phone a minute later, he’d already clicked Join Chat on the reunion email.
[Shin Tsuruya Alumni Group — Autumn 2025]
Nakamura (Admin): Kunikida-sensei!! You’re joining again this year??
Kunikida: It seems that way.
Nakamura: Wonderful!! Everyone will be thrilled! You’ve been mentioned at least twice every meeting—
Takamori: More like every meeting!
Hayase: Someone still has your old lesson plans saved in the archives. We might put them on display.
Kunikida: …Please don’t.
Hayase: too late.
Takamori: Bring new stories this time, Doppo! We want to hear what you’ve been doing.
Kunikida: …I’ll see what I can share.
Dazai’s voice drifted over his shoulder again, low and amused. “Oh, I can think of a few stories!”
Kunikida’s sigh was long, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him — just slightly, just enough for Dazai to notice.
By the time the sun had dipped below the horizon, the Agency had emptied out.
Ranpo had long since vanished the moment Fukuzawa dismissed him, Yosano and Atsushi departed together—Yosano to a late dinner, Atsushi to a date with a textbook he claimed was “urgent.” Kenji took Kyouka to an outing near his village today. Even Tanizaki and Naomi had gone, their voices fading down the hallway in overlapping chatter.
Now, only two remained.
The lamps cast a mellow glow across the office, catching dust motes in slow orbit. Kunikida stood by his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms as he organized the day’s papers into precise stacks. Dazai leaned nearby, unhelpful as ever, cradling the mug that had long since gone cold.
“You know,” Dazai said conversationally, “normal people don’t clean their desks at nine in the evening.”
“Normal people don’t leave reports half-finished.” Kunikida replied, slipping a file into its proper place. “Unlike a certain someone.”
“Touché.” Dazai smiled, tracing the rim of his mug idly. “But you’ve done enough for today! It’s your day off tomorrow, remember? Even the great Kunikida Doppo is allowed to rest.”
“I will rest,” Kunikida said, shutting a drawer with quiet precision. “Once I’ve ensured that no one will have to pick up after your chaos in the morning.”
“That sounds suspiciously like working..”
“It’s called responsibility.”
“Ah, yes~ the eternal rival of spontaneity!”
Kunikida exhaled through his nose — not quite a sigh, not quite amusement. The quiet between them settled easily, familiar now. They’d been together for only a few weeks, and yet this rhythm — bickering, countering, softening — felt like something that had always been waiting for them to find it.
Dazai swayed on his heels, studying him. “You’re thinking too much again!”
“I’m finishing up for the night.”
“Well, you’re thinking while finishing up for the night!”
“Dazai—”
“Thinking about me, perhaps?”
Kunikida’s hand paused mid-stack. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Dazai’s grin widened. “That wasn’t a denial~”
Kunikida shot him a glare that lacked its usual edge. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Dazai murmured, stepping closer, “you haven’t asked me to leave~"
The lamps hummed softly. Somewhere outside, the city murmured — distant cars, a scatter of laughter from the street below. The rest of the Agency was asleep, but here, time had slowed to something intimate and small.
Kunikida cleared his throat, shifting the conversation before it could tilt further into dangerous territory. “Are you actually serious about wearing that wig tomorrow?”
Dazai blinked, then broke into laughter. “Oh, that again!”
“You seemed rather intent.”
“I was testing the waters,” Dazai said, leaning his elbows on Kunikida’s desk, chin in hand. “You seemed adorably horrified, it was… inspiring?”
“Inspiring is not the word I’d use.”
“Hmm. How about motivating?”
“I’d call it deranged.”
Dazai laughed softly — not his usual theatrical chuckle. “Maybe I’ll surprise you.”
Kunikida arched a brow. “If by ‘surprise’ you mean ‘embarrass me publicly,’ I’ll pass.”
“We’ll see about that~”
It was said lightly, but the wink that followed was uncharacteristically soft — less teasing, more a quiet promise of shared mischief. Kunikida blinked, caught off guard by the sudden warmth that curled at the edge of it.
“…You really are impossible.” he murmured again, though his voice had lost its bite.
Dazai straightened, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “Shucks, you still agreed to spend your day off with me! Tomorrow, 10 a.m., yes?”
“Yes,” Kunikida said, too quickly, then frowned as Dazai’s grin widened further. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“Oh, I’d never!” Dazai’s tone was all mock innocence — but the look he gave was fond, unmistakably so.
For a moment, neither moved. The quiet between them thickened, filled with everything unsaid — weeks of unspoken affection, the novelty of being allowed to be soft without consequence. Dazai set down his mug and took a step closer, then another.
Kunikida’s heart kicked against his ribs, though he didn’t back away.
Dazai stopped just within reach, his expression unguarded now — the kind of look Kunikida had only seen in rare moments, when the night had gone still and Dazai’s laughter had run out. “You really do work too hard.” he said softly.
“And you talk too much.”
“Balance!” Dazai said, his smile faint and genuine. “That’s what makes us work.”
Kunikida meant to scoff — he really did — but the sound tangled in his throat when Dazai leaned forward, brushing a brief, feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth.
It was barely there, over before Kunikida could properly process it — but it left warmth blooming across his skin, the kind that refused to fade.
“…That was uncalled for.” he muttered finally, though it came out softer than intended.
“Consider it motivation to get some sleep.” Dazai said, already reaching for his coat.
Kunikida turned back to his desk, but the pen in his hand refused to cooperate, his focus scattered somewhere between we’ll see about that and the ghost of that smile.
Dazai paused at the door. “Goodnight, Kunikida-kun. Sweet dreams of our date~!”
“Go home, Dazai.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a moment, the office was utterly still. Then Kunikida allowed himself a small, helpless smile — the kind that no one else ever saw.
Tomorrow would come soon enough.
He finished aligning the last of his papers, turned off the lamp, and finally headed home — two separate paths through the city night, parallel, but already pulling toward the same point in the morning.
Kunikida Doppo was not nervous.
He refused to be.
He stood in front of his apartment mirror, adjusting his collar for the third time, smoothing the faint wrinkle on his sleeve for the fourth, and contemplating whether he should bring a spare notebook—
For contingency.
For sanity.
Not because he was nervous.
He checked the clock.
9:12 a.m.
They agreed on meeting at 10.
He was on schedule.
Comfortingly so.
Predictably so.
So why did his reflection look like a man preparing for a job interview instead of a simple date?
Kunikida huffed at himself and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Get a grip..” he told his reflection. “It’s just Dazai.”
His reflection looked unconvinced.
He stepped away from the mirror and checked his phone—
It buzzed immediately.
Dazai: Good morning, my sunshine! ☀️
Dazai: Are you dressed neatly?
Dazai: Is your hair combed?
Dazai: Did you iron your socks again?
Kunikida frowned so hard the air tensed around him.
Kunikida: I do NOT iron my socks.
Dazai: Sure sure whatever helps u sleep at night~
Dazai: What are you wearing?
Kunikida’s soul left his body.
Kunikida: Clothes.
Dazai: Scandalous~
He considered throwing his phone.
Very briefly.
Dazai: Send a photo?
Kunikida: Absolutely not.
Dazai: 😔 you wound me kunikida-kun…
Dazai: Fine! I’ll make it fair.
Dazai: I’ll send you a surprise too~
Kunikida froze.
Surprise?
What kind?
The kind that meant he had to prepare psychologically?
Before he could demand clarification, anothe message appeared:
Dazai: Hm. Actually.
Dazai: I have a different idea!
Kunikida pinched the bridge of his nose.
“God help me.”
Dazai stretched lazily across his futon, sunlight pouring over him like warm silk. It was rare for him to wake feeling this relaxed — rarer still that the reason had nothing to do with mischief and everything to do with anticipation.
A date with Kunikida-kun.
Their first one with a proper day dedicated to it.
He rolled onto his side, bangs falling over his face as he reached for the mannequin head sitting innocently on his table.
The wig — yesterday’s tragedy — looked even more pitiful under the daylight.
He tilted his head at it.
“Hmm… Atsushi really did this dirty."
The uneven bangs, the jagged layers, the little chunk near the back that had been shaved down to wishful thinking—
Dazai tapped his chin thoughtfully.
“I have an idea…”
He lifted the wig, turning it around in his hands like a puzzle.
(A quick fix won’t hurt.)
His fingers drifted to his drawer where — of course — he kept proper styling scissors.
For undercover missions.
And also for fun, but Kunikida didn’t need to know that.
Dazai hummed lightly as he went to work, snipping with surprising precision, shaping, layering, coaxing the wig back into something—
Elegant.
Soft.
Complimentary.
When he finished, the mannequin stared back at him with a beautifully styled, shoulder-length cut: feathered layers, soft framing, subtle tapering at the ends.
Dazai smirked.
“Oh, Kunikida-kun is going to die! ...Nevermind, that’s my thing!”
He tied his hair back, slid the wig on, adjusted it, and looked into the mirror.
He blinked once.
Twice.
“…Oh~”
He looked…
Nice?
Not in his usual, mischievous, dangerous charm — but softer.
Younger.
Unexpectedly earnest.
He touched the wig gently.
Maybe—
Just for today—
A little surprise wouldn’t hurt.
He grabbed his coat and his phone and sent one last message:
Dazai: On my way :3
Dazai: Don’t miss me too much~~
The city morning was crisp, the kind that hinted at early autumn.
Kunikida walked toward the meeting spot — a small café tucked under a line of gingko trees — with steady steps and a stern internal reminder that this was a normal outing.
A date, yes, but still normal.
Manageable.
Predictable.
Then he saw Dazai walking toward him.
And his internal order shattered like glass.
Dazai waved at him from half a block away.
“Ku-ni-ki-da-kun~!”
Kunikida’s heart stopped—
Restarted—
Confused itself—
And then gave up entirely.
Dazai was—
Beautiful.
That was the only word for it.
The styled wig framed his face so delicately that Kunikida almost didn’t recognize him at first. It softened Dazai’s sharp angles, made his brown eyes warmer, clearer, almost… gentle. His usual bandages peeked from beneath the layers, but instead of making him look unruly, the contrast only emphasized the care in the cut.
Kunikida stared.
Not blinking.
Not breathing.
Dazai slowed to a smug saunter.
“Oh? Cat got your tongue?”
“I— You—”
Kunikida pointed helplessly.
“The wig..?”
“You told me to consider it yesterday~” Dazai said sweetly. “So I considered it!”
“This is— This is not the same wig Atsushi destroyed.”
“I gave it a makeover.”
“A makeover?!”
“Do you like it?”
Dazai leaned in, smiling under the soft fringe.
“Be honest~”
Kunikida opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“…It.. It suits you.”
Dazai beamed.
Kunikida immediately regretted saying it out loud.
“ I mean, but— not like—”
“Oh?” Dazai tilted his head, the wig swaying perfectly with the motion. “Kunikida-kun thinks I look pretty?”
“I did not say—”
“You did~”
“I—”
“You absolutely did.”
Kunikida’s ears went red.
Dazai laughed, soft and delighted, brushing his fingers lightly against Kunikida’s sleeve. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered~!”
Kunikida inhaled sharply — to steady himself or to stay upright, he wasn’t sure.
“Let’s just… go...” he muttered, turning toward the café.
“Oh? Are we embarrassed?” Dazai teased, slipping into easy stride beside him. “Should I hold your hand to calm you down?”
“Don’t you dare—”
Dazai delicately hooked a pinky around his.
Just a whisper of contact.
Barely there.
Kunikida nearly combusted.
They walked the last few steps like that — fingertips touching, shoulders brushing occasionally, the sunlight catching in Dazai’s borrowed hair — an unspoken rhythm between them.
The little bell above the café door chimed as they entered, the warm scents of roasted coffee and sweet pastries enveloping them instantly.
The quiet morning date had officially begun.
The morning light over Shin-Tsuruya warmed the narrow street like a gentle hand, catching on bicycles lined along the rail and the old brick of the buildings that had watched generations of students hurry past. At the corner sat Café Kotori, their unofficial meeting place for years — where they’d crammed for finals, swapped bento boxes, and once, collectively cried over mock exam scores.
Now, at 09:40 AM, Rina Mizutani sat at one of the outdoor tables, tapping her pen against a notebook that had “Preparations!!” written in large, overly hopeful letters at the top.
Her latte had already grown lukewarm.
Her patience, even more so.
Rina checked her phone again: 09:40.
Ten o’clock was the arranged meeting time. Ten to ten-oh-ten, they’d talk, then leave to buy gifts. A simple plan. A perfect plan.
A plan that required her friends to be punctual — a miracle she did not believe in.
She sighed dramatically and flipped to the next page of her notebook, where last night’s “brainstorming” had left behind a trail of chaos in their group chat.
TsuruyaStars ✧彡
(22:04)
Rina: Okay everyone — tomorrow, 10 AM. Please don’t be late or we won’t have time to get gifts!
Hiroto: can we just get him a pen again
Natsuko: no bc last time he used it up in two months
Shun: which means it was a good gift????
Yamane: We should choose something symbolic. Growth, resilience, structure—
Hiroto: it’s a gift not a euology
Makoto: maybe… something handmade…?
Rina: writing that down
Hiroto: Rina is turning into—
Rina: DON’T
Yamane: Kunikida-sensei.
Rina: I SAID DON’T
Rina dropped her forehead onto the table.
They were insufferable. She loved them. It was a curse.
Right then, an arm landed heavily across her shoulders.
“Morning.” Hiroto yawned, hair still half asleep, eyes only a quarter open.
“You’re late.”
“I’m fourteen minutes early.”
“You’re late relative to when I expected you to be late.”
“That’s— weirdly rude. And fair. But mostly rude.”
She ignored him. For her sanity.
“Um… good morning!" Makoto said softly as she arrived next, clutching a small paper bag to her chest.
“Makoto!” Rina beamed. “You’re early. You’re perfect.”
Makoto flushed pink. “I just didn’t want to hold everyone up…”
“See the difference?” Rina said to Hiroto, jabbing her pen at him.
“Okay, ow?” Hiroto ducked. “Why is your pen a weapon?”
Before she could retort, someone approached with purposeful, almost military steps.
Yamane.
White shirt, neat hair, backpack slung over one shoulder — the picture of someone who always planned ahead.
Except he shouldn’t even be here.
“…Yamane,” Rina said slowly. “Don’t you have a seminar today?”
“I skipped it!" he replied without hesitation.
Hiroto choked on air. “YOU DID WHAT—?”
“It wasn’t an essential session,” Yamane said. “And this reunion prep is more important. Also, if you tell anyone, I’ll bury you in flashcards.”
Rina blinked. “That’s… kind of sweet?”
Yamane looked at her notebook, at her stance, and smiled just slightly.
“Sensei would be proud.”
Rina sputtered. “THAT IS THE SECOND TIME YOU’VE SAID THAT—!”
“And it’s still true~" Yamane replied calmly.
Hiroto looked betrayed. “Dude, I thought we agreed not to trigger her so early in the morning.”
“It’s 09:45,” Yamane said. “Late enough.”
Rina opened her mouth to argue, but—
“Sorry!! Sorry, I’m here!”
Natsuko sprinted toward them, her bag bouncing. “My mom made me eat breakfast. A full one. With fruit. And soup.”
Shun followed behind her at a slower pace, hoodie and earphones as always, scanning the group with that quiet, assessing look that had never quite left him since school days. His shoulders dropped a little when he saw everyone present.
Finally.
“All right,” Rina declared, clapping once like Kunikida used to when class needed corralling. “It’s 09:58. Let’s go over the plan.”
Hiroto turned to Makoto. “She's—”
“Hiroto,” Rina warned, “I will throw this notebook at you.”
“I wasn’t going to say it!”
“You were thinking it." Yamane added dryly.
Makoto cleared her throat timidly. “Um… what’s the plan?”
Rina exhaled and flipped open her notebook. “We go to the stationery shop, then the bookstore, then the—”
“Do we need five gifts?” Hiroto interrupted. “He’s… one guy.”
“Yes,” Rina said, without blinking.
Shun shoved his hands into his pockets. “If Sensei knew we were arguing about this, he’d give us that look.”
“The disappointed one?” Natsuko shivered. “Ugh, it lives in my nightmares.”
“Which one?” Hiroto asked. “The ‘I expected better’ one? The ‘your excuse is invalid’ one? The ‘Hiroto stop napping’ one?”
“There were multiple versions of that last one." Shun murmured.
“Very true,” Yamane said. “He tailored them.”
Rina groaned into her hands. “Can we PLEASE just start walking?”
“Yes!" Makoto said softly, trying to help.
“Absolutely,” Yamane nodded. “I skipped a seminar for this. Efficiency is essential.”
“You WHAT—” Rina and Hiroto said at the same time.
“You already reacted to that..” Yamane reminded them.
“This is a second reaction!” Hiroto cried.
But despite the bickering — or because of it — they finally began walking toward the shops, a messy knot of laughter and jostling elbows.
Natsuko looped her arm through Makoto’s.
Hiroto complained he was “being oppressed by responsibility.”
Shun muttered they should buy snacks first, because “preparation requires fuel.”
Yamane lectured them about sticking to the schedule.
And Rina, notebook in hand, led the way — equal parts exasperated and fond.
They moved together the same way they always had:
Chaotic.
Loud.
Stubborn.
Soft where it mattered.
Exactly the kind of students Kunikida-sensei had believed they could become.
And somewhere nearby, unknowingly walking toward destiny, their teacher was already on his date.
The café’s bell chimed softly as they stepped inside, the warm smell of roasted coffee beans wrapping around them like a slow exhale. The morning was comfortably quiet: a few early patrons hunched over laptops, a pair of old women chatting by the window, and a barista humming as she polished cups.
Kunikida held the door for Dazai, who swept in with a theatrical, “My hero~” before Kunikida rolled his eyes and guided him toward a small booth tucked near the back. A spot somewhat private, somewhat cozy… and entirely unintentional that they both drifted there as if by habit.
Their shoulders brushed when they slid into the booth.
Not that either said anything about it.
Dazai set the wig into place as though he were adjusting a crown, while Kunikida momentarily wondered how his life had morphed into… this. This wig-wearing idiot sitting across from him, eyelashes fluttering, looking unfairly pretty in the sunlight. This softness. This familiarity.
This relationship.
He cleared his throat and grabbed the menu. “We should order.”
“Yes,” Dazai nodded solemnly. “We should order… coffee!”
“Food.” Kunikida corrected.
“Coffee is food for the soul.”
“You need actual nourishment, idiot.”
Dazai gasped dramatically. “I am nourished!”
“You are not.”
“Well! I had a protein bar—”
Kunikida leveled him with a stare. The kind that could silence a room or, apparently, make Dazai shrink like a scolded cat.
“…last.. night..” Dazai admitted.
The stare intensified.
“Fine! Order something if you insist! But—” He jabbed a finger accusingly across the table. “You can’t get mad at me for wanting only coffee when you keep sending me food on weekends.”
Kunikida froze. “That’s entirely different!”
“Is it?” Dazai leaned forward, eyes narrowing with a sly edge. “You already cook for me, send it in those cute little bento containers—”
“They’re not cute—”
“—and write nutrition notes on the lid—”
“That was one time—”
“Three times!”
Kunikida flushed. How humiliating.
“That’s because you don’t eat properly!”
“I eat when I remember!”
“Exactly!”
The barista arrived, smiling politely. “...Ready to order?”
“..Yes, apologies.” Kunikida replied, snapping the menu open like a monk unfurling doctrine. “One hot black coffee, one iced mocha latte with extra whipped cream, the seafood doria, and—”
“—no!” Dazai shrieked. “That’s not my order!”
“It is now.”
“I didn’t consent!”
“You are eating it.”
The barista blinked, caught between amusement and confusion. “Is the… seafood doria for.. uh… your partner?”
“Yes.” Kunikida answered firmly.
“No.” Dazai mumbled.
“Yes.” Kunikida repeated.
Dazai wilted. “…fine.”
But when the barista took the menus and walked away, Dazai leaned back, arms crossed, pout forming like a storm cloud.
“I can’t believe you ordered something with crab for me.” he grumbled.
“..You like crab.”
“Not when you force it on me like a stubborn housewife—”
Kunikida choked, coughing into his fist so hard his glasses almost slipped. “Do not say things like that in public.”
“Oh? Embarrassed?” Dazai’s grin sharpened. “Should I say it because it’s true?”
“You— just— behave.”
“Make me.”
“Dazai.”
He was smiling too brightly. Too smugly. Too… fondly.
Kunikida sighed, surrendering to the softness creeping into his chest. It wasn’t worth the fight. And, besides, despite his theatrical complaints, Dazai did like crab. Kunikida had noted it — silently, discreetly — over several dinners.
“So!” Dazai said, tapping the tabletop. “What’s on the great Kunikida Doppo’s mind today? You’ve been thinking circles since we walked in.”
Kunikida considered deflecting.
He considered intellectualizing.
Instead, he chose truth.
“Work,” he admitted. “Agency scheduling, supply orders, the upcoming report—”
“Boring~!” Dazai sang.
“—and my students.”
Dazai’s eyebrows lifted.
“I got another message from the alumni group chat,” Kunikida continued. “They’re meeting later today, probably buying supplies for the reunion.”
There was warmth in his voice that he didn’t quite disguise. Something paternal. Something proud.
Dazai softened immediately — just a bit. His teasing dropped an octave, quieting. “You’ve always liked talking about them.”
“They’re good kids,” Kunikida said, and then, after a pause: “They were.”
“Were?” Dazai echoed.
“I mean—” Kunikida exhaled. “They grew up. They’ve changed. Some of them… more than I expected. Yamane got into university. Makoto’s writing club keeps publishing her work. Shun’s finally living somewhere safe. Rina—”
He stopped, smiling faintly.
“She’s… very organized.”
“Ah,” Dazai mused. “A little you!”
“Don’t say that.”
But the smile stuck.
“And what about us?” Dazai asked slyly, chin on his hand. “Any thoughts about that?”
Kunikida blinked. “Us?”
“Yes.” Dazai leaned forward. “Us, Kunikida! the wildly attractive, absolutely functional, stunningly compatible unit we are~”
Kunikida groaned. “Do not phrase it like that.”
“But answer the question!”
Kunikida hesitated.
The truth hovered behind his teeth again, warm and unwieldy.
“…I was thinking,” he said slowly, choosing each word carefully, “about our schedules.”
“..Our schedules?” Dazai repeated, unimpressed.
“Yes. If we reorganized slightly — if we weren’t commuting separately — things would be more efficient.”
Dazai stared.
Kunikida stared back.
Dazai blinked.
Kunikida swallowed.
“…Are you asking me to move in?” Dazai asked softly.
“No,” Kunikida snapped too fast. “Not— not asking. Just— considering the possibility that if we were to— hypothetically— at some point—”
“Doppo.”
The nickname was barely a whisper.
Kunikida’s breath caught.
Dazai looked at him — really looked — with something bright, startled and soft. Something that tugged at Kunikida’s chest.
“You want to live with me.” Dazai murmured. “You actually… want that?”
Kunikida’s cheeks burned. “Don’t say it like that.”
“But it’s true!”
“I said hypothetically—”
A plate and two drinks arrived, interrupting the moment. The barista set them down, oblivious to the emotional chaos unfolding.
“Seafood doria for you, dear customer.” she said to Dazai.
He stared at the bubbling, golden-brown dish as though personally betrayed.
Kunikida nudged it toward him. “Eat.”
Dazai picked up his spoon with the energy of someone accepting a tragic fate. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you!” he muttered.
Kunikida choked so hard that his coffee nearly went flying.
“..Don’t say things like that so casually.”
“But you like it!” Dazai said, lifting a spoonful.
Kunikida did not respond.
Which was response enough.
Suddenly, Dazai holds the spoon out toward Kunikida.
Kunikida blinks. “Dazai, I ordered that for you. Eat it.”
“But it tastes better when shared!” Dazai says, leaning forward with that playful, lopsided smile that always makes Kunikida suspicious of the structural integrity of his own self-control. “Come on, say ‘ah~!’”
“I am not doing that in a public place.”
“You let me live in your kitchen every weekend! the line is already blurred, Kunikida-kun~”
“That is entirely unrelated.” Kunikida mutters, but Dazai just keeps holding the spoon out, eyebrows raised, patient in the way that is absolutely not patience but weaponized affection.
Finally, Kunikida huffs, leans forward, and accepts the bite.
…It’s really good. Unfairly good.
Dazai’s grin spreads like sunrise. “See? Worth embarrassing yourself over?”
“I wasn’t embarrassed.”
“You were blushing!”
“It’s just warm in here.”
“Mm-hmm~ then have another!”
And somehow, inexplicably, Kunikida does.
Because Dazai is looking at him like Kunikida hung the moon, and because the food is very good, and because giving in feels—just this once—like the most natural thing in the world.
They ate — Dazai grumbling, Kunikida pretending not to enjoy the way Dazai’s face lit up when he discovered it tasted good.
They talked — about the Agency, about Atsushi’s disastrous haircut training, about Ranpo’s never-ending snack stash, about Kenji and Kyouka’s fairings.
About the wig, which Dazai proudly adjusted every few minutes.
And, eventually, about living arrangements again.
“You really meant it, didn’t you?” Dazai asked softly as he scraped the last bit of crab from the dish. “The moving-in thing.”
Kunikida sighed. “…yes, eventually.”
Dazai beamed like the sun itself.
It was ridiculous how bright he became.
“I’m… honored, you know.” he said. “That you’d even consider it.”
Kunikida looked down at his hands. “I just want to make sure you have someone looking out for you.”
“..Oh?”
“I worry about you,” he said quietly. “More than I’d like to admit.”
Dazai froze.
"..huh. Is that so?"
Something flickered across his face. Something tender, raw, unguarded.
But before he could speak—
He yawned.
A tiny yawn.
A soft, ridiculous, sleepy sound that did not match the usually sharp, elusive man he pretended to be.
Then Dazai wilted forward onto the table like a flower giving up under sunlight.
Head resting on his folded arms.
Wig perfectly intact.
Eyes drifting closed.
Breath evening out.
Kunikida stared.
A full minute passed.
Another.
The café hummed around them, quiet and warm.
Kunikida softened.
So much that it hurt.
“…you idiot.” he whispered.
Dazai didn’t stir.
Kunikida — glancing around to make sure no one was watching — took out his phone.
And snapped a single photo.
A perfect capture: Dazai dozing in a café, wig pristine, expression peaceful, sunlight brushing his cheek.
A memory.
A treasure.
He tucked the phone away, exhaling slowly.
Let him sleep, Kunikida decided.
For as long as he needs.
There was nowhere else he’d rather be than here — watching over him.
And so, with his coffee in hand and Dazai breathing softly beside him, Kunikida settled in for a quiet, gentle moment that felt impossibly private.
In the booth of a café, sunshine drifting like dust in the air, the world slowed.
And for the first time in days, everything felt still.
Eventually, they would head out.
But for now—
For this fleeting, fragile morning—
They simply existed.
Together.
“WHAT THE HELL?!”
“SHHH!! Are you trying to get us arrested?!”
The outburst echoed down the quiet morning street, startling a pair of pigeons into frantic flight. Six former Shin-Tsuruya students froze mid-walk, bags slung over shoulders, the crisp 10:03 a.m. breeze slicing through the awkward silence that followed.
Rina closed her eyes, breathed in, breathed out, and said with dangerous calm,
“…Who. Was. That.”
Hiroto lifted a lazy hand. “Yamane.”
Yamane glared. “Hey, you bumped me!”
“You were walking in a straight line!” Hiroto replied in a tone that suggested he hadn’t woken up yet.
“That doesn’t even—”
“GUYS!” Makoto whispered, clutching her tote bag, “um… did we not just agree to not scream in public today…?”
“We did.” Natsuko sighed, flipping through her planner. “Clearly, that resolution has already crashed and burned.”
Shun, hands buried in the pockets of his oversized hoodie, exhaled through his nose. “Okay, who saw what.”
Yamane spun around, pointing down the street like he’d spotted a rare animal. “I’m telling you, someone who looks EXACTLY like Kunikida-sensei just walked into that café.”
Five heads snapped toward the glass storefront in question:
Cafe Lumière, with its soft cream curtains and pastel sign — a place notorious around town for being a date spot.
Rina blinked, adjusting her glasses.
“…What? No, impossible. Kunikida-sensei doesn’t… go outside voluntarily.”
Natsuko raised a finger. “He goes outside!”
“He goes outside only to work.” Rina corrected.
Makoto murmured, “Actually, he does grocery shopping on Wednesdays—”
“That still counts as work!” Rina insisted.
Hiroto yawned loudly. “We don’t know it’s him, lots of people look like they’re on the verge of scolding someone.”
Yamane grabbed him by the shoulders. “I’m telling you I saw the hair, I saw the coat, I saw the back muscles—”
“Why were you looking at his back muscles?” Shun said.
“I wasn’t!— I mean, okay, he wears fitted shirts, it’s hard not to—THAT ISN’T THE POINT!”
Rina massaged her temples. “Okay. Just… okay. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
She checked her phone.
9:40 had become 10:05.
They were late, for god’s sake! They had things to buy, there was a list, and a schedule, a plan—
Hiroto muttered, “You’re starting to sound like him.”
“Excuse me?” she snapped.
Yamane snorted. “You totally do~ especially when you're stressed!”
“YOU skipped a seminar to be here!” Rina hissed back. “You don’t get to talk.”
“Because this is clearly more important!”
“Guys,” Makoto whispered again, “the café window—there’s a good angle from that alley…”
Six pairs of eyes turned toward a narrow path between the bookstore and the florist.
Hiroto: “We are not doing that.”
Shun: “…Why are we sneaking?”
Natsuko: “On a public street? fun!”
Rina: “We are not doing this, this is wrong. This is ridiculous! We have things to buy, and an itinerary, and and—"
Yamane was already speed-walking toward the alley.
“YAMANE!”
“I’m just looking~!” he called.
Shun shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and followed. “If someone’s gonna get arrested, it should be all of us.”
Natsuko, Makoto, and Hiroto exchanged long-suffering glances, then trudged after them.
Rina was the last.
She sighed.
She adjusted her bag.
She accepted her fate.
“…I hate peer pressure.” she muttered, and joined them.
They squeezed into the narrow space, knees bumping, shoulders overlapping, six heads stacked like a very unprofessional surveillance unit.
“Move your hair, I can’t see!” Hiroto complained.
“My hair is literally tied up!" Makoto whispered.
“Then it’s the aura. Your— your aura is blocking me.”
“That’s… not how auras work..” Natsuko mumbled.
“This has NOTHING to do with aura??” Makoto retorts.
“GUYS,” Yamane hissed. “Look.”
Through the window, angled between potted plants and a hanging ivy basket—
A familiar silhouette sat at a wooden table.
The posture.
The coat.
The notebook placed at a perfect 90-degree angle.
Rina’s soul left her body.
“…It’s him.” she whispered.
Hiroto whistled. “Damn. He really is here.”
Makoto clasped her hands. “Should… we greet him? Say hi?”
“NO!” Rina choked. “No! We’re not barging into a café to say ‘hi sensei we stalked you from outside!’ That is the worst possible idea.”
Yamane nodded solemnly. “She’s right, the man deserves peace.”
Rina softened slightly. “..Thank you.”
Yamane continued,
“…Also we’d get murdered.”
“There it is.” Rina muttered.
Shun leaned closer. “Wait… he’s not alone.”
The group collectively craned.
At the table, across from Kunikida—
A fairly tall woman, hair tied neatly, wearing a beige coat and a warm brown sweater.
Natsuko frowned. “Is that… a colleague? Maybe it’s a case meeting?”
Makoto nodded. “Could be, Sensei did mention he sometimes works outside the office.”
“Maybe,” Hiroto mused, “but if this were work, why pick this café? Isn’t this the one couples go to?”
Rina snapped, “Hiroto, for the last time—Kunikida-sensei is not on a date.”
Hiroto shrugged. “He’s capable.”
“He has a literal list for an ideal partner!” she whisper-shouted. “pages!”
“Is that… true?” Makoto asked, horrified.
“Oh absolutely.” Yamane said. “Remember when he lectured the entire class about ‘standards’ after someone confessed to a guy who couldn’t do basic algebra?”
“That was you..” Shun said.
“..That’s not the point.”
Natsuko tilted her head. “Still… the atmosphere is a little…”
Soft.
Quiet.
Warm.
Through the window, Kunikida’s usual stiffness seemed gentler, shoulders relaxed, expression edges softened as he talked.
The woman laughed at something.
Kunikida looked away —
and blushed.
Makoto slapped a hand over her mouth.
Hiroto’s jaw dropped.
Shun blinked.
Natsuko’s planner slipped out of her hands.
Rina whispered, “No way.”
Yamane, eyes blown wide, pointed at the window.
“WHAT THE HELL—”
“SHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!” the other five hissed in perfect unison, slapping him from every direction.
“What is WRONG with you!?” Rina whispered furiously.
“H-he BLUSHED!” Yamane sputtered. “SENSEI BLUSHED! LIKE—REAL BLUSH. LIKE—CHEEKS-TURNING-RED—”
“He’s probably warm!” Rina insisted.
“He NEVER gets warm."
"He’s inside a café!”
"It's WINTER!”
Hiroto squinted. “Wait— Wait wait wait. Look. What's he doing?”
They all leaned closer.
Kunikida had taken out his phone.
He lifted it, angled carefully—
click.
The screen flashed.
He took a picture.
Of the woman across from him.
Who was now dozing off on the table, hair falling slightly loose.
Silence.
Dead. Utter. Silence.
Rina slowly, painfully, placed both hands against her face.
“Oh my god.” Natsuko murmured. “He took a picture.”
“A candid!” Makoto whispered reverently.
“A soft one..” Shun added.
“A romantic one!” Hiroto concluded.
Yamane was vibrating. “THIS IS REAL. THIS IS HAPPENING. HE’S DATING SOMEONE. I—THIS—WE—WE NEED A MOMENT—”
“Everyone CALM DOWN!” Rina whisper-shouted, swatting at them like a mother herding hyperactive ducklings. “We are NOT—NOT!!!—bringing this up to him, alright ?!”
Natsuko nodded. “Agreed. We’ll let him tell us when he’s ready.”
Makoto fanned herself. “This is… a lot.”
Hiroto shrugged. “I think it’s cute!”
“EVERYONE SHUT UP!” Rina snapped. “Listen—this is private. And we are NOT telling him we saw this. Not now. Not at the reunion. Not ever—UNLESS he says something first, got it?”
Yamane pouted. “But—this is huge!”
“YOU skipped an entire seminar for this, so your input is INVALID.”
“...I regret nothing.”
Shun tugged Yamane’s jacket. “Come on. Let’s go. Before we get caught.”
“Caught doing WHAT?!” Yamane whisper-yelled.
“Existing suspiciously.” Hiroto said.
Natsuko picked up her planner. “Let’s just finish the shopping..”
Makoto nodded vigorously. “Yes. Before Rina explodes.”
“I’M. FINE.” Rina snapped, very clearly not fine.
They slowly peeled away from the window, whispering frantically as they filed back onto the street, leaving behind the sight of Kunikida quietly watching over the sleeping woman across from him.
Yamane sighed dreamily,
“…Sensei really grew up, huh. Such a beauty too..”
Rina elbowed him. “Shut up and walk.”
And with that, six flustered, stunned, emotionally-overwhelmed former students marched toward the store — half in denial, half in awe, all of them scrambling to mentally prepare for the reunion.
And absolutely none of them prepared for what tomorrow would bring.