It was a lovely Tuesday afternoon and the gentle sun was shining brightly. The wind was a silent breeze; barely moving, only enough to let you know it was there. People chatted amongst themselves as they basked in the rarity of a disaster-free afternoon, taking advantage of the quiet. Ice cream vendors were being set up and children barrelled down the street, laughing loudly to each other. Yes, it was a fine, lovely day in the city, perfect for happy strolls with loved ones and picnics with family.

And Dazai just could not believe that he was stuck inside doing paperwork.

Blowing shaggy hair out of his face, he sighed and slumped down further into his chair, if that was even possible at this point. For the past hour, it had seemed as though Dazai had been trying to become one with his chair. He shuffled through his papers looking for one that seemed interesting, and sighed again when he found none. He frowned dejectedly. He had really really wanted to try out his new idea for a suicide attempt. Damn, he thought to himself. I could've been dead by now. Then again, maybe not.

Directing his attention elsewhere (Dazai absolutely refused to let the paperwork think it mattered to him), he stared at everyone else's work. Nearly everyone was finished, except for the Doppo poet, who was stacking his papers neatly. He turned back to his paperwork and continued scribbling 'Osamu Dazai' and 'Case Solved' or 'Culprit Found/In Custody' on the files. Scratching his cheek, he straightened up the sheets and shoved them in his desk, stirring up some dust. His eyes watered a bit and his nose itched, but that was about where the inconveniences ended. And that was where it all went downhill.

Backing up from his desk, he popped his back and stretched his arms, and glared at the papers, attempting to turn them to ash. Maybe if he wanted them to go away enough, they would. Naturally, the bastards didn't miraculously disappear. Pity. Suddenly Dazai sneezed, scaring himself and causing a few others to jump, and fell back into his chair. The tip of his coat caught the open drawer of his desk making him tumble backwards, and making the papers go on a journey through the air and all over the room. Dazai hit his head on a plant behind him, sending that toppling to the floor with him and landing on his face with a thunk. Ranpo sneezed out his ice cream and choked on his laughter (and his frozen treat). Papers flew everywhere, landing on the ground, in plants, on desks, and on some few laps. Atsushi dropped some of his own papers, adding to the mess. The room went quiet as everyone stared at the dazed detective on the floor.

Pushing the plant off his face, Dazai sat up and pulled on his chair to get up. Unfortunately, his coat was still stuck on the drawer, causing Dazai and the chair to go crashing to the floor once more.

And by God's love and affection, he sneezed again.

Kunikida frowned at the man and pushed up his glasses. Surely this whole experience could have been prevented if Dazai were more organized. And now his schedule was off by 28 seconds exactly. Now the idiot would have to reorganize all of his papers again and hopefully not destroy whatever few brain cells were strong and lucky enough to survive.

"Dazai, should you not pull yourself up and gather all of your paperwork? I do not think repeatedly throwing yourself at the floor is going to get your work done or kill you."

The man in question frowned at the poet. "Ah, bug off."

Poet frowned. "I shall not. Now if you wouldn't mind, clean up your papers."

Suicide-enthusiast grinned and mocked the blond. "Ye shall or thy might find thyself in a fiery blast of me very own poem!"

"For your information, I do not speak like that."

"Thou shalt-"

"Don't."

"Find thyself-"

"Osamu."

"Burning in a fiery, nightmarish hell!"

"Dazai!"

"Why, I'm ever so sorry, Kunikida-kun." The brunette giggled and grinned, not sounding or looking very sorry at all.

Kunikida grit his teeth tried to take deep, calming breaths. Don't let him get to you, he scolded himself. He's a moron.

Dazai wrinkled his nose and scrunched up his face in fake disgust. "Ee, careful there Kunikida-kun, I can smell yer brain fryin'."

"Why you-" Breathe, Kunikida. He's a moron. Breathe. Remember the facts: the sky is blue, your name is Kunikida, Dazai's a moron, you work at the Armed Detective Agency. Breathe. "-should really get to cleaning up your mess, hmm?"

Dazai huffed and puffed out his cheeks, crossed his arms, and turned away from the blond poet, favoring the corner at the moment. Inwardly smiling and outwardly frowning, Kunikida smugly turned back to his work atop his desk.

Dazai freed his coat from the drawer and shuffled over to his papers, grudgingly picking them up by their corners, as though they were covered in some icky slime he didn't want to touch. Finally when they were all collected, he set them on his desk, sat the plant upright, and lifted his chair back off the ground. He plopped back down and sniffed, feeling very irritated at his work, although it was now finished.

He longingly looked out the window beside him and smiled melancholically. Oda would've enjoyed a day outside like this. He probably would've enjoyed the little happening that occurred only minutes before. He turned back around at the feeling of a finger tapping his shoulder.

"Hm?"

Atsushi handed Dazai another stack of papers. "Th-these are for the trafficking case a few days back, Dazai-san."

Dazai took the papers from Atsushi and watched the tiger go to his own desk. His eyes drifted back down to the papers. And it was at that moment that Dazai's clams were really boiled. Throwing them onto his desk, he dragged his hands down his face and loudly groaned. Why was there so much damn paperwork!?