Archive of Our Own

    Dazai Osamu has always considered himself a lucky man.

    Not in the traditional sense—no four-leaf clovers, no shooting stars, no cosmic alignment of blessings. His luck has always been something darker, sharper, something he takes by the throat and wrings into existence through intelligence, deception, and careful cruelty. Survival is luck, in its own way. Getting out of every situation alive, even when every force in the universe insists he shouldn’t, is luck. Manipulating the world into giving him what he wants is luck.

    But this—the soft morning light pouring through white curtains in the Agency dorm room, Atsushi’s new sweater draped over his chair that osamu bought for him on a whim, the faint scent of tea that lingers whenever Atsushi is around—this feels like a kind of luck that doesn’t belong to someone like him.

    He sits on the edge of Atsushi’s futon, elbows on his knees, fingers lazily twirling the edge of the blanket the younger detective kicked off last night. It’s warm. Soft. Smells faintly of Atsushi’s shampoo. Completely, devastatingly domestic.

    It has been six months.

    Six months of waking up to gentle sunlight instead of cold grey walls.

    Six months of hearing Atsushi’s laughter instead of endless gunfire.

    Six months of touching warmth instead of blood.

    Six months of having someone he’s terrified to lose.

    He should’ve lost him by now. Osamu thinks about the tally marks of his relationships—Odasaku, gone; Ango, fractured beyond recognition; Chuuya, furious in a way that only a betrayed partner-in-crime can be. He’s never kept anyone. Not truly. Not without ruining them in some way.

    But Atsushi…Atsushi is still by his side.

    He doesn’t pull away when Dazai wraps his arms around his slender waist, just blushes and leans into him. He doesn’t recoil from the metaphorical blood staining Dazai’s hands; he just threads their fingers together and pulls Dazai along toward wherever he intends to go. He doesn’t flinch when Dazai calls himself a monster; he wraps them both in a blanket and murmurs, “I trust you. I love you so much.”

    Dazai had been waiting—still is—for the inevitable drop of the other shoe. For the moment Atsushi looks at him and finally understands what Dazai already knows: that Dazai Osamu is something horrific stitched into the shape of a man.

    Yet every day Atsushi wakes up, sees him, and smiles like Dazai hung the moon.

    What a terrifying burden.

    An intoxicating gift. 

    Dazai is in love.

    Hopelessly. Stupidly. Completely.

    He hasn’t said it out loud, not in the way normal people do, not in the way that sounds soft and easy and human. But the truth is there, sitting in his chest like a foreign object—an intrusive thing, an unwanted guest—pressing insistently against ribs that have only ever caged despair.

    It beats with a steady, rhythmic pulse he thought had died years ago, rotted out of him alongside innocence and hope and whatever naïve dreams he once possessed. He spent so long believing his heart was nothing but a shriveled thing, a useless organ merely keeping time until he found a way to end it all.

    But then Atsushi came along.

    Atsushi, with his cautious smiles and earnest eyes.

    Who apologizes too easily but loves fiercely.

    who flinches at cages but never once flinches away from Dazai.

    Bit by bit—gentle hands on cracked stone—Atsushi carved out a home within the ruined labyrinth of Dazai’s heart. Not forcefully. Not desperately. Just by existing. Just by being warm. Just by looking at Dazai like he isn't something monstrous.

    It’s absurd. Irrational. Beautiful.

    And with love comes vulnerability—something Dazai has spent his entire life avoiding, dodging, laughing in the face of. He doesn’t know how to hold it without breaking it.

    Atsushi gives him little pieces of trust without realizing it. They come to him not through confessions or explanations but through accidents, through small behaviors and late-night moments when Atsushi is too sleepy, too scared, or too comfort-seeking to hide the scars left on him by the orphanage.

    Dazai sees everything that he’s allowed to see. 

    The way Atsushi stiffens at the metallic clang of a closing cage door. The way he always keeps his back to the wall in elevators. The way he wakes up from nightmares, trembling, whispering apologies to no one. The way his voice cracks when he mumbles, “Dazai-san… can you stay for a little bit?” because sleeping alone in the dark feels too much like imprisonment.

    And Atsushi reveals these things because he trusts Dazai—carelessly, unknowingly, like a child handing someone a fragile gift without understanding what it means.

    Dazai is a greedy creature.

    He wants more. 

    He wants everything.

    He wants to pry open the beautiful, complicated maze of Atsushi’s mind and devour every memory that made him who he is. He wants to witness the horrors that shaped him, to understand every inch of the pain that runs beneath his skin, to tear apart the ugly images lingering in his boyfriend’s head and shred them until they’re nothing but dust.

    But he doesn’t. 

    For once in his selfish life, he restrains himself, because Atsushi gave him trust—real trust—and Dazai will not risk taking it back.

    So he waits.

    He waits for the day Atsushi is ready to speak, to share the dark corners of his past. Osamu waits even though waiting around burns through him like acid. 

    And maybe—though the thought terrifies him—maybe when the time is right, Dazai will crack his own skull open the way he dreams of cracking Atsushi’s and let him see the ugliness inside. Maybe he’ll share the sins, the trauma, the blood, the nightmares he buries beneath a lazy smile and half-joking suicidal comments.

    But not today. 

    Today, Dazai sits in Atsushi’s room and lets the quiet settle around him like a soft blanket.

    The afternoon sun hangs low, sinking behind Yokohama’s skyline as the Agency splits into formation. The city hums with the late-day rush—cars honking, people chattering, waves slapping weakly against the port—but in the narrow alleyways where the four detectives stand, there’s only tension. Sharp, focused tension.

    Their target: An ability user reported to temporarily de-age anyone they touch.

    Their motive: Money, naturally. A scam disguised as “miraculous anti-aging treatment” that lasts only ten days before the effect snaps back, leaving desperate clients furious and significantly poorer.

    The Agency’s job is simple: capture, detain, prevent more elderly men from spending their savings to briefly feel forty again.

    Dazai, of course, is treating the mission with the absolute seriousness of…well, Dazai.

    He strolls down a side alley, hands in his coat pockets, humming softly. A carefree little tune floats out of him, completely out of place compared to the urgency in the others’ steps. In his hand, he holds his phone. He absolutely should not be scrolling through photos like some lovesick high school girl with her first boyfriend—but he is. And he will continue to do so unapologetically.

    His brown eyes soften at the first picture in his camera roll: Atsushi curled against his chest earlier this morning, still half-asleep, drooling onto Dazai’s shirt. He looks so small like that, breathing evenly, eyelashes fluttering. Warm. Safe. Dazai remembers stroking his hair, feeling the slow thud of his own heart as Atsushi shifted closer.

    Then he swipes.

    A new photo fills the screen.

    Atsushi standing in their room, halfway through changing shirts, lithe pale torso exposed and catching the morning light. Muscles roll beneath scarred skin, every line of him a mixture of beauty and violence. Dazai’s breath hitches even now, recalling how Atsushi had looked up, cheeks pink, muttering a flustered, “Dazai-san, don’t take pictures while I’m changing!” before Dazai pulled him in for a kiss anyway.

    Another swipe.

    The bathroom door half-open. Steam spilling out. Atsushi stepping into the shower, towel hung low around his waist—

    Dazai immediately lowers his brightness. Definitely not PG-rated. Definitely the kind of picture he’ll be looking at again later tonight when Atsushi is asleep, warm in his arms, smelling like soap and safety.

    “I am the luckiest man alive,” Dazai mutters to no one in particular as he zooms in on the low v-line of his boyfriend, eyes honing in on the thin line of silver hair that leads right down to a beautiful, perfect, delicious, scrumptious, mouth watering—

    “DAZAI!”

    Kunikida’s voice punches through the air like a gunshot.

   Dazai nearly drops his phone. Nearly.

    He turns just as Kunikida barrels into the alley, notebook in one hand, moral indignation in the other. Junichiro follows in the distance, keeping civilians back with subtle threads of his ability. Atsushi has already darted up the opposite street, following the fleeing ability user with keen, predatory precision.

    Perfect teamwork. Everything is going smoothly!

    “You absolute menace!” Kunikida shouts, jabbing a finger at him. “We are in the middle of a mission and you are—what—LOITERING? On your phone? Humming? Doing absolutely nothing of value?!”

    Dazai lifts his phone to his chest protectively. “I’m supervising,” he responds sweetly.

    “SUPERVISING?!” Kunikida’s voice cracks.

    Dazai shrugs. “Atsushi’s got everything under control. You should’ve seen the way he took off—my little tiger is so competent! So graceful! I almost cried watching him run.” He presses the back of his hand to his forehead dramatically.

    Kunikida is not soothed.

    In fact, he’s vibrating with the kind of rage usually reserved for Dazai handcuffing himself to him during a mission when dazai’s feeling particularly silly. 

    “You don’t get to stroll around and daydream while Atsushi and Tanizaki actually do their work! You’re supposed to help track the target—NOT daydream about your boyfriend!”

    Dazai gasps. “Kunikida-kun, are you jealous?”

    Kunikida freezes, goes pale, then red.

    “I—EXCUSE ME?!”

    “You are! Oh, how tragic.” Dazai places a hand over his heart, mournful. “Poor Kunikida-kun… wandering these alleys all alone… no adorable boyfriend to take pictures of… no sweet, affectionate tiger dropping drool all over his chest in the morning…”

    “STOP TALKING!”

    “And worst of all,” Dazai continues with a wry grin, “not a single cute picture of Atsushi on your phone. How lonely that must be.”

    Kunikida looks like he’s about to ascend to the heavens out of sheer anger.

    “WHY WOULD I WANT PICTURES OF YOUR BOYFRIEND?!” he roars, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair.

    Dazai taps his chin thoughtfully. “Well, he is very photogenic…”

    “DAZAI!”

    “And blushes adorably—”

    “STOP!”

    “And looks so cute in the mornings—”

    “SHUT UP!”

    Junichiro’s voice cracks through the air like a whip.

    “Dazai-san! Kunikida-san!”

    There is something wrong in it—thin, frayed, trembling at the edges. Guilt and fear braided together.

    Kunikida instantly straightens, his fury momentarily eclipsed by the urgency threading through Junichiro’s shout. Dazai, however, simply tilts his head, eyes half-lidded, hands still tucked into his coat pockets. He looks like he’s merely choosing whether to be annoyed or entertained. Junichiro comes running into view at the end of the alley, breath sharp and uneven, face bone-white. His hands keep flexing at his sides—opening, closing, opening, closing—as if unsure what to do with the guilt spilling out of him.

    “We—we caught him,” he says, voice small but loud enough to bounce off the alley walls. “The ability user—Atsushi-kun got him cornered and I— we—he’s unconscious. But…”

    He swallows hard.

    “But something happened to Atsushi.”

    Kunikida mutters something under his breath, something dazai can’t catch, and dazai—

    Dazai smiles.

    It’s a soft thing. A barely-there curl of the lips. Anyone who doesn’t know him would mistake it for calm.

    It is not calm.

    It is the smile Dazai uses when he is five seconds from killing God.

    But he does not run. He does not shout. He does not tear his coat off and sprint through the city with every vein screaming.

    He simply walks.

    Hands in his pockets, gait deceptively lazy, eyes sharp as a scalpel.

    “Well,” he hums gently, “lead the way, Junichiro-kun.”

    Junichiro nods and immediately turns, guiding them deeper into the twisting back passages between buildings. Kunikida shoots Dazai a look as he follows—a look that says he sees through him completely, that he knows exactly how tightly Dazai is holding himself together.

    He is right. 

    Dazai is doing an excellent job at not panicking.

    His heartbeat is a quiet, painful drum in his chest. He keeps his breathing steady, lets each step hit the ground with deliberate slowness. But in his mind, a single thought loops like a broken record:

    This is where his luck finally runs out. 

    This is where Dazai finally loses Atsushi. 

    Because Dazai is lucky, yes. He always has been. Slipping through danger like smoke, turning misfortune into victory with a crooked grin and a well-placed lie. But luck in love? Luck in keeping the people he treasures?

    Never.

    He lost Oda. Ango is a ghost of what they were. Chuuya’s hatred is sharp enough to cut bone.

    And now—

    Atsushi.

    Atsushi, who carved open Dazai’s dead heart and made it beat again. Atsushi, who trusts him, smiles at him, reaches for him in the dark when nightmares drag him under. Atsushi, who gives him a future Dazai should never have.

    Dazai tightens his hands in his pockets.

    He does not let himself imagine Atsushi hurt. Bleeding. Broken. Or worse.

    He only watches Junichiro’s shaking shoulders and walks faster.

    They turn two sharp corners, slip past an overflowing dumpster, step over scattered crates. The alleys twist and narrow until the faint thrum of the city falls away entirely.

    And then they stop.

    Junichiro steps aside.

    Dazai sees the unconscious ability user first—a man slumped against the brick wall, completely out cold. His limbs lie at odd angles, clearly knocked out by Atsushi’s strength. His clothing is dusty. His breathing is shallow.

    But Dazai barely spares him a glance.

    Because not ten feet away—

    A child stands trembling in an oversized shirt, big pants being held up by small hands.

    A small boy, far too thin. Too pale. Too familiar. Swallowed in Atsushi’s adult clothing, sleeves dragging across the ground, fabric wrapped around his body like armor. His silver hair falls messily over his forehead in choppy tufts. Too short. Uneven. A cut that speaks of neglect, not choice. Sunset-gold eyes glare up at dazai with confused terror, wholly pure and genuine with every second that passes.

    This isn’t just some random child who accidentally got caught in the crossfire of their mission. 

    No, this is Atsushi Nakajima. 

    Hit by the power of the ability user, the man Dazai woke up next to this morning is now a small child. 

    And Dazai…

    Dazai is so ecstatic!

     When the brown haired detective had heard that the ability user they were chasing after had the power to revert people to a younger age, he had—not very subtly—suggested that Atsushi be the one to track the man down. This wasn’t just because he knew Atsushi was the one better suited for finding the man by scent, but because the thought of Atsushi potentially being reverted to a cute adorable child was just too exciting to pass up! And it looks like everything has gone according to plan, just as it always does!

    Oh, Dazai can’t wait to coddle Atsushi for the next couple of days, to hear his dear boyfriend complain about how dazai needs to stop treating him like a child no matter how he may appear now, and oh my goodness, this gives dazai the perfect excuse to dress Atsushi in all of the cute onesies he sees children wear!

    Yet, when Dazai smiles down Atsushi, a teasing coo ready to slip off his tongue, his entire body comes to a screeching halt at the lack of recognition that fills the child’s face. 

    Atsushi’s sunset eyes are wide and watery with panic, hands crumbling into fists where they cling to his pants, holding them up for dear life until his small knuckles turn white, lips trembling as if on the verge of a long wailing sob. 

    The fear and terror that take up every inch of this small child’s body doesn’t make sense to Dazai, almost as if the boy no longer knows who dazai is.... 

    It was reported that the ability user could revert people to a younger age…but they hadn’t heard any word about it also changing the mental mindset of the person as well…

    To see if this may be the case, Dazai shuffles towards Atsushi, careful and wary, especially with the way the boy’s breath seems to hitch when he catches the older man trying to inch closer to him. In seconds, the boy is scrambling backwards against the brick wall of the alley, chest heaving for breath, as tears begin to roll down boney cheeks and pale skin. 

    And the look in Atsushi’s eyes—big, wide, full of unexplainable terror—fills dazai with dread, something even more unfamiliar, guilt. 

    Atsushi Nakajima has been turned back into his child-like self, a time when Atsushi was fighting every day of his life to breathe another breath, and there’s no one else to blame for this predicament but Dazai himself. 

    The next couple of hours are the kind Dazai wants to drown away in alcohol.

    And cigarettes. 

    And a brief coma. 

    Getting Atsushi out of that alley was a nightmare with teeth.

    The moment Dazai lifted him—carefully, slowly—the boy’s entire body spasmed in terror. Atsushi thrashed, clawed, kicked, shrieked like someone was peeling his skin off.

    “NO—NO, DON’T—LET GO—HEADMASTER! HEADMASTER, HELP—!”

    Each scream was a knife to Dazai’s ears. To his chest. To something deep and wounded inside him.

    “Atsushi,” Dazai murmured, even though it does nothing, even though the boy was far too gone to hear him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

    The words dissolved into the alley air, unheard.

    He didn’t want to be the one to pick Atsushi up. God, he didn’t. Every time his hand brushed the boy’s arm, he felt the instinctive flinch, the terror radiating off him like heat from a fire. But Dazai was the only one who could nullify his ability. If little Atsushi’s panic pushed him into transforming, things could get worse—much worse.

    So Dazai hauled him over his shoulder like a struggling stray cat, biting back his own panic as Atsushi kicked and screamed and sobbed into his coat. Junichiro and Kunikida flanked him, wide-eyed and tense, but they couldn't help. They were useless here. Only Dazai’s touch kept the boy from shifting into tiger form and mauling them all out of blind terror.

    The trip back to the Agency felt endless.

    Atsushi wailed for the entire walk. Screamed for help. For the headmaster. For anyone. Dazai’s ears rang with it; his chest felt carved open. He kept tightening his grip, whispering soothing nonsense that did nothing, absolutely nothing, to calm the child he loves.

    When they dragged through the Agency doors, Ranpo took one glance and sighed like this is all terribly predictable.

    “Body and mind,” he announced after five seconds of looking at Atsushi. “He’s not just physically de-aged. His brain chemistry is, too. This is Atsushi at maybe… seven. Maybe eight. However old he was when the orphanage had him on its short leash.”

    Atsushi heard none of it.

    He sits curled in Dazai’s lap—not by choice, not willingly, but because Dazai was the only thing preventing a panic-shift—every muscle taut, every breath a whimper. His small fingers dug into the fabric of Dazai’s coat, not for comfort but out of fear. He shook like an autumn leaf clinging to a branch in a storm. One loud sound, one wrong move, and he tried to scramble out of Dazai’s arms again, only to freeze, paralyzed by the attention in the room.

    The Agency erupted. 

    “I can take care of him!” Kunikida argued immediately, even though his voice was far too strict for a terrified child.

    “No, no, Kunikida-kun, you’d scare him,” Yosano sighed. 

    “Yosano-san, please don’t volunteer,” Kenji said, uncharacteristically timid. “You’ll… um… do medical things to him.”

    “I AM A DOCTOR,” she snapped.

    “And I have a little sister,” Junichiro said, raising a hesitant hand. “I’m good with kids—”

    “But if he transforms, he’ll shred you,” Yosano pointed out, matter-of-fact.

    Voices overlapped. Arguments escalated. Suggestions flew like stray bullets.

    Atsushi’s breathing spiked at the noise. He whimpered, curled himself tighter into Dazai’s chest, and hid his face like he thought someone might strike him. Dazai tightened his arms around him, jaw dropping into a rigid line. He wanted to tell them all to shut the hell up, but speaking would mean moving, and moving risked making Atsushi bolt again.

    Finally someone—Fukuzawa, with his quiet authority—cut through the chaos.

    “Dazai will take care of him.”

    The room stilled.

    Every head turned toward Dazai.

    He wanted to object. God, he wanted to object so bad. He was not the one who should cover a scared child with comfort and safety. He is not the man who should be trusted with something so fragile. Atsushi deserved someone gentle, patient, warm—someone who didn’t grow up with blood under his nails and manipulation in his bones. Afterall, it was Dazai’s careless thinking and selfish desires that landed Atsushi in this terrible predicament in the first place. 

    But he looked down at the trembling little body in his arms and the fight drained out of him at the sight of tears and snot staining his coat.

    He couldn’t give Atsushi to anyone else. Not in this state.

    “Fine,” Dazai agreed, voice flat.

    It wasn’t acceptance. It was resignation. It was defeat. It was something far darker.

    And that leads them to now.

    Dazai’s messy apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that suffocates. Papers are scattered everywhere. Clothes draped over chairs. Books stacked precariously on the counter. A blanket half-hanging off the couch. Atsushi sits in the corner of the kitchen, curled into himself like a frightened animal, knees tucked to his chest, oversized shirt swallowing his small frame. His wide golden eyes keep darting between Dazai and the front door—his escape route.

    He trembles violently. Every few seconds, a soft, broken noise escapes him. Not quite a sob. Not quite a whimper.

    Just fear.

    Pure, childhood fear.

    Dazai stands a few feet away, leaning against the counter, pretending to be calm. Inside, he feels like he’s shattering. He knows exactly what that look in Atsushi’s eyes means. The boy is calculating. Searching for a moment when Dazai looks away. Wondering how fast he can run. Wondering if the headmaster will punish him for being gone so long. Wondering whether Dazai will hit him if he tries to escape.

    It’s all there—written on his small, trembling face.

    Dazai hates it.

    He hates that Atsushi looked at him like salvation only hours ago and now sees him as another captor. Another monster. He hates the urge to fix it with soft touches and whispered reassurances—touches that would terrify this version of Atsushi even more. He hates that he got exactly what he wanted—a tiny Atsushi to tease and coddle—only to be handed a nightmare instead.

    He hates the headmaster. Truly. Deeply. Primally.

    Dazai really, really wants a drink. Whiskey. Shochu. Anything corrosive enough to burn a hole straight through his lungs and quiet the screaming guilt clawing its way up his throat. He also wants to crawl into his futon, bury himself under three blankets, and pretend none of this is his fault, but that wouldn’t be fair to Atsushi. 

    He drags a hand down his face, eyes squeezing shut for a heartbeat. Atsushi’s small, shaking form sits in the corner like a kicked puppy, eyes red and wet, his little hands twisted in the hem of his too-big shirt. He looks like a ghost—pale, clammy, about to faint or bolt or both.

    Dazai takes a breath he doesn’t feel enter his lungs and begins to shuffle over towards atsushi. 

    Atsushi recoils immediately, breath hitching, heels pressing harder into the wall. His pupils blow wide with panic. His face drains of what little color remains, turning the kind of white that makes Dazai think of hospital lights and morgue sheets. 

    Guilt chews through him with sharp little teeth. He’s imagined this look from Atsushi before—distrust, fear, disgust—but only in nightmares. Only when he let his mind run feral during sleepless nights. Seeing it now, carved into Atsushi’s small, trembling expression…

     It hurts. 

    It hurts so damn much…

    “Okay,” Dazai whispers to no one, to himself, to the aching air between them. He sinks to the floor slowly—so slowly his joints protest—until he’s sitting cross-legged in front of the boy, trying to make himself as small, as non-threatening, as gentle as his monstrous history allows. He keeps his hands visible. Keeps his voice soft. “Atsushi,” he murmurs, “do you… understand what’s happening?”

    The boy’s head shakes immediately—sharp, frantic, terrified.

    Dazai expected that. It still pierces him clean through.

    “Where…where’s the headmaster?” Atsushi asks, voice tiny and raw. His fingers curl tight against his knees. “Did I—did I make him mad?”

    The rage hits Dazai so fast he almost chokes on it.

    He doesn’t let it show.

    He buries it with the same skill he used to bury bodies in the past.

    “The headmaster isn’t here,” he says, keeping his tone even. “He can’t hurt you.”

    Atsushi stiffens further, which Dazai didn’t think was possible. His brows pinch. Fear gathers in his eyes like storm clouds.

    “Why?” Atsushi whispers. “Did…did he throw me away?”

    The question is so heartbreakingly familiar Dazai has to swallow the blood he tastes on his tongue.

    “No,” he says immediately. “He didn’t throw you away.”

    “Then…” Atsushi’s lip trembles. “Then does that mean you a-adopted me?”

    Dazai actually chokes. He shakes his head quickly—too quickly, maybe, but any slower and he’s worried his voice would crack in all the wrong places.

    “No, no,” he says, gentler now. “I’m just looking after you. Only until you turn back to your real age.”

    Atsushi looks more confused than ever, brows knitting together, little shoulders tense and coiled.

    Dazai sighs internally. Maybe he should’ve phrased that better.

    “So…this is temporary?” the boy asks.

    “Yes,” Dazai answers softly. “It’s temporary.”

    And just like that, the tension eases.

    Only a little. Only for a moment.

    But Atsushi’s shoulders slump, his breath shuddering out of him like he’s been holding it for hours. Relief washes across his face—pure, aching relief—because the idea of not being stuck with Dazai forever is the first comfort he’s felt since waking in this body.

    Dazai hates that.

    He hates how much he hates it.

    But he swallows it down with everything else.

    “Alright,” Dazai tries again, shifting slightly but keeping his movements slow. “Are you hungry? Do you want anything for lunch?”

    Atsushi’s body snaps back to rigid in an instant, lips pressing shut as if he’s bracing for punishment. He shakes his head, violently, like answering is dangerous. Like wanting something is a sin. Dazai’s chest cracks a little more.

    “Okay,” he murmurs. “That’s alright.”

    He pushes himself to his feet, limbs heavy and aching with something deeper than exhaustion. He moves to the counter, rolling up his sleeves in silent resignation. If he can’t fix the damage, if he can’t take away the fear, he can at least make something warm.

    Chazuke. 

    Simple. Soft. Something Atsushi liked even as an adult.

    He sets a pot on the stove, preparing the broth, glancing back every few seconds to ensure the boy is still there, still breathing, still terrified but safe.

    Atsushi doesn’t move from the corner. Doesn’t blink much, either. Just watches Dazai with those wide, wounded eyes.

    And Dazai pretends his hands don’t shake as he cooks.

    Later that night, when the apartment has finally gone still, Dazai inches the bedroom door open just enough to peek inside.

    Atsushi is asleep at last.

    Curled tight under Dazai’s blanket, small fists tucked near his face, breaths shaky but even. Exhaustion has dragged him under completely. For the first time since the regression, the boy isn’t trembling. His lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, and in the low light, he looks painfully young. 

    Painfully breakable.

    Dazai exhales slowly, silently, easing the door shut until only a sliver of moonlight cuts across the frame.

    His phone vibrates in his hand.

    He glances at the screen. A message from ranpo. 

    He’ll be back to normal in a week
    Don’t come in until then
    A terrified kid is more important than your paperwork~

    Dazai snorts under his breath, though the sound lacks any real humor. A week. Seven days of navigating a child who fears him. Seven nights of watching over someone who flinches at his shadow.

    He sets the phone down. Then, with a flick of his wrist, tosses it onto the couch.

    The cushions sigh under the impact.

    “Well,” he mutters, pulling a blanket over his shoulders as he sinks down, “guess this is home for the week.”

    Dazai does not wake to the usual chatter of birds outside the main room window.

    He wakes to screaming.

    A raw, tearing kind of sound—sharp enough to punch straight through the haze of sleep and grab him by the spine. His eyes snap open. His heart rockets into his throat. For a split second his disoriented brain tries to place the sound—dream? sirens?—but the truth hits him before the next scream even ends.

    Atsushi!

    Dazai is on his feet instantly. The blanket falls from his shoulders. His legs nearly trip over the clutter on the floor as he sprints across the apartment. He slams his shoulder into the doorframe in his rush but barely feels it. His hand twists the doorknob so violently it almost rips out of the door. He bursts into his bedroom, ready for anything—an intruder, a kidnapper, another ability user, something with claws and teeth—

    But it’s just Atsushi.

    And yet the sight guts him far worse than any enemy could.

    The small, trembling form of a child is tangled violently in the sheets of Dazai’s futon, thrashing so hard the blankets knot around his legs. His face is twisted in terror, sweat coating his forehead and hair. His eyes are squeezed shut, lashes clumped with tears. His voice, that tiny, fragile voice, rips through the room. 

    “STOP—PLEASE—STOP! I’LL BE GOOD, I PROMISE—I WON’T BE BAD—PLEASE—HEADMASTER, PLEASE—!”

    Dazai’s breath shatters in his chest.

    This isn’t a dream. This is memory. Trauma looping behind closed eyes. His boy is trapped inside it.

    “Atsushi,” Dazai whispers, hoarse.

    The boy thrashes harder.

    Dazai moves before thinking. He crosses the room in a few long strides and drops to his knees beside the futon. When Atsushi’s flailing limb nearly smacks into the nightstand, Dazai lunges forward, catching him, gathering the trembling body into his arms.

    Atsushi screams louder upon feeling his constricting touch. 

    “No—NO! Don’t—don’t touch me—please, I’ll be good, I promise—I’ll be good—!”

    Each plea is a blade to Dazai’s ribs.

    He pulls Atsushi into his lap, careful but firm, anchoring the small boy against his chest. Atsushi’s tiny fists beat uselessly at him. His legs kick. His body tries to curl away, fold into itself, flee from a touch he doesn’t understand. Dazai rocks him anyway. It’s instinctive—some primal human urge to soothe, to soften the nightmare through motion, through presence. The movement is gentle, rhythmic, the way he imagines a parent might.

    “It’s okay,” Dazai murmurs. “It’s alright, Atsushi. You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

    But the words don’t reach him. They’re swallowed by the storm of his fear.

    Atsushi’s screams spike, becoming frantic, hysteria-laced sobs.

    “STOP TOUCHING ME! PLEASE—I’LL BE GOOD—I’LL BE GOOD—DON’T—DON’T HURT ME—!”

    Dazai squeezes his eyes shut.

    “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispers, and oh, how cruelly inadequate that is. Because this Atsushi—this tiny, terrified child—does not know him. Does not trust him. Does not hear him through the mire of old wounds.

    “Atsushi, please,” Dazai tries again, voice breaking.

    A sudden, desperate jerk of Atsushi’s head, a flash of small fangs, a sharp, stabbing pain—

    Atsushi’s teeth sink into Dazai’s bandaged arm.

    Hard. 

    Dazai hisses in pain, breath sucked through clenched teeth. The bite is vicious, panicked, a feral instinct to survive. He feels the skin split under tiny but powerful teeth. Feels the warmth of blood seep through the bandages. But he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even flinch back. He keeps holding the boy close, tightening his arms just enough to keep Atsushi from hurting himself or throwing himself across the room.

    “It’s okay,” Dazai whispers again, even softer, even more cracked. He tilts his head forward until his cheek presses against Atsushi’s damp hair. “You’re safe. I promise. You’re safe, Atsushi.”

    Atsushi doesn’t stop flailing.

    He doesn’t stop crying.

    He doesn’t stop biting.

    Not for a while.

    Time stretches painfully—minutes feeling like hours as Dazai rocks the wounded child in his arms, gently, patiently, whispering every soft reassurance he can think of. Words he didn’t even know he knew. Words he’s never spoken to anyone in his life.

    Slowly—agonizingly—Atsushi’s movements weaken. The kicks become twitches. The fists go limp. The sobs quiet into little gasping hiccups. Finally the sharp sting of teeth fades as Atsushi’s jaw slackens and his body slackens, sagging with exhaustion.

    He falls back into unconsciousness.

    The bite releases. Blood wells through Dazai’s bandages, warm and sticky. Dazai doesn't look at it. Not yet. He carefully, gently adjusts his hold and lowers Atsushi back onto the futon. The boy’s small body curls instinctively on its side, knees drawn to chest, breath uneven but no longer panicked. 

    Dazai stays crouched there beside him, his own breath ragged in his throat.

    Atsushi’s face is still tight with leftover terror—brows furrowed, lips pulled into a trembling frown. Sweat sticks his silver hair to his forehead. Even in sleep, he’s lost inside whatever nightmare the headmaster carved into him.

    Dazai feels sick. 

    He wants to wake him up—wants to pull him out of that nightmare land and into something gentler—but he knows if he shakes him awake, Atsushi might panic again. Might run. Might bite. Might scream loud enough to tear his throat raw.

    So Dazai forces himself still. 

    He leans back on his heels, finally daring to look at his arm.

    Blood stains the white bandages, spreading like a bruise across the fabric. Atsushi has always had a strong jaw—Dazai has joked about it before, teased him about being a “little tiger.” But this bite… this was survival. Fear. A child’s desperation.

    And it hurts like hell. 

   Dazai ignores it.

    He tucks the blanket around Atsushi’s small, curled form, pulling the edges in snugly—just like in those movies Atsushi always insists they watch together. Movies where parents tuck children in tight to keep them warm, to make them feel protected.

    He copies the motions carefully, mimicking what he’s seen. The blanket settles around the boy like a cocoon. 

    And atsushi doesn’t stir. 

    Dazai takes a long, shaky breath.

    His arm throbs. His hands tremble. His heart feels too loud, too fragile, too open in his chest.

    He stands slowly, forcing his knees to unlock. The room tilts a little—whether from the pain or something deeper, he doesn’t know.

    At the doorway, he hesitates.

    He shouldn’t look back. It’ll only hurt more. It’ll only make the ache sharper, the guilt heavier.

    He looks back anyway.

    Atsushi lies small and silent in the futon, swallowed by the blankets, brow furrowed like the nightmare still has its claws in him even now. His pale face is damp with tears. His small fists curl weakly against the sheets.

    Dazai swallows hard before turning back around and leaving his bedroom. 

    He’s in over his head. 

    The thought doesn’t come as a dramatic revelation—it settles in quietly, heavily, like dust after a collapse. It clings to him. It fills his lungs. He stands in the dark hallway, staring at the closed door of his bedroom as if it might open again and reveal an answer. But it stays shut. 

    Dazai presses the heel of his good hand against his brow. His pulse is thundering still, a dull roar under his skin. His bitten arm throbs, each heartbeat sending a fresh pulse of pain up to his shoulder, a reminder of just how desperately Atsushi had tried to escape even in sleep.

    He has no experience on how to deal with a traumatic child in a healthy way. None. He knows how to dismantle a criminal syndicate. He knows how to manipulate a politician until they fold like wet paper. He knows how to disappear, how to hurt, how to use people until their bones crack under the pressure.

    But this—this tiny boy with shaking hands and a throat raw from nightmares—

    What is he supposed to do with that?

    What comfort can he offer to a child trapped in memories so violent he wakes up screaming himself hoarse?

    He has no idea what Atsushi is dreaming about. No details, no glimpses, just guesses—just the horrific fragments the boy cries out in his sleep. But the truth of it… the full shape of those nightmares…Dazai can’t even begin to imagine. And maybe that’s the worst part. He’s fumbling in the dark, trying to protect something he doesn’t understand. Trying to soothe wounds he cannot see. Trying to hold a boy who doesn’t know how to be held.

    His shoulders slump.

    There is no sleep left in him now—not after that. The adrenaline is too thick, too acidic. His nerves feel frayed, buzzing under his skin, refusing to settle. So he turns away from the door and walks down the hall. The bathroom light burns too bright when he flips the switch. It makes him squint, blinking rapidly. The mirror reflects a pale-faced man with dark circles smeared under his eyes and hair sticking up in disheveled clumps.

    He looks nothing like someone who should be responsible for a child.

    He exhales shakily and unwraps the bandages around his arm.

    The bite is angry—deep, sharp impressions surrounded by broken skin, blood still beading in the grooves. It’s not the worst injury he’s ever had. Not even close. But somehow it feels… heavier than a gunshot. More personal. More honest.

    Atsushi did this to survive. To escape. To defend himself from a danger that wasn’t there.

    Dazai cleans the bite mechanically, his hands working on autopilot. Gauze, antiseptic, new bandages wrapped precisely and neatly. He’s done this countless times before, but never with this kind of tightness in his chest. Never with this kind of memory burned behind his eyes—the memory of a child sobbing into his arm, begging to be spared.

    He finishes rewrapping the wound and stares at his reflection again.

    He’s sick of what he sees, a man way out of his depth, who can’t even be responsible over his lover-turned-child. 

    He switches off the bathroom light and steps into the darkness again. Makes his way back to the main room. The couch is cold when he drops onto it, sinking into the cushions like they might swallow him whole. He doesn’t pull a blanket over himself. Doesn’t close his eyes.

    He just lies there, bleeding slowly through fresh bandages, staring at the ceiling.

    Thinking. 

    He lies there, thinking, until thought becomes a dull ache—something heavy and shapeless that presses against his ribs and makes it hard to breathe. A part of him expects the silence to last, hopes in some small, selfish corner that Atsushi will sleep long enough for him to pull himself together.

    But of course, it doesn’t.

    The softest creak breaks the quiet. Barely a sound—just the faint groan of a hinge shifting under careful, careful pressure. Dazai’s eyes snap open instantly.

    He stays perfectly still.

    The couch faces the hallway. The hallway leads to the bedroom. And the bedroom door…is opening.

    Very slowly. Very quietly. As if someone is praying not to be caught.

    A tiny sliver of silver hair appears first. Then a small, cautious face. Atsushi’s eyes dart around the apartment like a stray animal checking for predators. His bare feet make no sound as he tries to slip along the wall, body kept close, movements small and practiced.

    A child used to avoiding notice. 

    A child trying to escape.

    Dazai doesn’t think—he just moves.

    He springs up from the couch so suddenly the cushions puff up behind him. Atsushi freezes mid-step, eyes going wide, mouth open in a silent gasp. And before the boy can bolt or drop to the floor or back into the nightmare-land his mind still clings to, Dazai steps forward, scoops him up under the armpits, and lifts him off the ground.

    Atsushi doesn’t fight exactly—he just goes rigid, body turning stiff as a board, limbs locked and trembling in the air. Dazai sets him down on the couch gently but firmly, placing him so he can’t immediately run for the door.

    “Morning,” Dazai says softly.

    Atsushi stares at him like he’s waiting to be hit.

    Dazai swallows, forcing his voice to stay even. “You hungry?”

    There is no answer. Not even a twitch of recognition. Atsushi sits perfectly still, back straight, shoulders tight, hands folded in his lap like he’s bracing for judgement. His lips are sealed shut—stitched shut by fear. Just like last night when Dazai had asked him what he wanted for lunch. That same expression—blank, terrified, empty. 

    It hits Dazai like another bite to the arm.

    “…Alright,” Dazai murmurs, trying to make it sound casual, normal. “I’ll make you something, okay? You can eat if you want. No pressure.”

    Atsushi doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Dazai forces a smile and heads into the kitchen.

    He makes rice first. Atsushi’s favorite meal in the morning—at least in the future Dazai knows. He cracks eggs into a pan next, scrambling them lightly, keeping the seasoning simple. Atsushi—grown Atsushi—likes things simple. Kid Atsushi seems like someone who might flinch if there’s too much flavor at once.

    The food is done quickly, steaming in the bowl.

    Atsushi is where Dazai left him—same position, same frozen expression, as if time has not touched him.

    “Breakfast,” Dazai says softly, offering the bowl.

    The reaction is immediate.

    Atsushi snatches the bowl with both hands, nearly dropping it in his haste. And then he devours it.

    Shovels it into his mouth with quick, desperate motions, barely chewing, eyes darting around as if expecting the bowl to be taken away at any moment. Rice sticks to his cheeks. Eggs fall onto his lap. He keeps eating anyway.

    Dazai’s stomach twists.

    What did they do to you? What did they make you believe food meant? What did you have to do to earn a meal?

    When the bowl is empty, Atsushi holds it in both hands, staring into the bottom as though making sure there really isn’t any more. “Hey…” Dazai says gently. “If you want more, I can make more. You don’t have to…” He gestures vaguely to the empty bowl. “Eat like that. No one’s taking it from you.”

    Atsushi’s throat bobs. But he doesn’t speak.

    Dazai forces himself to take a calming breath.

    “You’re free to do whatever you want today,” he says, trying for cheerful. “You can look around. Play with anything you want. Read. Sit anywhere. Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

    He means it. Every word.

    Atsushi stares at him for two long seconds.

    Then bolts for the bedroom.

    Dazai’s heart leaps. But not with alarm—at least not entirely. Because Atsushi had chosen his bedroom. Had run into his space.

    Some small, fragile part of Dazai dares to interpret that as trust. Or something like it. Maybe Atsushi thinks of that room as safe after all—because Dazai carried him there last night, because he held him in that futon earlier that morning.

     The thought warms Dazai for a moment. Makes him smile.

    But when he sneaks a look inside his room, the smile falls off his face.

    Atsushi is not on the futon. Not exploring. Not resting.

    He is crouched in the far corner, pressed so tightly into it that his back arches. Knees drawn to his chest. Toes curled. Fingers knotted into his hair. His breathing is sharp, rapid, too thin. His eyes—wide, glassy, unblinking—stare straight ahead.

    Frozen.

    Hiding.

    Not feeling safe.

    Not at all.

    Dazai doesn’t enter the room. He stands at the doorway, hands curled helplessly at his sides. He wants to say something—anything—but knows it will only startle the boy. So he leaves him there, heart heavy.

    The rest of the day follows the same bleak pattern.

    Atsushi refuses to choose when given choices. Refuses to speak. Refuses to look Dazai in the eye. Meals are eaten as though they’re the last he’ll ever have—quick, messy, desperate. Each time Dazai refills his bowl or plate, the look of surprise and fear on Atsushi’s face slices him open. Atsushi doesn’t explore the apartment. Doesn’t try to play. Doesn’t even sit on the couch.

    He runs back into Dazai’s room after every small interaction, always hiding in that same corner as if waiting for punishment. The corner becomes his cage, his safe prison—though “safe” feels like the wrong word for something wrapped in that much terror.

    Dazai tries not to hover. Tries to let Atsushi come out on his own. Tries to do the things he thinks someone—anyone—would do with a child.

    But each attempt feels like fumbling in the dark.

    When night finally comes, he kneels beside the futon, forcing a soft smile.

    “Do you…want me to tuck you in?”

    Atsushi’s head jerks up, eyes huge.

    “No!” The word bursts out of him like a startled animal. “No—I—I can fall asleep. I can do it.”

    Dazai’s heart crumples at the fear in the boy’s voice.

    “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. You can sleep however you want. I won’t… I won’t touch you.”

     Atsushi lies down stiffly. Closes his eyes too quickly.

    Pretends. 

    Dazai withdraws slowly. Turns off the light. Leaves the door open just a crack.

    And returns to the couch.

    Just like last night.

    Just as tired.

    Just as heartsick.

    Just as lost. 

    Atsushi isn’t any closer to trusting him than he was yesterday.

    The day ends with the same question rattling painfully inside Dazai’s chest—loud, panicked, helpless.

    What on earth should he do?

    Two days.

    Two days of the same loop, the same small tragedies, the same helpless ache tightening around Dazai’s chest until he swears his ribs have bent inward.

    Two days of waking to the sound of Atsushi’s thin, frantic screaming—panic so sharp it rattles Dazai’s bones before he’s even fully conscious. Two days of finding the boy curled in the corner of his room, breathing too fast, eyes too wide, pupils blown so large the gold can barely be seen. Two days of watching him tiptoe around the apartment as if every floorboard is a landmine, circling wide arcs around Dazai as though proximity alone might trigger punishment. Two days of the boy devouring food at a pace that makes Dazai feel physically nauseous, like he has to finish before someone forces it out of his hands. Or before someone else steals it from him.

    Or before he’s told he doesn’t deserve it.

    Dazai still hasn’t figured out how to reach him, two days of trying to figure out how to show Atsushi that he isn’t a threat to him.

    Not until the idea hits him, stupidly, stupidly late.

    He’s sitting on the couch, head in his hands, running through everything he knows, everything he remembers about Atsushi—the adult one, the one he loves so deeply it’s embarrassing. And then it hits him with such force he actually sits up straight:

    Books. 

    Atsushi loves books. Devours them the way this tiny version of him devours food. Reads like he’s starving for stories, for knowledge, for something soft and safe and far away from the world that hurt him.

    Dazai drags a hand down his face.

    “How the hell did I forget that…?” he mumbles to himself. 

    Well—he didn’t forget. Not really. It just felt irrelevant. Books had always been a comfort for grown Atsushi, not something a frightened child version would even look at, let alone reach for.

    But now?

    Anything is worth trying. 

    He texts Kyouka, short and to the point. 

    Can you pick up some children’s books from the library? Anything you think a young atsushi would like.

    She replies within minutes, no questions asked, as dependable as ever.

    By noon, there’s a neatly tied stack of books waiting on Dazai’s doorstep. Bright covers. Big letters. Stories about adventure and animals and fantasy forests—things the boy inside his apartment has never been allowed to imagine for himself. He carries them inside, sets them on the low dining table very deliberately—visible, but not overwhelming. Not placed too close to the food. Not placed in a way that could confuse them for some conditional offering.

    Just there, waiting, and welcoming atsushi to be read.

    Then he cooks lunch—chazuke, simple and warm. 

    “Atsushi,” he calls, voice soft. “Lunch is ready.”

    He watches the hallway.

    And waits. 

    A faint shuffle, then Atsushi appears.

    He moves the way a stray cat approaches a stranger’s hand—slow, tense, ready to bolt. His eyes flick around the apartment first, scanning for danger, then fixing on the steaming bowl on the table. 

    Then, finally…

    The books. 

    His eyes widen. Not dramatically—just a tiny shift, a silent spark of something unfamiliar. Curiosity, maybe. Or shock.

    Or hope.

    The moment is so fragile Dazai doesn’t even breathe.

    Atsushi steps closer. One foot. Then another. His gaze keeps darting between the food and the books as if he’s doing some silent equation in his head—one where looking too long at the wrong thing could cost him something.

    He sits. He stares at the food, waiting for permission to eat like always. 

    Dazai nods. “Go ahead.”

    Atsushi begins eating—but slowly this time.

    Not ravenous. Not frantic. Just… cautious.

    “Good,” Dazai murmurs, heart lifting the tiniest bit. This is good. This is progress. The books are helping already—

    Except Atsushi still hasn’t looked at them again. Not really. Not directly. It’s like they’re dangerous to acknowledge.

    So dazai tries to help. 

    “Oh, by the way,” he says lightly, “someone dropped off a few fun books for you. So you won’t get bored sitting in my room all day.”

    Atsushi stops chewing.

    Completely.

    His eyes snap to Dazai. Not wide with terror this time. Wide with something else entirely—confusion, disbelief, a flicker of longing so raw it guts Dazai on the spot.

    And then—

    It shutters off. 

    A wall slams down behind those sunset eyes so fast Dazai almost flinches.

    Atsushi looks away. Looks down. Shakes his head, tiny and tight. 

    “I’m not…” His voice is small, trembling. “I’m not going to fail your test.”

    Dazai freezes.

    “...test?”

    Atsushi nods once, timid and stiff, as if confirming his own fear. “I know you’re testing me.” His hands curl around the bowl. “I know I have to do everything right. I won’t fail.”

    A sharp, painful confusion cuts through Dazai’s spine.

    Test? What test? What kind of twisted logic led Atsushi to think a stack of books was some kind of trap?

    He forces a laugh—gentle, harmless. “Atsushi, it’s not a test. They’re just books. They’re free for you to read. That’s all!”

    But the boy is already gone. 

    Not physically—he’s still sitting right there, still holding his bowl—but mentally, emotionally, spiritually, he is miles away. Somewhere dark. Somewhere cold. Somewhere Dazai can’t reach. The words bounce off him like pebbles thrown at a fortress wall.

    Atsushi lowers his head again, resumes eating, silent and mechanical, as if the conversation never happened.

    When he finishes, he sets the bowl down carefully. “Thank you for the food,” he whispers.

    Then he runs. 

    Back into the bedroom, back into the corner, back into whatever warped logic tells him safety only exists where Dazai is not.

     The door doesn’t close, but he disappears from view anyway.

    Dazai stands there in the quiet aftermath, staring at the books left untouched on the table.

    He presses the heel of his palm into his brow, jaw tight, breath shaking with frustrated exhaustion.

    He thought—hoped—books would be the bridge. Something familiar. Something comforting. Something that would show Atsushi he isn’t here to hurt him.

    But instead?

    He saw a test. 

    And Dazai—heart dripping like wax inside his chest—realizes with painful clarity that he miscalculated, again.

    “Damn it…” he whispers to no one.

    The books sit there, bright and useless.

    Evening comes painfully slow. Dazai cooks dinner, announces it softly down the hallway, waits for the timid shuffle of Atsushi’s feet, watches the boy eat in silence and retreat again without looking at the books even once.

    By the time night falls, Dazai feels wrung out. He tucks Atsushi into his futon the way he’s done the past two nights—slowly, cautiously, the blanket drawn up around the small, shaking body. The boy doesn’t meet his eyes. Doesn’t speak. Just whispers a faint, brittle “Goodnight” because that’s what he thinks is expected of him. Dazai leaves the room quietly. He lowers himself onto the couch, exhaustion spreading through him like a bruise. He thinks—hopes—this will be another night of silence after the nightmare storm inevitably passes.

    But then he hears it.

    Soft footsteps. Too light to belong to an adult. Too soft to be anything but a child trying very hard not to be caught.

    Dazai’s pulse spikes.

    For a split second, panic claws up his spine—Is he trying to escape?

    Dazai sits forward, peering over the back of the couch.

    And there he is.

    Atsushi stands at the table, small fingers hovering over the stack of children’s books. He pokes at the covers tentatively, as though convinced they might bite him. His expression is… curious. Hesitant. Hopeful.

    Dazai’s breath leaves him in a shudder of relief so strong it makes him dizzy.

    He stays perfectly still. If he moves, if he breathes wrong, Atsushi might bolt like a terrified animal. So Dazai speaks instead—whisper-soft, barely above the crackle of the apartment heater.

    “You can take them,” he says. “Into my room, if you want. If that makes you more comfortable.”

    Atsushi jumps violently. His whole body snaps tight, shoulders up, hands yanking away from the books like he’s been burned. He spins around, wide sunset eyes locking on Dazai with a look of naked horror—raw, immediate, instinctive. It’s the same expression he wore the first day he found Atsushi after he was hit by the ability. The look of a child expecting pain.

    Dazai keeps his posture loose, hands raised—not standing, not approaching. Still on the couch where Atsushi can see him clearly. “It’s okay,” he says. “Really. They’re yours. You can do whatever you want with them.”

    Atsushi doesn’t answer right away. His eyes dart between Dazai and the books, as if trying to read some invisible threat in the air. His small throat bobs with a swallow. Then, almost too soft to hear, he asks, “You’re… not going to punish me for failing the test?”

    Dazai’s heart cracks cleanly down the middle. He shakes his head. “Atsushi… they’re not a test. They’re not anything like that. I just wanted you to have something you like.” But that only seems to confuse the boy further. His brows pinch, his arms wrapping around himself as though bracing for something heavy.

    “But… my punishment?” he whispers. “What about my punishment? Are you not going to… y’know…?”

    Dazai inhales sharply, fighting to keep his voice calm.

    “I’m not going to punish you,” he says gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

    Atsushi doesn’t accept it. Of course he doesn’t. The belief is carved too deep.

    “But I snuck out,” he presses, voice cracking. “I left the room when you told me to stay there. I tried to read without permission. That’s… that’s bad. I should be punished for that. I should. That’s what happens when—when—”

    “It’s not bad,” Dazai interrupts softly. “Atsushi, listen to me. You’re not required to stay in my room. I’m not locking you away. You can move freely. You can read freely. You’re not in trouble. Not for this. Not for anything today.”

    Atsushi stares at him. It’s not disbelief—not exactly—but somehow its worse. It’s the look of a child trying to fit new information into a system built entirely from fear. His expression twists—surprise, relief, something dangerously close to hope. His posture loosens as though he might actually accept Dazai’s words—

    Then, just as quickly, everything shuts down again. A blank, forced indifference smooths across his face, brittle and unnatural. The terror returns, washing over his features like ink soaking through paper.

    He nods once, stiff and trembling.

    “I get it now,” he says. “I understand.”

    Dazai exhales, tension leaving him in a rush. “Good. That’s—"

    But the words die in his throat. Because without warning—Atsushi bends, grabs the entire heavy stack of books, raises them above his head—

    And slams them down onto his own foot.

    The thud echoes through the apartment. 

     A cry tears through the room—sharp, startled, agonized—and Dazai moves before the sound even finishes leaving Atsushi’s mouth.

    He’s off the couch in an instant, stumbling in his hurry, confusion and horror slamming through him at once. He’d seen the boy lift the books, seen the shift in his expression—determined, resigned, terrified all at once—but the reality of the action still hits like a punch to the gut.

    Atsushi hurt himself.

    Atsushi thought Dazai wanted him to hurt himself.

    “Atsushi!” 

    Dazai’s voice cracks, raw, desperate. He snatches the stack of books out of Atsushi’s tiny hands just as the boy tries to lift them again. They hit the floor with a dull thud, forgotten. Dazai pulls Atsushi into his arms immediately, as if he can protect him from himself, as if he can somehow shield him from the belief that pain is owed. 

    Atsushi goes limp in his hold—not out of trust, but out of habituated surrender, the kind that makes Dazai feel violently sick.

    “No, no, no,” Dazai mutters, clutching him tighter, panic clawing up his chest. “None of that. Atsushi, sweetheart, no—why would you—?”

    He can’t finish the question. He can’t even breathe around it.

    Instead he shifts the boy against his chest, one arm under his knees, the other wrapped firmly around his back. He carries him with a frantic urgency that would make every worker at the Armed Detective Agency laugh themselves breathless—Dazai Osamu, panicking like a first-time parent over a stubbed toe. But this isn’t a stubbed toe. And nothing about this is funny.

    “Atsushi, it’s okay,” he whispers, so soft it nearly dissolves. “I’ve got you. You’re okay. I’m going to fix it. I promise.”

    Atsushi doesn’t answer. 

    His small fingers fist weakly in the fabric of Dazai’s shirt, but he doesn’t cry, doesn’t whimper, doesn’t breathe any differently than before. As if hurting himself is so normal, so expected, that it doesn’t warrant a reaction beyond acceptance. 

    The thought nearly brings Dazai to his knees.

    He manages to make it to the bathroom, turning on the light with his elbow. Steam still clings faintly to the mirror from his earlier shower. It feels painfully domestic, painfully wrong.

    He sets Atsushi gently on the closed toilet seat. The boy sits perfectly still—spine rigid, gaze glued to the floor, shoulders trembling so faintly Dazai almost misses it. “Let me see,” Dazai murmurs. He crouches down, taking the injured foot into his hands with exaggerated care. Atsushi doesn’t flinch. Just stares through the tiles like he’s waiting for the next instruction. Or the next hit.

    Dazai swallows hard. 

    Already a bruise is spreading across the top of Atsushi’s tiny toes—ugly, purpling, angry. The skin is swelling, the outline of bone faintly visible beneath.

    The books were heavy. Heavy enough to hurt. Heavy enough to break.

    And Atsushi had done it intentionally. 

    He reaches for the first-aid kit under the sink, hands shaking despite his effort to stay steady. He wraps the foot carefully, layer by layer, even though the regeneration is already beginning—faint flickers of muscle movement spreading from beneath the bandages when dazai’s touch is out of reach of his bare skin. 

    Atsushi still says nothing. 

    Not when Dazai touches him, not when Dazai mumbles apologies under his breath. The silence is worse than crying. Silence is resignation.

    Atsushi thought he failed.

    Atsushi thought he needed to punish himself because Dazai hadn’t.

    Because that was the rule. The system. The expectation beaten into him by—

    By that monster. 

    Dazai’s breath leaves him in a ragged exhale. His vision blurs at the edges, anger rising so fast and so violently it’s a miracle he doesn’t put his fist through the wall.

    The headmaster. 

    Who else could carve such a belief into a child’s bones? Who else could teach someone so small that punishment is inevitable, unavoidable, deserved? Who else could train him to anticipate pain before kindness, to correct himself with violence before anyone else has the chance?

    He almost wishes the headmaster wasn’t dead. He wishes—violently, viciously, with a rage so old it feels new—that he could drag that man back from the grave, resurrect him with his own hands, and destroy him again. Slowly. Deliberately. Over and over and over until every scream he ever forced from Atsushi’s throat was returned to him a hundredfold.

    But even that wouldn’t undo what’s been done. Wouldn’t erase the way Atsushi curled in on himself when Dazai raised his voice. Wouldn’t erase the nightmares. The self-blame. The fear of kindness. The instinct to self-harm as a form of obedience.

    Dazai swallows, chest tight, vision burning.

    No amount of revenge will ever give Atsushi back the childhood stolen from him.

    The silence breaks. 

    Atsushi’s voice is so small Dazai almost mistakes it for a breath. He’s still crouched on his haunches in front of the boy, hands hovering near the freshly bandaged foot, watching the toes twitch faintly as the bone begins to knit itself back together beneath the skin. It’s a quiet miracle, one Dazai has seen countless times before, but right now it feels monstrous. Because it shouldn’t have needed to heal in the first place.

    And then Atsushi whispers, “Why… why are you doing this?”

    Dazai looks up. 

    Those sunset eyes—wide, wet, trembling—lock onto his. Tears cling to the silver lashes, gathering, threatening to spill. The boy looks bewildered, broken, like this is the first kind thing anyone’s done for him in years.

    Maybe it is. 

    Dazai reaches out, slowly, carefully, palms open so Atsushi won’t flinch, and takes the boy’s small hands in both of his. The contrast nearly undoes him. Atsushi’s hands are tiny, almost birdlike—fragile bones beneath soft skin, trembling faintly—but they’re strong too. Capable. Resilient.

    What a contradiction this child is.

    “I’m doing this,” Dazai says softly, “because I care about you, Atsushi. Because I don’t want to see you hurt.”

    Atsushi’s breath stutters. His fingers curl as if unsure whether he’s allowed to hold on. Then, barely audible, “Why? Why would you… want that? For me?”

    The question cuts through Dazai with such sharpness he actually inhales, a quick, shaky breath like he’s been struck. Because the answer is so simple. But it’s also so unbearably complicated.

    “You…” His voice wavers. He steadies it. “…You don’t remember this. And that’s not your fault. But you’re actually twenty-two years old, Atsushi. You were turned back into a child by an ability.”

    Atsushi’s eyes widen, tears spilling over at last. Dazai squeezes his hands a little tighter.

    “Before this happened,” he continues gently, “we were special to each other. We… loved each other. Trusted each other with our lives. You trusted me the same way I trusted you.”

    He swallows, throat tightening.

    “And I know you don’t remember any of that. I know I’m a stranger to you right now. That’s okay. I’m not asking you to force anything you’re not ready for.” He leans in just a little, softening his voice until it’s barely more than a whisper. “I just want you to be able to try to trust me. Even a little. Just until the ability wears off.”

    Atsushi stares at him—really looks at him—in a way he hasn’t since the ability struck. His bottom lip trembles. A tear escapes down his cheek, carving a bright path down flushed skin.

    “I’ve…” He chokes on the words, tries again. “I’ve never had anyone…love me. Or trust me. Not ever.”

    Dazai’s heart breaks wide open. There’s no other phrase for it—something inside him tears, painfully, irrevocably. He lets go of Atsushi’s hands only because he needs both arms free, because every instinct in him is screaming to pull this boy close and never let him fear anything again.

    He notices, painfully, the way Atsushi’s hands twitch forward—chasing the touch even without meaning to.

    Dazai opens his arms. 

    “Come here,” he whispers. “Let me show you what it feels like.”

    The invitation hangs between them, fragile as glass. Atsushi hesitates. He looks like a frightened animal debating whether the outstretched hand will pet him or strike him. His feet hover on the tile, bandaged one twitching faintly. His shoulders lift, drop, lift again.

    Then—slowly, painfully slowly—Atsushi slips off the toilet seat.

    His bare feet make tiny sounds on the tile as he inches closer, small arms hugging his own chest at first, then reaching—trembling—toward Dazai. And then the distance closes. Atsushi steps into his embrace, fitting against him like he was always meant to be held there. His little fingers curl into Dazai’s shirt. His forehead presses into Dazai’s shoulder.

    And then he crumbles. 

    A sob breaks free—raw, muffled—and Dazai gathers him tighter immediately. One hand cups the back of his head, the other circles around his tiny ribs, holding him firm and safe and whole.

    “There you go,” Dazai murmurs, rocking him gently. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

    Atsushi cries harder, small body wracked with tremors. He clings like he’s afraid Dazai will disappear if he lets go.

    Dazai settles onto the cold bathroom floor, ignoring the sting shooting up his spine, pulling the boy carefully into his lap. Atsushi fits there perfectly. Too perfectly. He buries his face into Dazai’s neck, sobbing and shivering and burning up with emotions too big for such a small body. Dazai holds him until the shaking eases. Until the tears slow. Until the tiny, hiccuping breaths even out into the soft rhythm of sleep.

    Only then does he risk looking down.

    Atsushi is asleep—exhausted, curled against him like something newly hatched and desperately fragile. And on his face, faintly visible even through the tear tracks, is something new.

    Trust. 

    The smallest flicker of it. 

    A warmth spreads through Dazai’s chest, soft and aching and impossibly gentle.

    Progress. 

    He’s finally getting somewhere. 

    The days that follow Atsushi’s breakdown are—surprisingly—gentler.

    Not easy. Never easy. Atsushi flinches at sudden sounds, startles when Dazai stands too fast, and goes rigid whenever the detective’s shadow passes over him. Those wounds run deeper than bones or muscle; they’re not something even the boy’s miraculous regeneration can fix.

    But the difference is certainly there. 

    Subtle, small, and precious within Dazai’s eyes. 

    Atsushi no longer barricades himself in Dazai’s room each morning, no longer curls himself into a ball in the far corner of his room like a creature hiding from the world. Instead, Dazai wakes to the soft shuffle of tiny feet, to the sound of a cupboard opening, to the faintest whisper of a child mustering the courage to exist outside a single safe corner. 

    It feels like witnessing spring inside a person.

    He watches Atsushi explore the apartment with slow, uncertain steps—touching the spines of books stacked haphazardly on shelves, peering into drawers, poking at the overflowing coat rack where Dazai keeps meaning to declutter but never does. Sometimes Atsushi stops mid-step, as though expecting to be yelled at. But when no reprimand comes, he quietly continues, every movement cautious but curious.

    And every time he asks a question, Dazai’s heart nearly gives out.

    “This… is a plant?” Atsushi asks one morning, pointing at something in a cracked pot that is, frankly, more brown than green.

    “It used to be,” Dazai answers solemnly.

    Atsushi's eyes widen. “Did it die because of me?”

    “No, no, sweetheart, that one died long before you got here. That was entirely my fault, I promise. I just keep forgetting to throw it out!”

    Atsushi considers this, then nods as though Dazai has revealed some profound truth about life and culpability. Dazai bites back a smile.

    But his favorite part of every day arrives in the late afternoon—quiet, soft, warm in a way that sneaks up on him.

    It happens after Atsushi finishes wandering and questioning and hovering around doorways. After he hesitates for long, long minutes, gathering courage like it’s something that might shatter in his hands.

    Eventually, he climbs onto the couch beside Dazai, a colorful book tucked beneath one arm.

    NO words or requests. 

    Just a small body sliding onto the cushion until his leg touches Dazai’s.

    Just that, nothing more. 

    But to Dazai, it feels like the world tilting into place.

    Atsushi sits with his knees drawn up slightly, book resting on them like a shield and a treasure all at once. His sunset eyes scan each page with absorbed intensity, the soft line of his mouth trembling every so often when a particularly new word stumps him.

    And Dazai—Dazai pretends to watch television.

    He sees everything through the corner of his vision: the way Atsushi’s lips silently form each word, the way his too-long sleeves brush against Dazai’s arm when he turns a page, the way his shoulders don’t creep up with fear quite as much as before. He’s still skittish. Wary. but he’s beside him. Leg pressed to leg. Shoulder inches away from Dazai’s ribs. Warmth shared between them in small, hesitant offerings. 

    Whenever Atsushi shifts closer without realizing it, Dazai has to fight to keep his smile hidden. He feels it trying to break free—gentle, helpless, full. Sometimes Atsushi glances up at him, checking for any sign of disapproval. And when he finds none—only a lazy, relaxed Dazai slouched into his couch—he tentatively returns his focus to the book.

    Little by little, Atsushi begins to understand: Dazai won’t hurt him. Won’t punish him. Won’t make him afraid just for existing near him.

    It is slow progress, fragile and delicate as a new leaf on a still-wintered branch.

    But Dazai treasures every moment.

    One evening, Atsushi’s hair brushes Dazai’s arm as he leans closer to sound out a complicated sentence. He doesn’t even realize he’s moved until Dazai’s breath catches. Atsushi freezes. Looks up. Eyes wide. But Dazai only smiles—slow, warm, careful. “You’re doing well,” he murmurs.

    The boy blinks.

    Then, almost shyly, he nods and nestles back into reading.

    Closer than before. 

    Close enough that Dazai could lift his hand and card it through soft hair—if that trust were earned yet.

    But he won’t rush. He won’t break this delicate thing growing between them.

    Atsushi may not trust him fully—not yet.

    That’s alright. 

    Trust isn’t something Dazai wants to demand. It’s something he wants to be worthy of. So he lets the boy sit next to him—with their legs touching, with Atsushi’s breath soft and steady, with a quiet peace settling around them like a blanket—and he thinks:

    This is enough. 

    By the sixth day, Dazai begins to notice it—the way Atsushi watches the sky.

    It starts small. A lingering glance here, a brief pause there. The boy will be mid-step across the wooden floorboards of the apartment and suddenly go still, eyes drifting toward the window as though drawn by some invisible string. His brows pinch. His small fingers fidget at the hem of a small sweater dazai had asked Kyouka to drop off. His shoulders rise, fall, rise again—tight, coiled with anticipation.

    Dazai doesn’t have to look to know what he’s reacting to. The atmosphere has been thick for hours, the air charged with the promise of a storm. Dark clouds roll low and heavy over the city skyline, darker than usual, carrying that particular shade of bruised purple-gray that always makes the room feel smaller.

    Atsushi stands before the window now, hands pressed lightly to the sill, chin lifted toward the shifting sky.

    Dazai watches him from the couch, coffee warm in his hands. Atsushi’s silhouette looks too small against the glass, swallowed up by the growing darkness outside. His bare toes curl against the floor. His breath fogs the window. And even from here, Dazai can see the fear building inside him, slow and inevitable as the storm itself.

    He’s not surprised. Not in the slightest.

    Even before all this—even before Atsushi had been rewound into a trembling, skittish child—storms had always undone him. Late at night, when thunder cracked the sky open like a beast roaring overhead, Atsushi would crawl into Dazai’s futon without a word. He’d cling to him with shaking hands and bury his face against Dazai’s chest until the worst of it passed. Dazai never asked where the fear came from and Atsushi never volunteered the memory behind it. Instead, Dazai teased him. Softly. Lovingly. Until Atsushi’s breathing eased and his trembling stopped. Until the storm outside no longer sounded like a threat but simply a noise.

    And now, watching the child before him—the same fear rising, the same tension gathering beneath his tiny shoulders—Dazai braces himself for what’s coming.

    A distant rumble rolls through the air.

    Atsushi jolts.

    Not a flinch. A full-body jolt, like someone tugged a wire attached to his spine.

    Dazai lifts his coffee to his lips more to hide his expression than to drink. Panic is creeping in behind the boy’s eyes—quiet at first, but growing, blooming like ink dropped in water. In a soft voice meant not to startle, Dazai says, “You know… your older self gets scared of thunderstorms too.”

    The words float gently across the room.

    Atsushi doesn’t jump at the sound of his voice—an improvement from days ago—but his head turns. Wide sunset eyes stare back at him, reflecting the storm clouds outside. Fear sits there. But also…interest.

    A tiny, shaky inhale.

    “H-How…” Atsushi begins, voice trembling as much as his fingers around the windowsill. “How does—does the older me get through storms? If… if he’s scared?”

    Dazai stills. 

    It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but his pulse kicks once, hard.

    This is the first time Atsushi has acknowledged it—the truth that he is not meant to be this small, that the body he wears now is temporary, that there is an older version of him out there waiting inside himself. It’s progress. Unexpected. Tremendous. But Atsushi is too frightened to realize the significance of what he just said.

    Hiding his surprise, Dazai folds one leg over the other and sets the mug down, tone casual. “Well,” he says, “for starters—he doesn’t go through storms by himself.”

    Atsushi’s face twists in confusion. Genuine confusion. Like Dazai has just told him water isn’t wet.

    “That doesn’t make sense,” he says in a small, skeptical voice, shaking his head. “I’m always by myself during storms. In… in my cell.”

    Dazai forces his smile to remain steady—even though inside, something in him cracks.

    He swallows the sharp ache rising in his throat. “My Atsushi,” he says gently, “likes to hold me close when the bad weather rolls in. Being close makes him feel better. Makes the storm seem smaller.”

    Atsushi blinks.

    And then something changes in his expression. Small. Fragile.

    Hope. 

    Hope, trembling and uncertain, flickering like a candle flame in a draft.

    He swallows. Hard. His voice comes out barely above a whisper. “If I… i-if I’m scared… do you think…” He hesitates, tears already gathering. “Do you think I could get close to you? T-To survive the storm?”

    Dazai doesn’t even think before answering.

    “Yes,” he breathes. Firm, certain, immediate. “Of course you can.”

    He sets his coffee fully aside and opens his arms slowly—carefully, no sudden movements—but clearly, invitingly. Atsushi stares at him for a long moment. Breath shaking. Lips trembling. His small body sways, caught between fear and the possibility of comfort. 

    Then, with steps quiet as snowfall, he approaches.

    He climbs onto the couch awkwardly, knees scuffing the cushion. His arms—so tiny, so thin—encircle Dazai’s torso with hesitant uncertainty, as though expecting to be pushed away at any second.

    He isn’t.

    Dazai wraps him up immediately, arms closing around the small shivering frame, drawing him in with the practiced certainty of someone who has done this a thousand times before. He pulls the boy fully into his lap, seating him sideways across his thighs in a protective hold that feels as natural as breathing. 

    Atsushi melts against him. It’s not immediate—not full trust, not complete surrender—but the tension in his shoulders softens. His fingers curl into Dazai’s shirt. His forehead presses against Dazai’s collarbone. He fits there perfectly, as though his tiny body was shaped exactly for this space.

    In Dazai’s lap, Atsushi still trembles—small, tremors that run from his shoulders down to his toes—but at least now he has something to cling to. Someone. Warm arms around him. A heartbeat against his cheek. A body that will not turn away or disappear when the world outside cracks open.

    He has someone he can rely on when the storm gets too scary.

    And that’s exactly what happens. 

    The storm does not wait politely at the horizon. It breaks. It roars. It sweeps into Yokohama with a violence that rattles the windows in their frames, a low growl building into a deafening boom that shakes dust from the ceiling.

    The flare of white light floods the apartment.

    Atsushi flinches so violently that his whole body jerks in Dazai’s hold, fingers tightening into the fabric of Dazai’s shirt until they tremble from the force of his grip. Another crack follows—louder, closer—and Atsushi scrambles up Dazai’s chest, tucking himself fully against him, as though the higher he climbs, the further away the storm becomes.

    Dazai shifts with him easily, leaning back into the couch cushions until he’s reclined enough for Atsushi to curl completely on top of him. The boy barely weighs anything like this, tiny limbs folding in, head pressing into the juncture between Dazai’s neck and shoulder. His ear rests right against the side of Dazai’s throat, listening to his pulse as though it’s the only safe sound left in the world.

    Dazai cups the back of his head gently, rubbed small circles over Atsushi’s spine with the other hand.

    “It’s alright,” he whispers, warm breath brushing the crown of silver hair. “I’ve got you.”

    Another bolt lights up the window.

    Atsushi breaks. 

    His breath stutters, then hiccups, then spills out in thin, frightened whimpers. Tears dampen Dazai’s shirt within seconds. Small hands fumble at his collarbone, clutching desperately, as if bracing for pain. Through the broken sobs, a cry slips free—

    “P-Please—please don’t let Shibusawa get me—please—please—!”

    Dazai’s mind screeches to a halt. 

    His hands freeze mid-motion. His pulse leaps sharply against Atsushi’s ear. Every instinct in him rises, coils, snarls like a beast ready to tear something apart.

    Shibusawa.

    That long-haired serpent of a man. The one Dazai had embedded himself with years ago. The one Atsushi had slain with his own hands.Atsushi had never spoken of him afterward. Not once. Not to Dazai. Not to anyone. He never mentioned any past connection with the man that made ability users fight against their own powers. And yet here he is—this small version of him—sobbing into Dazai’s shirt, begging to be protected from someone who should no longer exist.

    “S-Shibusawa will—” Atsushi hiccups sharply, “he’ll tie me to the chair again—he’ll—he’ll put the wires on me—he’ll make me—make me—”

    Another crash of thunder swallows the rest of his words, but Dazai doesn’t need to hear them. His chest tightens painfully, breath lodged somewhere between fury and grief.

    So this is where Atsushi’s fear of thunder and lightning comes from. 

    Shibusawa Tatsuhiko. 

    Dazai regains his breath and tightens his arms immediately, pulling Atsushi in so securely that not even air could slip between them.

    “No,” Dazai says—gentle but iron-hard beneath it. “No one is tying you to anything ever again.”

    Atsushi cries harder, hands fisting desperately into his shirt.

    “He’ll come back—h-he always comes back—he wants my ability—if he finds me—”

    “He won’t.” Dazai’s voice breaks for a moment—just enough for his throat to ache. “Atsushi, look at me.”

    The boy can’t—not fully—but he lifts his head an inch, trembling. Wet streaks shine on his cheeks. His lips quiver.

    Dazai ducks down.

    He presses a firm, lingering kiss to the top of Atsushi’s silver hair.

    The moment Dazai’s lips touch him, Atsushi’s breath hitches—and then something inside the boy loosens. His trembling doesn’t stop entirely, but it slows. His tense small body melts by degrees into Dazai’s embrace, like a frightened animal realizing the hand around it isn’t meant to harm. Dazai rests his cheek against the boy’s hair, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for Atsushi to hear—meant to be breathed rather than spoken.

    “I will always protect you,” he murmurs. “From storms. From nightmares. From Shibusawa. You hear me? Always.”

    Atsushi shivers, fingers scrunching in the fabric of Dazai’s shirt, desperate and trusting all at once.

    “T-Thank you…” he sobs, voice tiny and broken. “Thank you—thank you—thank you—”

    The words repeat, over and over, as if he doesn’t know how else to express the messy, terrified relief pouring out of him.

    Dazai holds him through all of it.

    Through the sobs. Through the trembling. Through the quiet, choked breaths that follow each flash of lightning. He rocks Atsushi slowly, one hand stroking the boy’s hair, the other rubbing soft circles across his back. Whispering reassurances whenever thunder rattles the apartment.

    “You’re safe.”

    “I’ve got you.” 

    “He’ll never touch you again.” 

    Slowly, slowly, the boy’s crying softens to sniffles. His sniffles soften into shaky breaths. And those breaths eventually lengthen into the slow, exhausted rhythm of sleep.

    The storm still rages outside.

    But inside Dazai’s arms, Atsushi is quiet. Warm. Curled tightly against him like he belongs nowhere else.

    Dazai stays awake long after Atsushi’s breathing evens out. His arms remain locked around the tiny, sleeping body. His chin rests in Atsushi’s hair. The storm continues to crash, but Dazai doesn’t move—not even when thunder cracks loud enough to rattle the walls.

    Because Atsushi doesn’t flinch anymore.

    He sleeps. 

    Safe, held, and—most importantly—protected. 

    And finally—finally—when Dazai’s own exhaustion catches up to him, he lets his body relax beneath the warm weight of the child curled on his chest.

    Together—child and detective—they drift off in each other’s embrace, untouched by the storm outside. 

    Morning comes slowly. 

    It creeps in through the thin cracks of the curtains, a pale gray light softened by the remnants of the storm clouds still hanging over Yokohama. The room smells faintly of rain—cool, damp, and metallic—and the low rumble of distant thunder is little more than a memory now.

    But what wakes Dazai is not the light, nor the lingering echo of the storm.

    It’s the weight on his chest. 

    He frowns, still half-drifting between sleep and waking. The heaviness is warm, solid, familiar—and yet not. Not the slight, trembling weight that had curled up against him the night before. Not the tiny body that shook with sobs and clung to him as though he were the last safe harbor in the world. This weight is heavier. Broader. Almost suffocating in its sheer solidity. Dazai groans softly, blinking blearily as he forces his eyes open.

    And promptly stops breathing altogether. 

    Atsushi is no longer a child. 

    He lies sprawled across Dazai’s chest—long limbs, grown body, hair tousled and messy from sleep. His clothes from yesterday are in tatters, clinging in scraps around his waist and shoulders, torn beyond recognition from whatever mysterious process had unraveled the ability’s effect overnight. His face is peaceful, slack with deep sleep. His breathing is heavy and warm where it ghosts over Dazai’s collarbone.

    For a moment, Dazai cannot move. Cannot think. Relief crashes over him so violently it’s almost painful.

    He’s back. 

    He’s really back.

    Dazai exhales, shakily, the sound almost a laugh.

    Careful not to jostle him, he lifts a hand and brushes trembling fingers through silver hair—no longer fine and child-soft, but thick and familiar, falling in those same choppy strands he’s memorized a thousand times. Atsushi hums in response, a low rumble from deep in his chest, half-catlike, half-drowsy contentment.

    The sound is so achingly normal that it nearly brings Dazai to tears.

    “Good,” he whispers, voice almost cracking. “There you are.”

    Those long, pale lashes flutter. Once. Twice. Then Atsushi blinks awake, the warm gold of his eyes no longer wide with innocence and fear, but grounded, steady, adult. His. The eyes that had looked at him countless times with devotion, frustration, fondness—and love.

    Atsushi yawns, stretching like a sleepy cat before rubbing his cheek against Dazai’s jaw, the way he sometimes does when he’s half-conscious. “Good morning, Osamu,” he mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep.

    Dazai grins like an idiot.

    “Hm… good morning, baby. I missed you so much.”

    Atsushi blinks at him, confusion knitting his brows. “Missed me? What are you talking about?”

    Dazai pauses.

    So he doesn’t remember his time spent under Dazai’s protection as a child. 

    Atsushi looks up at him like he’s speaking nonsense, lips parted in puzzled innocence—but not childlike innocence. Just his usual, slightly bewildered, terribly endearing Atsushi-like confusion.

    Dazai exhales softly. “Ah…I’ll explain later.”

    Atsushi squints at him suspiciously.

    There’s a beat of quiet before boyfriend speaks up again.

    “…Osamu?”

    “Yes, darling?”

    “Why am i naked?” 

    Dazai stares up at the ceiling for a moment, weighing the many possible responses that may or may not earn him a kick to the ribs.

    “…Again,” he finally says with a sigh, “I will explain later.”

    Atsushi’s eyes widen, the confusion blooming into mild indignation. “Osamu—”

    Atsushi barely has time to inhale before Dazai kisses him.

    It’s soft at first, a slow press of lips meant to reassure, to ground, to confirm that this is real—that Atsushi is here, alive, grown, safe in his arms. But Atsushi melts easily into it, sighing against Dazai’s mouth, hands gripping the fabric of Dazai’s shirt as though trying to pull him closer.

    When they part, Atsushi’s forehead rests against his, breath warm and close.

    He closes his eyes and holds his lover close, feeling the steady weight of him—the warmth, the heartbeat, the life—and thinks, with a tenderness so fierce it almost hurts:

    He really is one hell of a lucky man.