A/N: A few random drabbles I wrote about pouring drinks in Bungo Stray Dogs. I do not own Bungo Stray Dogs! Also, the last drabble touches on onsen cd drama, so mild spoilers for that I guess you could say. Thank you for reading!


There's something indescribably kind in the act of pouring a drink for another.

Dazai sits in the quiet sunlight of Yokohama filtering through the cafe window, Kunikida's voice droning, muffled, in the background. They've just completed a mission and Kunikida is trying to discuss the future implications of its results, but Dazai's attention has been captured by something entirely unrelated.

His deep forest bark eyes are watching the pale slender hands of the waitress, the slight white of biting teeth visible against her pink lips, and the light brown gaze above, focused on the coffee spilling smoothly from the delicate lip of the coffee pot into the shadowed depths of the ceramic cup on the table. The pillar of coffee radiates warmth, a column of steam dancing in the air; behind, the manager sets about putting on another pot, his weathered hands working expertly, his eyes closed in a peaceful smile as his fingers dance by memory…

Dazai shutters his eyes closed and thinks of a mirror image, smoke from cigarettes drifting drowsily in the rafters of a hazy room, orange light from dancing candle flames.

Ango and Odasaku sit on opposite sides of him, and an orange-brown cat lounges on a barstool at the edge of the counter. Something warm and heavy like peace settles in his stomach as his mind waltzes from missions to methods of suicide to topics of conversation and meaningless but happy nothings with his friends – that's what they were to him, yes, there was no better word for it, not any that Dazai cared to think of anyways.

Then his gaze snags on the bartender, the blue veins and liver spots on the backs of the old man's hands, still steady as he prepares drinks: the amber liquid spills from the bottle lip, warm and welcoming like the deep chocolate of coffee.

The bartender knows they are Mafia.

And yet, there is still a kindness in his expression – and, more importantly, in the way he pours their drinks.

Back in the present, Dazai sighs and leans back in the booth contentedly.

There is something inherently kind in the action, he concludes.

-line break-

Chuuya thinks the same but notes a caveat as he pours himself a glass of 1989 Petrus: someone else has to be pouring.

Dazai had left the Port Mafia.

Dazai had left him.

A block of something icy, something uncomfortable, settles in his gut.

It makes him angry, but he knows lashing out to vent will do him no good.

He just sighs instead, slumping down in his chair.

"Some celebration," he mutters aloud. "Bastard's finally out of my hair, I should be happy."

Brown flashes through his mind, Dazai's oaky hair, sharp eyes like forest's depths, wreathed in white bandages and black cloth of midnight mafia malevolence.

But that's gone up in smoke – literally.

He can still see the flames dancing in front of him, the rancid smell of burning leather – Dazai's cold smirk and sardonic bow before sweeping out of Mori's top-level floor of red carpeting, velvet curtains, and bay windows.

The silhouette of Dazai's lone back retreating down the corridor and Mori's chuckled "let him go" –

Yes, how lonely – like pouring a glass of expensive wine for yourself.

-line break-

Atsushi agrees wholeheartedly as he stands at the silent counter in the sleeping kitchen of the onsen.

Translucent tea fringed with emeralds pours from the chalky spout of the teapot into the waiting bowls of pure white rice, salmon glittering in the liquid, hearkening back to the silver scales once glinting in the sunlight of free swimming fish, but Atsushi isn't thinking of food at the moment, no, his gaze is caught on Dazai's slender hands and the slight smirk that quirks Dazai's lips, the man's downcast gaze focused as he stands, tenderly pouring tea for Atsushi.

Bandages are visible, rising onto Dazai's palms from under his sleeves, where the white ribbon winds into unknown depths.

Atsushi remembers the droplets of water in the setting sunset next to the river, the clear orbs clinging to Dazai's skin, hair, and eyelashes:

"Dazai. Dazai Osamu."

He remembers the relief settling in after the adrenaline-filled fear – a sense of belonging pooling in his stomach at passing the strangest workplace test in history.

"Welcome to the Armed Detective Agency."

He remembers missions and accomplishments and feelings of self-worth he never thought he'd know.

"Victory is yours, Atsushi-kun. Your spirit prevails and this city is saved."

It was all thanks to Dazai that he had come to know this wonderful sense of home, of family, of happiness.

Yes, truly, there was something incredibly and inherently kind in the way Dazai was currently pouring chazuke for him, and maybe, just maybe, words would be enough to express how grateful Atsushi was for everything Dazai had done for him, everything Dazai had given him.

He thinks so, at least, when later that night, back in their room, he feels a gentle hand pull his blanket back up to his shoulders and a familiar soft voice whisper:

"Sleep well, Atsushi-kun."