Kunikida

Peering through yet another dingy window, I finally spot him. Dazai. His hair a mass of dark tufts that can somehow pass as an acceptable style regardless of societal standing, but simultaneously not promoted as desirable fashion by any group structure. I suspect it is as untamable as the person wearing it and yet, it never serves as a red flag to signal Dazai as feral in any situation. Perhaps his ability extends even so far as to neutralize his eccentric appearance or at the very least, people's perception of it.

I shake myself. He always does this to me, distracts me from my purpose with pointless mental gymnastics until my brain goes fuzzy and I find myself the butt of his jokes. I grit my teeth and push the tavern door open.

He sways on his barstool. I can see him smile in a drunken haze reflecting off the row of bottles lining the wall behind the bar. He props himself up with his left elbow on the bar top, his right hand gently stroking the cover of his favorite book. He doesn't react as I approach, but I see through that ruse. I've never been able to sneak up behind Dazai. Even drunk off his ass to the point his eyeballs are swimming in liquor, his observation skills do not falter. I tap him on the shoulder, reading his delayed reaction as he pretends surprise and falls backward, half off the barstool. My body behind him prevents him from falling completely off. I grip his biceps to keep him stable and answer his stupid amused smile up at me with a disapproving frown.

"You are too good to me, Kunikida," he sighs, nuzzling his eccentric mop of hair against my chest. "You must cut that out at once. If you grow too fond of me, it will hurt you when my suicide is finally successful."

I roll my eyes.

"Don't make assumptions, Dazai. More likely, you'll die at my hands accidentally after driving me insane with your nonsense."

His eyes widen momentarily as if an idea struck him or a sudden pain, and then they fall closed, his body slumping against my chest, his breath catching and I find myself supporting the majority of his body weight. I exhale sharply through my nose and start counting silently to myself. I am not in the mood for Dazai's dramatics right now.

When I reach fifty, my heart speeds up a bit, the back of my neck prickling as a cold shiver runs down my spine. "Dazai," I growl at him, tamping down any sounds of concern with my anger. His face remains still as if in sleep; smooth as though he hasn't a care in the world. I've lost count, but it's been too long between breaths. He couldn't have just died in my arms, could he? I'm a hair's breadth from freaking out. Not even Dazai can hold his breath and pull off an expression of perfect stillness for so long. My heart stutters, cold sweat sliding down from my temples … and then his eyelashes flutter open. He gazes up at me with the angelic innocence you'd expect to find in an Italian Renaissance painting before the smirk forming on his lips shatters the illusion.

"Do it," he whispers as a fire of fury breaks out under my skin, radiating from my heart, my muscles going tense. I'm halfway to dropping him before I see through his plan and instead tighten my grip on his sides. I push forward, pressing his back with my chest until he's fully seated on the barstool once again. He drops face forward onto the bar, his arms dangling uselessly at his sides, looking about as alert as a cooked noodle.

My heart thunders against my ribs as I realize how close Dazai had come to using me as weapon to kill himself. The floor in here is concrete. Had he fallen from the position I had him in, he'd have landed on his head and cracked his skull open or broken his skinny, bandage-wrapped neck.

I barely hold my composure as I remind him of my boundaries. "You should know me well enough by now, Dazai … I will not voluntarily participate in people dying before my eyes. I will not break my Ideal, especially for you."

Dazai arches an eyebrow which looks entirely strange with his cheek smooshed against the bar top. "Especially for me? You especially will not see me die?" He narrows his eyes as if leering at me, lifting his head. "If I did not already know that you despise me, Kunikida, I'd suspect you just gave me a love confession."

My cheeks grow warm against my will. That isn't what I said at all, is it? I rack my brain. How did he arrive at such a ridiculous conclusion? I grind my teeth. Talking to Dazai is pointless. He catches me off-guard even when I've actively got my guards up.

By the time I can organize my thoughts once more to speak, he's flailing an arm down the bar, waving his hand limply for the bartender's attention.

I slam my hand down on top of his wrist, pinning it to his stupid suicide manual. "You've had enough for tonight, Dazai. Today's schedule has already been derailed thanks to your antics …" I chew him out, helping him down from the barstool and draping his arm across my shoulders to keep him upright. "… Disappearing from an active case without mentioning it to me … refusing to answer your phone … instigating the director into replacing us with Rampo and Tanizaki so I can track your ass down …" I have to pause every couple of seconds to keep Dazai from pulling us both to floor in a drunken heap. "… Only to end up finding you in this dive bar …" Dazai stamps on my foot, twisting his body in front of mine in an attempt to turn us back toward the bar. "I said you've had enou…"

"I know, you idealistic asshole!" he swears, suddenly sounding entirely sober and more than a little dangerous. If I had to compare the tone of his voice with an idea it would be talking to the barrel of a loaded gun. "You forgot my book!"

The last statement was delivered with a softer tone, the usual odd humor that is all Dazai, soothing the previous induction of fear. I glance at the ceiling, praying for patience and would have smacked myself in the forehead out of sheer aggravation were my hands and arms not tied up with Dazai and his twisted limbs, his bandages coming undone and making this pretzel dance that much more complicated. Fortunately, the bartender takes notice and calmly walks the book over to Dazai, handing it over and giving his hair an affectionate pat. My lip curls in disgust as he retreats. Stupid Dazai. I was so close to getting rid of that dratted book.

With difficulty and a great deal of swearing, I get Dazai piled into the backseat of the cab I'd left waiting only to find my arm trapped behind his back when I try to sit upright. The car lurches forward and merges with the rush hour traffic, the driver stepping on and off the brake every few car-lengths. Dazai crushes his arm on top of me, pulling me practically into his lap, my head cradled against his chest. "Don't fight me right now." His voice rumbles beneath my cheek, somehow soothing my temper instead of igniting it.

He hums.

I stop resisting and resign myself to the fate of being a cuddle-plushy to my alcohol-sodden, suicidal-maniac of a partner for the duration of the drive.

The gentle vibration from Dazai's humming, the warmth of the vehicle, maybe even the subtle hint of almond salve Dazai uses under his bandages lull me into a state of drowsiness I did not anticipate. I'm not sure how much time I lost, but the driver's loud bark of a voice wakes me with a start.

I blink, sliding my arm free at last from behind Dazai's snoring body, pins and needles running up the length of it and threatening to creep up my neck. I pay the driver with a wad of bills after regaining enough brainpower to work out that we've arrived at my place. Curses! I had intended to drop Dazai back off at his house, but I doubt I have enough cash left for the trip there and then back here again. No way will I trust that he will make it back inside without supervision.

I steel my resolve and then shake him into half-consciousness. Yanking, pulling, and lurching, we stagger up the walk to my apartment complex. Whatever. As long as I don't have to carry him like a bride over the threshold.

Dazai giggles as I unlock the door, hanging off of me like a bad habit or a cancerous growth. "You have never invited me to your home before, Kunikida. I feel like a blushing bride."

That's it. I shrug as the door swings open and duck out from under him, allowing him to crash face first onto the carpeted entryway.

Hey, it's not concrete; don't judge me.

XXX

After an hour of wrestling Dazai out of his clothes, getting his bandages changed, and tucking him in, I am finally able to wrap up my responsibilities for the day. Sitting at the dining table, I jot down the important details of today's ordeal, ending with having contacted the office and reassuring the director that Dazai and I are safe and accounted for. I rub the sleep from my eyes with pinched fingers. That man infuriates me. He's worse than a child. Worse, probably, than the most co-dependent, spoiled brat that ever existed. My glasses slide back onto the bridge of my nose as I stare at the ceiling tiles. 6561 dots in each of them; 118,098 in this room; 503,010 in the entire apartment, taking into consideration that five in the bedroom are sliced into thirds.

I scrub at my hair and pull the hair-tie out of it. Damn that Dazai! Even when he's not in the room, he derails my thought process and sends it off on tangents. I think it's a defense mechanism or something. My brain perks up at that thought and I flip through my Ideal to see if I've made that observation before. I haven't. I write it down.

Defense mechanism … Dazai-induced … I tap my pen against my lip, considering … and then coming up blank. I write my next thought. Defense against what? Discover ASAP!

I yawn, stretching my arms above my head and then start working out the kinks in my back. I'm tired. I should go to bed. I get up to do just that when I recall Dazai is sleeping there already. It feels like every hair on my body suddenly stands on end as I pause mid-step.

Screw it all. I don't care if he is a guest; it's my bed. I have a right to sleep in it. I push the bedroom door open and peer inside, holding my breath. Everything seems to be okay. That makes me even more suspicious.

I walk as softly as possible the few feet to the futon, peering down at the partner-forged-in-the-pit-of-hell. My lips twitch at the corners as my next thought arises. They sure make them cute in hell. I'm convinced that Dazai is cute as his defense mechanism. If he were anything other, nobody would adopt him. He'd be a stray forever.

I frown. I hate that thought and more, I hate myself for thinking it.

His suicide manual had been tucked up against his chest when I got him settled earlier. Now it's fallen to the futon beside his hip. I pick it up. This damned book. And he insisted on cuddling with it like he'd cuddled with me in the cab earlier. My lip curls again. I do not appreciate the comparison my brain just made.

Dazai continues sleeping. He's not snoring now. His chest rises and falls regularly, his face a mask of peace. I recall the observation I'd made earlier in my Ideal and am no longer tired. If I want to know why I get so defensive because of Dazai, there may be some clues in this disgusting book that has him so enamored. I retreat as quietly as possible, taking the book with me to the table.

It feels different than I thought it would, this book. Lumpier, like the binding has been redone poorly. I've seen it open many times before, but this is the first time I've held it myself. Unlike Dazai, I respect my co-workers privacy.

I catch the smug smile before it fully forms on my lips. I swallow hard. I can't claim that any longer if I continue on this investigative path.

My fingers twitch against the book cover, the impulse to open the damned thing warring with the desire to put it down and be the bigger man.

Crap!

Upholding the Ideal means that I must do what I've written down. And that is to – I double check – Defense against what? Discover ASAP. Yes, I tell myself. Besides, I don't believe I have ever written explicitly that I should not invade the privacy of my co-workers. It's more along the lines of ... I flip to the front … Ah yes. Do the things that you should do.

I breathe a sigh of relief, my spirit finally at ease. I should do this, therefore I will.

I open the suicide manual and … and … hang on… This isn't Dazai's suicide manual at all. I flip through what appears to be about a fifty or so handwritten pages, none of which resemble the gruesome illustrated monstrosity I'd glimpsed in the past. I realize, after closer inspection, that Dazai has mutilated his beloved manual and transplanted the cover atop something else. My skin crawls. The concept feels a little too Dr. Frankenstein for my tastes, but can I really say I'd put my all into the investigation if I shied away now? Absolutely not.

Resolutely, I straighten my posture and turn to the title page. I realize I'm in too deep when I read the inscription:

The Perfect Death of Dazai Osamu

by Oda Sakunosuke