#aryll.bsd

[jinko-hellhound]

“over and over, all born into great pain” — bungou stray dogs — chuuya, atsushi, dazai

“Atsushi appears on Chuuya’s doorstep covered in blood and full of drugs. Dazai, despite not being present, dutifully haunts the narrative. or: Strangers who’ve been shaped by the same person. or or: 4,000-ish words of musing and vibes and no plot.” — posted for @dazaibirthdayweek2024 !

words: 3,925

first published: 6/18/2024

characters: dazai osamu, nakahara chuuya, nakajima atsushi

relationships: nakahara chuuya & nakajima atsushi, dazai osamu & nakajima atsushi, nakahara chuuya/dazai osamu

tags: mild hurt/comfort, light angst, introspection, no plot/plotless, implied/reference drug use, non-consensual drug use (off-screen), mild gore, tiger nakajima atsushi, implied/referenced cannibalism (crazy), caring nakahara chuuya

crossposted on ao3

Dazai’s stupid kid is crumpled on Chuuya’s doorstep.

Chuuya had wanted to head down to the liquor store. Instead, his boots hit boy as soon as he stepped out the door. Fucking Dazai, Chuuya thinks, because it must be Dazai’s fault.

Chuuya sighs. He turns back to his empty penthouse, as though expecting Dazai to pop out from behind his couch and shout surprise! then announce to him some stupid plan that absolutely necessitates the weretiger bleeding out in the hall.

“Weretiger,” Chuuya says. The weretiger gives a noncommittal grunt. Copper is already filling the air and seeping into the carpet from a wound that must be in the kid’s torso, way he’s doubled over it. God, the stain in the carpet. Chuuya should just get the carpet ripped out, with how often he has to call the cleaners. Doesn’t the kid have superhuman healing? Chuuya squints. Shouldn’t he be healed already?

“Weretiger,” Chuuya says again. The kid’s shoulder shifts a centimeter and that’s about all the response he gets. Well, okay. Questions later. First things first — the weretiger rises into the air and floats into the middle of the living room. His eyes flutter, but he doesn’t seem to register the red glow around him.

“Bwuh,” the weretiger says. A conveniently stashed sheet of plastic (this is not Chuuya’s first rodeo) lifts up and settles over the couch cushions. The weretiger follows. “Bwuuuhhgggg,” he says smartly into the plastic. His left arm is a long pale line hanging off the couch, which Chuuya’s black Maine-coon is already clawing at. The weretiger seems unperturbed by this.

“Uh-huh.” The first aid kit deposits itself into his hands as he strides over to the couch. “Lemme see that wound.”

Except there’s nothing to see. Under the ripped up shirt and all the clotting blood and bits of loose flesh, it’s just smooth skin. So his ability has done its work, if belatedly. Some of this blood is only a few minutes old. It healed fast, but not as fast as it ought’ve. But the weretiger is still acting all loopy, whimpering like something hurts. Just blood loss? That doesn’t feel right.

Chuuya sits himself on his coffee table, knees bumping the couch. “What’s your name again?” It’s somewhere in the back of his mind, but all he ever hears is Akutugawa’s jinkos.

“Naka…” the weretiger starts, then seems to forget he was saying anything. He turns to the cat as though he only just realized she was drawing tracks down his arm, and coos, scratching at her chin. His pupils are huge. Ah, that’s one question answered at least. A hard drug hindered his healing — and it would have disoriented him enough to panic, go out searching for help. Now the question was what drug, why, and how the fuck did his mind, even drug-addled, end up at Chuuya?

“Naka…” Chuuya echoes, scratching his chin. He really should know this, considering the scuffles and the bounty and the general hot topic the boy was around the Port Mafia. The weretiger does not provide any more help. He is entirely caught up with the cat. Now fully turned onto his side, the weretiger has both hands around the cat’s face, scratching dutifully under both her ears. She purrs like a motorboat.

“Hello,” he says reverently. Big-eyed, he tilts forward until he and the cat can touch noses. When he smiles Chuuya catches braces and grimaces. “Hello, hello, meow.”

“Mrow,” the cat offers.

“Nakajima!” Chuuya finally settles on, triumphant. Nakajima looks up at him fully for the first time, grinning with a Dazai-like edge. Well — tree, apple, falling, etc. Chuuya supposes he’s not so much grinning like Dazai as he is grinning like someone high on nebulous hard drugs, which Dazai often is.

“What’s her name?” Nakajima asks, glossy eyes settling somewhere on Chuuya’s chin.

“Pingus,” Chuuya says, and Nakajima dissolves into giggle fits. He rolls over, pushing himself into the back of the couch, giggling so hard his feet kick out. Pingus, scandalized, climbs onto the couch and begins kneading at Atsushi’s side, trying to force her head under his hands. “What!” Chuuya says, even though he’s listened to a hundred people laugh at his cat’s name before. “It’s a fine Spanish wine, Nakajima, does your idiot mentor teach you anything—”

Nakajima’s laughter stops abruptly. Everything about him stops abruptly. He pushes himself up onto his forearms and Chuuya realizes he hates the sight of him — collapsed on Chuuya’s fine couch, which he’d bought with blood money; white hair and moonlight skin and tatters of a white shirt, all matted and sticky with his own blood, bits of flesh trailing down his stomach. He’s got, Chuuya realizes, red smears all over his chin, his neck, and if he opened his mouth a little wider it might be on his teeth, too. Chuuya had always thought the kid sweet, a bit naive, earnest and reckless. Akutugawa had called him a stupid dog. He wonders about the man-eating tiger stories; wonders what Dazai saw in him in the first place that he thought would make a good partner for Akutugawa. He wonders what Dazai’s taught the kid - what he’s nurtured in him.

“Dazai,” Nakajima says, just as reverential as when he’d been speaking to Pingus. “Dazai told me to come here.” Out of his front pocket, he pulls a crumpled, slightly damp piece of notebook paper and holds it out to Chuuya. He grins big, proud of himself.

A safe place in case of emergency! :D It reads, in Dazai’s stupid messy scrawl. Chuuya will be kind and keep Atsushi for a bit. Tell Chuuya Dazai sent you!

Below these instructions are Chuuya’s address, his phone number (Jesus, Dazai, Chuuya thinks — might as well start plastering Chuuya’s face all over Main Street), and, of course, nothing directed at Chuuya.

Chuuya sighs, runs a hand through his hair. Fucking Dazai — what was he thinking, sending Nakajima his way? Did he tell his whole gaggle of do-gooders Chuuya’s place was a safehouse? And why the hell would he send Nakajima straight into the Mafia’s hands?

(Unless, of course, he believed Chuuya would decline to tell the Mafia about this at all. It was a big risk, believing that.)

“So.” Chuuya leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. He studies Nakajima, whose chest is heaving, every breath coming with a hint of a wheeze. Did he overdose? Chuuya taps his foot, considering — he has aspirin in his first-aid kit. Narcan too. “What happened, huh? Too much catnip?”

Nakajima grins lazily (yes, he was right — blood and braces), head lolling against the couch. His arm is limp when Chuuya picks it up, presses two fingers to the pulse point at the inside of his elbow. Nakajima’s offering way too much trust, either because of the drugs or Dazai — Chuuya could stop his blood from flowing at all, if he wanted to. But Dazai would shoot him in the temple, probably.

“I dunno,” Nakajima slurs. His mental condition is definitely unnerving, but at least his pulse feels fine, and his skin isn’t clammy.

Chuuya pinches his inner arm and Nakajima yelps, jolting — his arm becomes monstrous and heavy. Chuuya stares at it, considering the length of its claws. Man-eater, he thinks.

“Huh,” Chuuya says. Then: “Wake up, kid. Tell me what happened.”

“Um.” Pingus is rubbing her face all over Nakajima’s jaw. A deep purr rumbles in Nakajima’s chest to match Pingus’s, which Chuuya is only mildly surprised by. There’s some semblance of awareness in Nakajima’s eyes that Chuuya thinks is due to Pingus’s bothering. She’ll get extra fish with her dinner, as a reward. “Dazai and I were undercover…” Nakajima’s eyes roam the ceiling, running his (both now human, thank God) bony hands up and down Pingus’s back. “Undercover, and… Dazai told me to leave — really fast.”

“Why?”

Nakajima looks frustrated, and Chuuya understands. With a mind addled like his is, it can be hard to put words to things even if you know exactly what you’re trying to explain. But if there’s trouble, there’s no time to wait for Nakajima to sober up.

“Because…” Nakajima says, “He said we were drugged… we were at this fancy party, and I started feeling funny, and Dazai said, go to the Agency, but the Agency was far away… I left him there…” Nakajima jumps up, suddenly, throwing a yowling Pingus off his chest. White knuckling the back of the couch, Nakajima shouts, “Dazai’s in trouble!”

“Calm down.” Chuuya considers reaching out, pushing Nakajima back down onto the couch. That probably wouldn’t go well. “You know Dazai’s fine.” Fine was maybe a strong word, but alive was a fact that seemed to stay true no matter what. “I need more from you. How’d you get injured?”

Nakajima blinks at him. “Injured?”

“Injured,” Chuuya reiterates, pointing at the chunk of yellow fat smeared across Nakijma’s stomach. What a fucking sight. All the hallmarks of a corpse on his couch, except the actual injury.

“Oh,” Nakajima says, squinting down at his own blood. He sort-of snarls as he runs his tongue over his upper teeth, like he just realized the blood on it. “I don’t — remember? I think someone tried to stop me leaving…”

Chuuya puts the images together. Thinks it through — Nakajima and Dazai, both of them completely out of place in some party full of cocktail dresses and tiny sausages. The drugging had to be well hidden for Dazai not to notice, but he would have known the second it slid down his throat. He imagines Dazai’s panicked face — the one no one else ever notices except Chuuya, who is very well attuned to the tiniest twitches of Dazai’s eyebrows — imagines him calculating exactly how many minutes him and Nakajima had, making an estimated guess based on Nakajima’s size and ability and how much he’d unknowingly chugged, and then deciding the kid had enough time to get the hell out of dodge.

Nakajima would have had to leave as discreetly as possible, as though he didn’t know anything was wrong. But if someone had drugged them both, then they were watching them, too. Nakajima had been intercepted, gotten hurt, and — hm. The man-eating thing had only ever been rumors. But if he had claws like that, Chuuya could only imagine the teeth, and what one does when there’s an unknown drug and panic and blood loss all settling in at once. With his efforts to get all the blood off his teeth and out of the crannies of his braces, Nakajima is making a lot of funny faces.

So someone was probably dead. And Dazai was God knows where. And — okay.

Chuuya tilts his head up to the ceiling, ignoring Nakajima, who has once again become preoccupied with Pingus. Question time:

1. Where’s Dazai? Did he get himself out too? Or is he drugged up in someone’s basement?

2. Why Nakajima and not him? If it were one or the other, Dazai would have had a much easier time getting himself out than Nakajima. His tolerance is higher, he probably had less, and, frankly, he’d probably be much more useful in terms of knowledge.

3. For that matter: why not both? Why couldn’t both of them leave? Scratch question 2, then — the only reason Dazai would let himself get caught is if he had a reason to.

4. Fine then, last question, besides why come to Chuuya: how long should Chuuya wait for the stupid mackerel to show his face before he sucks it up and calls the Agency?

Hopefully, he won’t have to deal with the last question. Either Nakajima sobers up soon or Dazai escapes. It’s been a few years and Dazai’s gone weird and soft, but at the very least he should still be totally capable of escaping some stupid fucking kidnappers.

Chuuya should probably add who drugged them to his list of questions, but that’s not really his problem. With the story straight-enough in his head, he just needs to focus on getting Nakajima sober. By the state of the kid’s giant pupils and still-heaving breaths and incessant giggles every time he whispers Pingus to himself, it’ll be a while.

Babysitting duty. Ah, well — Chuuya’s used to babysitting duty, ever since Dazai fucked off and left the Akutugawa kids reeling and helpless. (Not that either of the kids would admit that’s what happened.) Dazai was always leaving him on babysitting duty.

Chuuya sighs, stands, retrieves a blanket. By this point Nakajima’s sunk back down onto the couch, holding a loaf of Pingus against his chest. “Rest up, weretiger,” Chuuya says, throwing the blanket over the both of them. He’ll wash all the viscera and shit off the blanket later.

Nakajima, covered up to his nose, blinks with those big, dual-colored eyes. With a little mrow, Pingus’s head pops out of the blanket and she starts nuzzling Nakajima’s cheek with his nose.

“Are you gonna tell Akutugawa I’m here?” Nakajima asks softly. It should be a question asked with fear, but it’s awfully bland — unafraid. Chuuya’s lips twitch.

“No,” Chuuya says, and heads into the kitchen.

Dazai used to do a lot of cocaine.

He probably doesn’t anymore. Or he’s really good at hiding it. Chuuya doesn’t imagine a cocaine habit would go over well with the detectives, and he doesn’t imagine Dazai could even hide something like that from the smart one. (From the others, he could definitely hide it. But not the super smart one.)

Chuuya’s done it a few times himself, but it’s never been his preference. The dignity of alcohol, the richness of it, and most of all the beauty of it — all those fine, expensive, aged bottles sitting on his shelves — has always appealed to him. But Dazai liked the way things like cocaine got him excited, amplified his mania. He liked uppers, from cigarettes to ritalin to coke, because they made him feel human.

Not that it’s cocaine, Nakajima’s got in him. It’s definitely not cocaine. It was probably ketamine or benzos, an attempt to make Nakajima all loopy and relaxed and weak. That’s not what happened, clearly. At least it’s not what happened immediately, because Nakajima had enough strength in him to escape an attacker. Must’ve been his ability slowing the drug.

It doesn’t matter. This is all to say that Chuuya has more than enough experience sobering himself and others up. He sets to work frying some eggs.

Nakajima’s not asleep; from the other room, Nakajima’s quiet voice wafts in, indistinguishable murmurs interspersed with giggles and Pingus’s mrows. At some point he starts humming a song which Chuuya has to strain his ears to hear. It’s a sweet, lilting melody — his brain fills in the lyrics instantly and his heart twists at the realization that it’s Dazai’s stupid song, can’t do a double suicide alone.

Chuuya slides the eggs off the pan with his spatula and sets them gently on the plate. Then he stops there, stares at the eggs, the shaking yolks. Thinks about being fifteen in Mori’s office, glaring at Dazai, the feeling in his gut that something horrible had changed in his life. Thinks about the stark red marks of Dazai’s hand on Akutugawa’s cheek. Thinks about childrens’ feet pattering softly down the halls of the Port Mafia’s safe houses and headquarters’ halls. Thinks about Nakajima, smiling at Dazai’s name, singing silly tunes Dazai taught him.

Toast pops out of the toaster. It’s a little burnt. Chuuya blinks and takes a breath that does not shake. He flicks on the radio — some public station playing soft jazz — and he can’t hear Nakajima anymore.

When Chuuya returns to the living room with two ham egg and cheese sandwiches, Nakajima pops fully up, although this time he holds Pingus to his chest so she doesn’t fall. The blanket falls, though, and it’s the same as it was before: the remains of a nice shirt falling over thin shoulders, drying brown blood splattering his stomach and chest and arms, his own fucking skin and flesh and fat stuck to him. Chuuya’s seen gore before — seen it a thousand times worse than this — but something about the sight has him keeping his eyes dutifully on Nakajima’s forehead.

Nakajima devours the sandwich in practically one bite, his jaw wider than it ought to be. Chuuya pretends not to be unnerved by this.

Once Nakajima has fully chewed his sandwich and patted his stomach and hummed his thanks, Chuuya asks, “Feel any better?”

The penthouse is cold. Chuuya likes it that way. But Nakajima shivers, pulling the blanket back up, tucking himself back down onto the couch. “A little,” he says, suddenly very childlike. As though he’s only just realized he’s cold (likely, considering what some drugs can do to one’s awareness of things like temperature), Nakajima curls more and more into himself on his side, pulling the blanket up his face. Ridiculous, that he’s on Chuuya’s couch right now. Ridiculous, that Chuuya doesn’t call Akutagawa. Fucking Dazai.

Chuuya stands abruptly. Nakajima blinks in response.

“Rest,” Chuuya says again, then promptly retreats to his bedroom.

Dazai is sprawled out on Chuuya’s bed, twisting the soft black covers beneath him, hair fanned out over the pillow. He’s got a few bruises on his cheek but there’s no blood, Chuuya recognizes first, then recognizes second that Dazai is on his fucking bed.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Chuuya says. Throws his hands up in the air, lets out a noise like a yell without any air — makes a scandalized face that Dazai only blinks at, throws his arms back down, then towards Dazai, into the air, then out, gesturing widely at the room around him. Every loose object in the room raises about a centimeter, drops, raises. “When the fuck did you get here!” He crosses the room in two long strides, pulls the lounging Dazai off the bed by his shoulders, and shakes him. “Your stupid kid is high out of his mind in the living room!”

Dazai groans, fake, squeezing his eyes shut. “Chuuya, Chuuya,” he whines, putting on a strange voice like a telenovela housewife, “Chuuya, my head is killing me!”

“You’ve done worse drugs,” Chuuya says, but he brings up a hand to start prying Dazai’s eyelids open and check his pupils. Yelping, Dazai bats him away, wiggles out of his grip, then rolls floppily onto the other side of the bed. He pats the space next to him in invitation.

“Fuck you,” Chuuya says.

Dazai just frowns.

The window is open, Chuuya realizes, a breeze fluttering the blackout curtains. This is somehow an even worse realization than finding Dazai on his bed, and Chuuya has to fully turn on his heel so he’s facing away from Dazai. He grabs his face in his hands, bounces on his heels once, twice, thrice. The idiot had either broken into the apartment below and climbed up to the penthouse or started from the roof and climbed down — either way, it’s so ridiculous and unnecessary that the thought of it gives Chuuya heart palpitations.

“You have a key to this apartment!” Chuuya hisses, although something about it feels like he shouldn’t say it out loud, like it’s an admittance. “Why would you-!”

Dazai hums in a way that tells Chuuya he won’t get an explanation. Either he’d done it for fun or done it because it was all part of some stupid plan or mind game or manipulation. Chuuya decided he didn’t care, because the more pressing question was—

“Why would you give that kid my address?” He steps forward so his knees are bumping the mattress.

Doe-eyed and innocent, Dazai stares up at him. “Why wouldn’t I?” He asks, “Chuuya is a good babysitter…”

“I’m going to kill you,” Chuuya says, but he doesn’t add his usual violence to it because he’s squinting at Dazai’s pupils. Blown pupils, but his cheeks are a normal warmth, he seems perfectly able to move himself around. No need for the damn narcan, which is a blessing, because Chuuya’s had to give Dazai narcan more times than he’d like in this lifetime.

Dazai pats the spot next to him again. Rolling his eyes, Chuuya acquiesces. Shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee; fifteen, twenty-two. They sit in quiet a moment, Dazai taking deep breaths Chuuya recognizes as an attempt to sober up. The summer breeze through the window adds a bit of warmth to the cold room. Nakajima is humming that tune again, loud enough to hear through a closed door. Chuuya closes his eyes.

“I escaped a little faster than I meant, but I got good information,” Dazai muses. When Chuuya glances over, an eyebrow raised, he waves his hand in dismissal. “Agency business.”

“Agency business,” Chuuya repeats flatly, “but you can send Nakajima here in the middle of it.” He’s indignant, even though an hour ago he said whoever drugged the two of them wasn’t his problem. It’s the principle of the matter — he can decide he doesn’t care. Dazai can’t decide that for him.

Yawning, Dazai scratches at his jaw. “I didn’t specifically send him here. I gave him your information a long time ago. You were closer than the Agency.” The drugs are making him a bit less playful, more direct than usual. His gaze is sort of lizard-like, unfocused on the wall opposite him. “Chuuya’s a good babysitter,” he repeats. Chuuya could vomit. He leans a bit away from Dazai, but Dazai just lifts one leg and settles it over Chuuya’s, holding him in contact.

They’re silent for a long moment, in which Nakajima begins to giggle, repeating Pingus to himself several times.

“What’re you doing with this kid?” Chuuya finally asks, glancing sidelong at Dazai.

There’s that Dazai smile. The actor one, the robot one, that reaches his eyes as though it’s clawing for them. “Does Chuuya have a soft spot?” he asks, leaning back into Chuuya’s space, chin hitting Chuuya’s shoulder. He whines when Chuuya plants a hand on his face and pushes him off. With the momentum he falls over himself so that he’s become a ball on Chuuya’s bed, moaning about how mean and awful and cruel Chuuya is.

“No,” Chuuya bites, “I just wanna know what you’re planning in your stupid mackerel brain.”

Said mackerel doesn’t respond for a while. Chuuya is reaching out to jostle him when he realizes the rise and fall of his back is real, actual sleep, and his hand stops in the air.

“Damn it,” he says, but it’s a quiet mutter. Out in the living room, Nakajima’s quieted, too.

He stands. Goes into the living room. Stares at the now-sleeping kid for a long moment. In sleep he’s serene, cheeks thin but still childlike, face still all smooth like an artist had just gone over the clay of him with her thumbs. Pingus curls under his chin. All sweet, except for the brown-red on Nakajima’s jaw, resting against Pingus’s dark fur.

Chuuya crosses into the kitchen, sits heavy in a chair, and considers. Considers — all of the safe houses Dazai could have sent Nakajima off to. Considers that stupid tune Nakajima and Dazai seem to love, and the edge to both their smiles, and the vigor with which Akutugawa and Nakajima hate each other. Considers how a man was dead, and how he probably deserved to die, but it had been a desperate, drugged eighteen year-old on a job who’d done it. Considers Chuuya’s a good babysitter, and tea with the Akutugawas, and Nakajima’s braces. He comes to no satisfactory conclusions.

[jinko-hellhound]

a pinch — bungou stray dogs — atsushi & dazai (platonic!)

atsushi is having an awful night, and his mentor comes to bother him. a short, definitely non-comprehensive exploration of atsushi and dazai’s dynamic, platonic touch, and emotional vulnerability. originally written for @dazaibirthdayweek2024 (and being archived here on my new fic blog)!

words: 2,170

first published: 6/16/24

relationships: dazai osamu & nakajima atsushi

tags: fluff and angst, platonic relationships, implied/referenced child abuse, dazai osamu is a mess, nakajima atsushi needs a hug, post-traumatic stress disorder, childhood trauma, no romance, beast beneath the moonlight, no longer human

crossposted on ao3

The Agency dorm’s walls are paper-thin, so when Dazai comes lumbering up the steps, Atsushi hears it. Hears Yosano, too, yelling out her window for Dazai to Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep!, and Dazai’s cheerfully slurring response. Somewhere further down, Kunikida’s door slams open. Dazai’s voice erupts into pure glee.

Atsushi groans into his couch cushion. This is not the night for this. It’s — not been a good day. Nothing bad happened. It’s just that he woke up wrong. He woke up scared, with the Headmaster’s breath chilling the back of his neck. He was… off, at work. No cases today, but there was always busywork to slog through, piles of it. And even on a good day paperwork was awful, but today he’d felt there was an irremovable film over his eyes, hazing his vision. It took him far too long to process anything said to him, enough that Kunikida had started speaking slowly and carefully in a way that made Atsushi want to crawl into a hole.

And then Atsushi had trudged home. Kyouka went off to spend the night with Naomi, which was — nice. Good. Atsushi wanted Kyouka to make more friends, to hang out like a normal teenage girl… but now Atsushi was alone in this cold dorm. The dorm was always quiet, but never this silent, absent of the soft patter of Kyouka’s feet, or the way she hums just to make her presence known and avoid scaring Atsushi out of his skin. And any other day, that would have been fine. Atsushi is eighteen. He can spend a night in his own home alone. But tonight… Tonight, he curls around a throw pillow on his couch, face shoved into the cushion, and shakes.

Why is he crying? He isn’t sure. It could be any number of things. It could be phantom static electricity ghosting up his spine; it could that awkward spot on his foot, which he always avoids as though it still has a nail hammered through it; it could be the phantom pains of his own limbs that had been lost-regrown-lost-regrown again in the last year; or maybe any number of deaths, be they cold corpses he’d stumbled across or bullets he’d watched land. And those last two are the worst, maybe, because those things are his job. And if he couldn’t even handle doing his own job—

Dazai’s giggling floats towards his door. Atsushi tenses. Not tonight, please God. He can’t deal with the drunken antics tonight.

The giggling floats on past and Atsushi relaxes. But he should have known better. It’s only a few seconds before Dazai backtracks — so quick, it sounds like, that he trips and catches Atsushi’s doorknob to stay up.

Rattling the doorknob, Dazai calls, “Atsushiiii!”

“I’m asleep!” Atsushi calls back, not even bothering to pretend. Chances were Dazai had done something insane, like perfectly memorizing Atsushi’s sleep habits or catching how one particular particle of light fell under the door, and figured out that Atsushi was wide awake. “Go away, Dazai!”

“Noooooo,” Dazai whines. There is the distinctive clicking sound of a lock being picked. Dazai doesn’t even need to pick it — he’s the only other member of the Agency who has his own key to Atsushi’s dorm. Dazai hums a jaunty tune while he works. Atsushi considers hiding, but Dazai is quick, and by the time Atsushi’s foggy brain thinks of a hiding spot, the door is already creaking open. Atsushi decides to just keep his red, snotty face firm in the cushions and ignore Dazai until he gets bored.

“Hellooooooo,” Dazai croons, flicking Atsushi’s lights on. Without looking at him, Atsushi can imagine the way he twirls around the dorm, all those dramatic movements he likes to distract with. Dazai must be stumbling, though. There’s a thud somewhere near the kitchen counter, and a pained grunt. “Why’re you sleeping on the couch?”

“It’s my couch.” The sharp clinking of glass, something pouring. Atsushi groans again. “I can sleep on my couch.”

Dazai’s footsteps, clumsy in a way Atsushi can’t place (is it an act? accidental? something Dazai simply isn’t trying to hide?), round the couch. He taps at Atsushi’s leg and Atsushi, begrudging and reluctant as he is, has a child in his soul. So he pulls his legs up, knees nearing his chest. The couch protests the way Dazai falls into it. “Don’t break my couch,” Atsushi grumbles, with no heat. Dazai hums.

Even with his knees drawn up, Atsushi’s feet push against Dazai’s thigh, and suddenly Atsushi feels too big. Like he’s become twice as heavy as he is. The couch creaks underneath him, the floor creaks under the couch. He imagines his body expanding, ripping through his clothes. He imagines his veins bulging, his arms taking on that awful, sinuous look they always do in between human and not, a phase which is usually too short for anyone to see but him. But instead of transforming into Byakko, his imaginary limbs stay stuck there in that in-between – unnatural, painful. Awkward and lumbering.

This, of course, doesn’t happen. He is 5’7, 59 kilograms. His knees are knobbly and his wrist bones pop out too much, although he’s gotten a bit stockier than he used to be. He’s not abnormally heavy, hardly monstrous. And he’s firmly Atsushi, now. (Firmly Atsushi, except for that bit of Byakko that’s always in the back of his head, her worries and wants. Right now, she’s thinking: Dazai. She’s never very specific with her thoughts – it could be a cheer. It could be a warning.) And anyway, Byakko couldn’t come out, because Dazai’s cold hand is resting on Atsushi’s ankle.

…Dazai’s cold hand is resting on Atsushi’s ankle, Atsushi processes belatedly. Which is – fine. Dazai is touchy. Maybe not so much with Atsushi, because – well. Atsushi doesn’t always like it. Sometimes it scares him. But Atsushi is used to Dazai ruffling his hair, throwing an arm around his shoulder, knocking his knuckles against his forehead. Fleeting touches, that is. Contact that leaves as soon as it arrives. And Atsushi is fine with it. He doesn’t feel any particular sort of way about it.

(Liar. Cut back to the very first month Atsushi knew Dazai. The way Dazai, at some point a couple weeks in, jokingly reached over to ruffle Atsushi’s hair, coo-ed about him like he was a child. Atsushi, much more nervous back then, had blustered and stammered and flushed and – critically – pushed his head up into Dazai’s hand like the idiot he was. Dazai, for once sparing Atsushi’s feelings, said nothing aloud. But the repeats of that particular gesture came often. And Atsushi found himself, stupidly, awaiting them. Craving them.)

The point is that this is uncommon. Dazai’s touch never lasts, not unless he’s joking with someone – draping himself over Kunikida to annoy him, pushing into Ranpo’s space to banter. This isn’t a joke. This is Dazai, sat quietly on Atsushi’s couch, listening to nothing but breathing, his hand settled on Atsushi’s ankle.

They are silent for so long that Atsushi almost thinks he is hallucinating again. What other reason would there be for Dazai to be here, sitting in gentle silence? It’s unusual for him not to talk. Babbling or nagging or deadly serious, but always something. Dazai talked so much, so incessantly, that he’d practically become Atsushi’s inner monologue. Yes, Dazai was acting so out of character now that Atsushi really did, for a moment, think he was hallucinating. It would be a nice change of pace, for his imagination to give him something like this.

But his hallucinations would never be so kind as to linger. To comfort so softly. To let him sit here with that calming touch and peaceful silence and nothing else. This is real. And it’s this understanding that has Atsushi lulling into – not sleep. Some kind of reverie. The sobbing-induced migraine fades from behind his eyes and nose, ever so slightly. He drifts, between Byakko’s corner of his mind (Dazai, she is rumbling, echoing about his brain) and that ice-cold touch on his ankle. Back and forth, temple to ankle, like a hammock on a warm day. Dazai’s touch always grounds Atsushi. It doesn’t make Byakko go away – no, that would be terrifying, even more terrifying than losing control of her, running a rampage. But Dazai…quiets her, in a way. Soothes her.

Dazai’s glass clinking against the table snaps Atsushi back into reality. He suddenly becomes aware again of the slightly dusty smell of the cushion he’s crammed his face against, and the way his arms are shoved awkwardly up, half-underneath himself.

“Atsushi,” Dazai says in a sharp, breathy way. His freezing fingers pinch at Atsushi’s ankle, pulling the skin in a way that makes Atsushi yelp, his foot jackrabbiting into Dazai’s thigh. “Why so sad, Atsushi?” He pinches again, but this time Atsushi is expecting it and does nothing.

“I’m just trying to sleep, Dazai.” Atsushi says it as blandly as possible. “What do you want?”

Dazai’s knuckles rap against Atsushi’s ankle, but not with any force. “So mean to your mentor.” Atsushi can imagine the pout. He rolls his eyes. Then he stays quiet, and lets the question sit, because if he says anything else Dazai will just find a rabbit hole to take them down so Atsushi forgets he ever asked anything.

“I got you a drink, too,” Dazai says. “It’s up here.”

Atsushi shakes his head into the couch cushion. Absolutely not. His face is probably all red and puffy and tear-streaked, snot running from his nose, and he doesn’t need Dazai to see that lest he wither up in shame.

Dazai humphs. “Well,” he says, like he’s going to say more. Atsushi’s (Byakko’s) ears perk. Then he says nothing for a long while. In the renewed silence, Atsushi can imagine his face, the face he makes when he’s thinking hard about something, or trying to figure out how to hide something — blank, a little slack-jawed, glassy eyes trained on the wall, or a cobweb, or the sky. Then: “Well, maybe I just wanted to say goodnight. Is that so bad, Atsushi?”

It should be a teasing question. From Dazai, it should be completely rhetorical, accompanied with a lilting tone and a silly, sly smile. Instead, he says it softly, genuinely. As genuine as Dazai can be anyway. His hand is still on Atsushi’s ankle. It should be warm, by now, with this prolonged contact. Inexplicably, it’s still an ice cube against skin.

Atsushi wants to say: No, and please will you stay here? No, and thank you for this home and this company and for not putting a nail through my foot. No, and I know my standards are horrifically low, but you’re really the best guidance I’ve ever had. No, and please can we just stay right here on this couch forever? It’s okay if it’s only my ankle that ever gets physical touch again — just never let go, please?

Instead, he says: “Dazai, you’re drunk.”

“Hmph,” Dazai says, and then it’s like a static shock, the way the serenity of the night seems to blink out of the air. A startled laugh chokes out of Atsushi as Dazai ragdolls down, dropping his whole upper weight onto Atsushi’s, the top of his head knocking into Atsushi’s jaw. “Such a mean student!” Dazai reiterates, the hand that was on Atsushi’s ankle poking into Atsushi’s side repeatedly. The weight of him has Atsushi working a little harder to pull in breaths, but he finds he doesn’t mind.

Dazai is too heavy for Atsushi to get his arm out from under both of them and swat him away, but Atsushi certainly tries. “Stop it!” Atsushi shouts, but there’s still laughter bubbling up his throat. Byakko is as quiet as she can be, with Dazai so in contact, but he gets the sense she is not on board with Atsushi saying: “Get off me!” Rather, Byakko urges Atsushi to turn and tuck his head into Dazai’s shoulder. This would be mortifying, so Atsushi absolutely does not do that.

“Fine,” Dazai sighs overdramatically, then rolls, ragdolling once more onto the floor. Despite being unable to see him, Atsushi imagines the way he instantly pops back up and brushes off the front of his vest. “Well, Atsushi, I guess I’ll leave you to it! I’m taking my drink, though.”

Dazai hums as he gathers up his glass, a bottle, his shoes. Atsushi blinks into the couch cushion, considers the pleasant flush of joy that’s already receding, the coldness that’s spreading up from his ankles, down from his temples. Byakko is loud again.

“Good night,” Atsushi says. The door clicks. Sudden entrance, sudden exit. Typical Dazai, he grumbles internally.

The dorm is quiet again, except for Dazai’s voice back outside, slurring once more (part act, then). He’s singing a lullaby, loud and offkey. And then there’s Kunikida and Yosano, yelling. Very slowly, Atsushi peels himself off the couch, and goes to brush his teeth.

[jinko-hellhound]

thank you to everyone who’s been so kind about my fic cancer eater!! here’s a snippet of the next chapter as a treat :^) it’s almost ready to post!

[jinko-hellhound]

“cancer eater” ch 1 — bungou stray dogs — atsushi, dazai, akutagawa, ensemble

True to name, Atsushi is the Man-Eating Tiger. All at once he develops fangs, a love of raw meat, and a horrible craving for his friends.

“Very dry air can make the tiny capillaries in your nose burst randomly, including in your sleep. One late, dry night in the dying days of fall, the sharp scent of copper drew Atsushi out of his closet. Barefoot and sleep-addled, he stood on the cold tatami and watched Kyouka sleep. Blood dripped down her nose, her cheek, the gentle bow of her lip. In the dark, the blood looked black.”

words: 3,559

first published: 9/3/24

characters: nakajima atsushi, dazai osamu, akutagawa ryuunosuke, edogawa ranpo, ada ensemble

relationships: nakajima atsushi/akutagawa ryuunosuke, nakajima atsushi & dazai osamu, nakajima atsushi & the armed detective agency

tags: dead dove do not eat, cannibal nakajima atsushi, graphic gore, hurt/comfort, hurt/some comfort, angst, self harm, eating disorder themes, cannibalism as a metaphor for love, armed detective agency as family

crossposted on ao3

* THIS IS NOT A DAZATSU FIC, Dazai and Atsushi’s dynamic is central and weird and toxic like in canon but firmly platonic. **NOBODY dies or is attacked by Atsushi in this fic.

warnings for this chapter: self harm, references to suicide/attempts, eating disorders/eating disorder-like behaviors, off-screen vomiting, gore, a cat dies

asks, replies, reblogs appreciated and encouraged! ask to be put on tag list!! 💕💞

It started with a dull pang in Atsushi’s stomach, a heaviness to his tongue, and an incessant craving for lentils and beef and spinach. He couldn’t stop eating, taking down two helpings for every meal, jerky sticks in between cases, protein bars while he worked. None of it satisfied him; even as his stomach bloated until he thought he’d burst, he put on no weight and his appetite only grew, and grew, and grew.

It started with his teeth becoming, somehow, too big for his mouth, forcing his lips to always hang ever so slightly open. Dazai loved this development. He liked to lean over their desks and pry Atsushi’s mouth open with his fingers and declare Look at those chompers! Hot embarrassment and overwhelming love would flood Atsushi’s cheeks when Dazai broke the monotony of work to bring the rest of the office into his jokes, or when Kunikida asked him how his gums were feeling in the mornings, or Kenji offered him a chewable necklace to ease the pain. Belonging had him floating as he walked. Belonging settled the growing pit in his stomach, or rather, belonging distracted him from how the pit was expanding exponentially each day.

The day Dazai discovered Atsushi’s growing-in teeth, Atsushi was forced to pose for a polaroid with his mouth wide and a ruler held up to his new canines. Then Yosano, with a gleeful spark in her eyes that had Atsushi shuddering, ushered him into the infirmary. She measured his canines, his nails, used some strange machine to examine his pupils. (Was she an eye doctor? Was she trained in optometry at all?) She had concerns about his braces, although it seemed like they wouldn’t pose an issue. (As always, he was embarrassed to even address his braces.) She asked after his diet and his height and his sleep patterns until she had reams and reams of notes on him. Feeling like an awful liar, he decided to keep his recent constant hunger to himself, for a reason he couldn’t quite place.

At the end of it all, she said, Be right back here when you come in next Monday. Then, taking his hand in hers, she smiled and continued, We’ve all got you, Atsushi. His fingers laid over her wrist, where her pulse was steady and hot. Its rhythm echoed through him, from his hands to his heart to his stomach to his teeth.

It started with a gaze that lingered on soft thighs, on meaty arms, on the long curves of necks and the fine details of ears. Kunikida’s broad shoulders when he stretched at his desk. Fukuzawa’s strong hands when they flexed over the hilt of his sword. Atsushi could not stop staring at everyone around him, in a way he never did before.

On the third day of Atsushi’s teeth adventure, he went on a date with Akutugawa. Which was — a recent thing. Less recent than the cravings and the teeth. But recent enough that Atsushi’s heart still fluttered when he and Akutugawa’s knees knocked underneath the cafe table.

After — well. They’d barely kissed and they’d hardly held hands. Everything between them was all new and precious, previous forced amputations and vampirisms and clawing attempts notwithstanding. Akutugawa was only just managing to choke out genuine compliments, and Atsushi was still learning how to reign Byakko’s temper in. They were still getting to know each other casually despite understanding each other intimately; they were figuring out how to be kind and couldn’t help but explode on each other still, every once in a while, until Chuuya or Dazai or Kunikida intervened in their own strange ways.

Today, everything was nice. Atsushi could not believe his luck to be sitting on this quiet cafe patio downtown, the gentle sun on his face, Akutugawa focusing on him with something like softness.

Akutugawa was in a tight turtleneck and sleek pants and designer sunglasses, his long, slender fingers resting on his mug, and Atsushi could not look away from him. Byakko caught Akutugawa’s regular heartbeat, the slight wheeze of all his breaths, the jingling of his keys whenever he shifted in his seat.

“So you’re growing fangs.” Akutugawa was stirring cream into his coffee but not looking at it. His gaze was always so intent as to discomfort. Atsushi could never handle holding Akutugawa’s eye contact too long, his eyes dark and focused; Atsushi always broke first.

Atsushi laved his tongue over his fangs, which were now always pressing into his bottom lip. “Yeah,” he sighed, spilling more sugar into his mug. “Dazai’s excited about it, at least. Yosano thinks I’m becoming more tiger-like because I’m finally eating enough, and safe, and not about to die all the time.”

Akutugawa hummed. He took a long drink of his coffee; Atsushi tracked the bobbing of his throat, mouth suddenly very dry. The white of Akutugawa’s thyroid cartilage peeked over his dark turtleneck, skin tight over delicate muscle. His shirt hugged his clavicle so that the bone stuck out like a handle. “Just don’t start eating people, jinko.”

“Right,” Atsushi said, laughing. Sticky sweat gathered at the small of his back. “How’s Gin?”

It started with canines that casually grazed his friends’ skin, playing with the idea of puncturing, a touch so light as to raise no one’s suspicion but his own. He couldn’t help it. It was instinctual that when another’s flesh neared Atsushi’s face, he’d twist his head, open his mouth, and let his teeth rest. Junichiro’s forearm, when he slung his arm over Atsushi’s shoulders. Kyouka’s jugular, when she fell asleep on his chest. He was transfixed, frozen, his teeth always hovering.

Atsushi discovered himself doing this for the first time while joking around with Dazai and Kunikida. Well, mostly with Dazai — Kunikida didn’t seem to think it was very funny, the way Dazai and Atsushi were bantering back and forth, tossing paper airplanes and erasers and crumpled reports, cursing dramatically every time they were hit. Kunikida berated Dazai, who pinned it on Atsushi, who started shooting back how he knew how many stacks of paperwork Dazai had hidden in his locker. Dazai scrambled across the desk, slapped his hand over Atsushi’s mouth, and started rambling out his explanations.

Atsushi did not fight. The heat of Dazai’s palm shocked him. He only needed to open his mouth a millimeter to rest the points of his canines on the full, calloused pade of fat there, his breath shaking with the threat of sinking down. Atsushi swore he could feel Dazai’s soul marching under his rough armor of skin, could feel it in his tongue and in his gums.

Dazai was still going back-and-forth with an increasingly irate Kunikida, but his eyes slid over to Atsushi. His fingers twitched, his index pressing purposefully into Atsushi’s cheek, and Atsushi realized he should have been sputtering and stammering and swatting Dazai away that whole time. So he did — with all the drama and indignance he could — but Dazai was still watching him, in that way he did when he wanted Atsushi to know he was being studied.

It started with his cuticles.

With him curled up in his closet, his canines digging into the tough skin around his nails, his pupils blowing wide at the copper taste of his own hot blood. It was Lucy’s wrists — the sight of them twisting as she poured his tea, the sudden, horrific, desperate thought of those fragile veins bursting on his tongue — which sent him here.

It was dark and dusty in the closet in which he slept. But his pupils were as blown as they could be, and Byakko had no problem watching the trickle of blood catch in the grooves of his knuckles. She chased it with her rough tongue, bit into his fingerbones, punctured the web between pointer and middle like paper.

Everything was quiet but for soft whimpers and the gentle sound of suckling on one’s own blood. Atsushi’s mouth trailed down, down, until he hit the meat of his forearm. His jaw opened wider, the points of his teeth settled on his flesh. A breath in, a breath out. Heady anticipation. He sank in. Bliss.

Tough meat, tender fat. Move up towards his wrist, find veins — hook his teeth into them, pull them out like licorice. Dizzy with it. Blurry vision, a pounding in his temples. Byakko’s regeneration made quick work of it, and he went again, until he no longer wished it was Lucy’s cephalic vein which he worked into the gap between his two front teeth.

At some point Byakko grew tired. He stood and found that she did not regenerate blood nearly as quickly as she regenerated flesh; gasping for air, he collapsed back down and laid there, yellow fat and drying blood smeared across his cheeks.

Eventually he realized his own flesh wasn’t enough.

Well, he says eventually. But the moment he first sank his teeth into his arm, he knew it wouldn’t work. It did its job — at first — but it left him numb, and desperate, a pit still in his stomach.

He was eating a lot of raw meat, these days. He tried sushi and sashimi to satisfy that urge, but it wasn’t bloody enough, wild enough, to replace — well. It didn’t satiate Byakko. Grocery store beef and chicken worked for a while, so long as he gnawed on his own arms every few days.

When Kyouka wasn’t home Atsushi would crouch over his counter, shovel the meat into his mouth, relish in the endless chewing of the tougher bits, the fat melting on his tongue, the cartilage crunching. There was lots of cartilage, lots of bone, lots of tough bits. He always bought the cheapest stuff. And he never got sick from it.

Afterwards Byakko would rumble approval and rest. She’d curl into the back of his mind, happy as a cat with cream, and Atsushi would find himself a beast, breathing ragged in the middle of his kitchen, blood and juices dribbling down his chin, the sun sinking low in the window.

But she would always be hungry again within the hour. So he dug into himself more, and more, and more. His thighs suffered too. He was drawing more and more blood, circling it back through himself, catching his own flesh and bits of bone.

Byakko worked hard but Atsushi knew he was starting to look a little anemic — always ghastly pale like he was when Dazai first found him, stumbling wherever he went. The others noticed. Ranpo was always squinting at him these days. Where’s your lunch, Atsushi? He was Atsushi’s worst nightmare right now — asking him about blood loss, iron deficiencies, diet. Always whispering to Yosano.

Atsushi tried local farmers and hunters, buying straight from the source. Then he’d had to haltingly explain to Kyouka why there was half a deer in their freezer, and anyway, it didn’t help much. And it drained his wallet.

So all of this was just… stopgaps. Preventative measures that became more and more desperate as that persistent ache made a home in his stomach.

He began to develop a horrible craving for his friends.

Not that strangers didn’t catch his eye. He’d go on jobs and stop and stare at murder victims, mouth flooding with saliva. He’d claw down a suspect and stop himself with his teeth scant inches from their jugulars. It was becoming harder and harder to be in public for the way his gaze couldn’t help but stick. Kyouka told him he was becoming a hermit.

But murder victims and murder suspects and waitresses and bus drivers… they just didn’t appeal to him nearly as much as his coworkers. Lucy’s cheeks were wonderfully full when she smiled, he noticed over a cup of tea. Kyouka’s shoulder was birdbone frail, but if he shifted his head the right way when he leaned on her he could feel the sweet rhythm of her pulse at the base of her neck. Yosano’s calves were beautifully accentuated by her heels, and Atsushi couldn’t help but track her graceful steps. When Ranpo offered candies to Atsushi, hands outstretched, Atsushi took special note of the soft plumpness of his wrists.

And Dazai, who was always touching Atsushi — arm around his shoulders, cheek leaning into the top of his head, sides flush together when Dazai was curious about Atsushi’s work — was just so very warm.

One day, Dazai came to work smelling of blood. Dazai said nothing of it. He was walking fine; the blood smelled not like it was old, but like it was clotting, and there wasn’t much of it. This was far from abnormal from Dazai. Atsushi had long since given up on expressing any concern, because Dazai always dismissed him, and all it ever served to do was shutter Dazai’s expression and make him all closed off and fake for the rest of the day. All Atsushi could do was watch, and try to prevent.

No one else noticed the blood, except Byakko was yowling.

When they worked, Dazai was usually only a few feet away from Atsushi. Their desks were corner-caddy; this was usually wonderful. Usually, Atsushi used their position to his advantage to always spy. He liked to watch Dazai and his unpredictability out of the corner of his eye, attempt to force Dazai into something understandable.

Today, their proximity was torture. Every man’s blood, Atsushi found, had a slightly different scent to it. Atsushi had smelled Dazai’s a million times and until recently it had never smelled so sweet that he needed to chug it.

The smell was clogging his throat. Atsushi kept forgetting his work, hunched over his desk like a freak, outright staring at Dazai for tens of seconds at a time. Dazai had to have noticed, but Dazai was good at acting like he had not noticed things in a way that told you he had absolutely noticed.

Desperately, Atsushi brought one of his hands up to his face to stifle the scent. He was able to work for ten, fifteen minutes. That smell of blood — of liquor and something heavy, of wet dog and cigarette smoke — crept in, but it was slow about it, sneaky; Atsushi didn’t realize his hand had stopped being effective until his teeth were already sinking into the hill of his palm. And then helplessly he bit, and bit, unable to stop himself, to even think about stopping himself.

And Kunikida shouted, his sharp voice ripping Atsushi’s teeth out of his own flesh. Not without carnage: bits of his own flesh caught on his canines and plopped onto the desk.

This was the first time Atsushi really had to lie. With his own blood pooling in the cracks in his lips, he stammered out something about zoning out, didn’t realize my teeth had gotten so sharp! Then he stumbled off to his lunch break.

The President had a gaggle of stray cats which gathered on the windowsills and in the halls and on the front stoop. Atsushi loved them from his first day at the Office. Helped Fukuzawa name all the new ones, volunteered to feed them, spent his breaks with them.

There was a convenient alleyway behind the Agency to which Atsushi often disappeared. When work and socialization got too much, the cheap metal chair and table someone had put out here were his lifeboat. The cats were a lovely bonus.

Lady, the fat black Maine-coon Atsushi had once nursed back from starvation, was the only cat around today. As soon as Atsushi sat down Lady jumped up onto the table, shoving her head under Atsushi’s trembling hands for pets; Atsushi admired her utter lack of shame.

“Hi, love,” Atsushi said, his head ducking low so Lady could hear the tremoring softness of his voice. Lady’s face tilted up to meet him. The top of her skull met Atsushi’s nose and lips. Byakko had healed Atsushi’s palm, but when he pushed his fingers into Lady’s fur, flecks of his drying blood caught.

That morning, Atsushi had eaten three steaks. His stomach did not seem to know this. Dazai, Dazai, Dazai, Byakko was thinking. Lady purred as though attempting to distract Atsushi so he shoved his face into her neck. He took deep breaths that smelled of dirt and fish and wet cat, trying to chase out Dazai.

Atsushi’s phone chirped — it was Akutugawa texting. Ryuunosuke, Atsushi thought to himself. They were trying first names, now. It was nice. New. And kind. But this text was an awful development, not for its content but for the way Atsushi’s blood ran hotter when he saw the name.

Despite all he’d eaten, he was still so hungry. Byakko heard him think Ryuunosuke and all her crooning of Dazai became screaming, wailing for Ryuunosuke, Ryuunosuke, Ryuunosuke, for that pale throat, that handle-bar clavicle. For his adam’s apple. Byakko wanted — Atsushi wanted — to roll it around his mouth like a ball.

It was entirely unconscious, sinking his fangs into Lady’s neck. Atsushi did not realize he had done it until he was already tearing out a chunk of flesh and fur and Lady was yowling, then whimpering, then nothing. And then Lady was still warm when Atsushi found her trachea and esophagus, and then her tiny heart and lungs.

Atsushi cried with it, shook with it; Byakko trembled in pleasure. The tender meat of Lady’s thigh was Yosano’s. The dying thrum of her heart was Kyouka’s. The warmth of her was Dazai’s. And the blood was Ryuunosuke’s, all Ryuunosuke’s.

He laid Lady’s bones to rest in a dumpster, then washed off in the cafe restroom, keeping his head ducked and eyes far away from Lucy’s. He was thirty minutes late back from his break. In the office he was silent, and heavy, and kept his back to Ranpo always.

Of course, Atsushi knew Ranpo knew. Ranpo held the fatal stopwatch — he could decide, at any millisecond, that Atsushi’s secret was up. This was only a matter of time.

It was late the night after Lady’s death that Ranpo appeared at Atsushi’s front door, a cage full of rats in his hands. Pale and hovering in the soft light, Ranpo looked, as he always did, a little otherworldly. His face was carefully calm. The rats squeaked a symphony that struck cold fear up Atsushi’s spine.

“Ranpo,” Atsushi laughed unconvincingly, “what’s this?”

Ranpo set the cage on the counter with a strong degree of solemnity. The lights weren’t on in the dorm, except for the nauseous yellow glow emanating from the bathroom, where Atsushi had just been hunched over the toilet, fingers down his throat, forcing himself to throw up his own blood. He thought his knuckles might be glaringly raw. And despite his regeneration, he was sure there was still blood on his thighs and forearms and the soft white cotton of his pajamas. But he was too scared to look down and check.

“You need to eat living things,” Ranpo said in lieu of how are you. His mouth was tight, eyes sharp.

Atsushi swallowed. Ranpo was — he was always very — wonderful. Amazing. At the start of things — the very start, when Atsushi was brand new and always swinging wildly between a ravenous appetite and complete self-starvation, it was Ranpo who left candies and chips and chocolate in his desk drawers. Ranpo who always knew when Atsushi was going home feeling off, who called Kunikida to make sure someone checked on Atsushi’s dorm late at night. Ranpo who knew when Atsushi was — when he would need Yosano to come and clean him up from his own messes even Byakko couldn’t fix.

And it was Ranpo who set the cage of rats on his living room table.

Haltingly, Atsushi said: “I need to eat people.”

“…But you won’t, will you, Atsushi?” Ranpo said it softly, with the intonation of a question; But it was Ranpo, and he was absolutely assured in his own correctness. Confidence was there in the set of his jaw.

Atsushi thought this wildly hopeful, even for Ranpo. It was rare that he doubted the Agency’s greatest detective, but — Atsushi had already started to eat himself.

Gesturing to the rats, Ranpo said, “You can be like a vegetarian.”

If it was anyone else but Ranpo, and if it were any other situation, this would come off as a lighthearted joke. But it was Ranpo, and he said it with complete earnestness and self-esteem. And while Atsushi thought Ranpo was, for once, wildly off base, he realized his heart was warm with love, for the kindness of this gesture — even though really Ranpo was probably only doing it to keep Atsushi from having Kenji for lunch.

His heart was absolutely white-hot with it, and all that love swirled in him until he found that he wanted to take his claws to Ranpo’s shoulders and lap up the blood.

“Let,” Ranpo started haltingly, a hand hovering over Atsushi’s upper arm, the pads of his fingers grazing copper-stained skin, “Let Dazai or the President — or myself — know, if you need anything.”

And then because Ranpo was no more a paragon of emotional intelligence than the rest of them, he left. And Atsushi went back to his bile-yellow bathroom, where his own blood in his own toilet seat. Over the cracking porcelain bowl, he bit into a squealing rat.