Chapter Text
The video begins to play. It’s almost grainy, with Dazai’s poor computer quality, and crackles when the sound begins.
“Hello, loyal fans, it is I, Gentle Criminal!”
Danjuro’s voice is a sort of honey baritone that travels through the computer. Sometimes people just seem to be born to do one specific thing. Performing, acting - whatever Danjuro is doing - he does it as easy as breathing, and while Dazai is not jealous, the feeling of admiration might come close to it.
“I want to go home…” Dazai - Arlecchino - whines off-screen, which then quickly pans to him leaning on some streetlight. His stylised costume is somehow impeccable and it’s all thanks to Danjuro’s meticulous ironing.
“Now, now, my dear Arlecchino, our fans will be dissatisfied with all that whining.” he pauses. “As they sometimes say - turn that frown upside down!”
Dazai is sure he offered Danjuro an unimpressed pout just after that moment. It’s not captured on screen though, as the other man becomes the center of focus.
“You’re intruding on Gentle’s aura,” Manami sniffs.
“The gloom and doom is wafting over…” Danjuro agrees helplessly, putting both hands up placatingly. Dazai huffs.
They begin to traverse in the sky, bouncing from air trampoline to air trampoline produced by Danjuro’s quirk. He hears himself cry out at a particularly high jump, and the next minute he’s holding the camera while Manami and Danjuro twirl around midair in some sort of flamboyant dance. Manami’s eyes are so starry that he finds himself in disbelief that she’s not crying.
The screen flickers again and then goes dark. The only light is now the moon’s watchful gaze through the small window and onto Dazai’s painfully still form. It’s so quiet. He grips his hands together tightly, letting a grimace fall onto his face for a moment.
The video comes on again.
“Hey, hey!” Danjuro reaches out at the camera, a more reserved smile gracing his features as he steadies Dazai’s arm. “Careful, Arlecchino. Sorry dear viewers, our newer member is not as adept with the camera as La Brava.”
“Gentle!” Manami exclaims bashfully. She takes the camera easily.
“Ah, and here we are,” Danjuro clears his throat. “Japan’s largest waterpark. Watch us bypass its famed security!”
The rest of the video is just a documentary of their loosely put, heist, as they use Danjuro’s quirk to bypass the frankly concerning security measures. He watches himself laugh through the screen with a blunt sort of detachment. It’s so bright over there. Dazai reaches out to the screen, the glowing pixels, and he lets his fingers linger for just a second.
Morning comes crawling in like a slug. Dazai doesn’t sleep a wink. He piles the bottles of sake and discounted cans of beer into a garbage bag and drags it through the weeds by his door and around the house. The rest of the garbage is sitting in a neat pile all tied up with little bows - courtesy of Danjuro - and he slugs his messily knotted bag right next to them. It clinks on the way down. He rubs his fingers over the split skin on his knuckle and basks in the ache that comes with it.
Manami and Danjuro are clearing up their breakfast dishes when he makes his way inside. The latter offers him a leftover croissant, which he denies and hurries through to the bathroom where he showers and gets ready for work. A few bruises are beginning to bloom from that nasty boy on the rooftop. He pokes at them apathetically. Nothing around his neck, thankfully.
Dazai leaves with a cheery goodbye and almost slams the door. Work is so dull that not even the old lady who owns the store can pique his interest. This says a lot, considering she’s always trying to pick on him about something. She sends him off with a cookie that he throws into the first garden he walks by.
Dinner feels off; it’s something he can’t place, where in between cracked jokes there is a canyon waiting to be fallen into. Dazai has always been good at waiting. Of being patient. He smiles and drops off the milk and eggs that Manami had asked him to buy after his shift and retreats back into his room until the sun sets.
It is only when it has been dark for at least a few hours that he pours paint supplies into his pockets and tucks a canvas under his arm. Lingering by the door, he doubles back and slips his Port Mafia pistol into the band of his pants, covered by one of his paint-stained dress shirts.
Just in case. He knows he shouldn’t need it, but just in case.
Dazai wades through the thick tufts of grass on the way to the old military base. Despite the fact it’s the middle of the night, the full moon provides enough light to set up a canvas. Shadows flicker uneasily over the pure white fabric. The building is still, almost the exact same as it was the last time he was here. He presses damaged bristles into the canvas, twisting carelessly and taking satisfaction in the way they bend and break under his touch.
The painting is in monochrome save for the bloody red warbler a few feet away from where he stands. Its beak is open and feathers are pulled out to form a sort of circle around the corpse. Beautiful tan turned mottled brown.
A thin knife with an embellished silver hilt sits through the small bird’s heart. Dazai discards the painting, walking toward the corpse. He bends down, arms hugging knees, hair tickling his neck. He reaches a hand out to the hilt. It’s like frost on his fingertips. Slowly, his fingers crawl down to the blade and onto the animal.
Only a small inkling of warmth lingers. He tugs the knife out from the blade and watches blood glug out of the corpse.
An icy pair of arms wrap loosely around his collarbones. They hang almost limply, covering him like a veil of death, a promise of hurt.
“It is rude to disappear without a trace,” the voice whispers into his ear. Dazai leans his head back onto their body, even colder than the bird’s corpse.
“It is even ruder to show up unannounced, dear Fedya,” Dazai replies with a small indulgent smile, and turns himself to face the boy.
“I’m sorry,” he says, brushing a hand through Dazai’s curls. His actions have a possessive quality to them - like he could grab a handful of hair and rip it out at any moment. “It has been lonely without you.”
“You were never an honest man,” Dazai hums and watches the bright moon. The fingers threading through his hair is almost soothing, if not for the person attached to them.
“And you’ve always known me so well, Dazai. Tell me why I’m here.”
Dazai stands, clothes flapping in the breeze as he shrugs off Fyodor’s grip. The boy’s face has a blank quality to it. It’s an expression that Dazai sees in himself often in the mirror - something not quite human-like. It seems that he’s the only one who recognises it these days.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m making a mistake. If you think I should help you do what you’re about to do.” Dazai holds the knife out, hilt facing the other. “Goodbye, Fyodor.”
What he really wants to say is, I don’t want to be the demon that everyone says I am. I don’t want to be like you. This version of Dazai is not the same one that let Fyodor into his ratty apartment a few months ago.
“Very well. Then we will meet again not as friends, but as enemies.” Fyodor’s arms hang limply by his side. His ushanka is noticeably gone. Dazai wonders if it’s still in his old apartment, alongside the cello and beautiful china.
“We were never friends. We just wanted to see ourselves in something else,” Dazai counters hollowly. He’s seen what friends are like. Whatever they had barely come close; it followed some other direction between understanding and misunderstanding and a feeling of belonging.
Fyodor’s expression twitches. Dazai offers him an ugly grimace.
“Keep the knife, Dazai.”
Fyodor disappears as quietly as he arrives. Dazai buries the warbler’s now cold body in a small patch of flowers. His hands are dark red by the end of it. They leave bright fingerprints on the monochrome painting, but he finds himself uncaring. The painting looks better in the military base than it ever could in his awful little shed. It blends in with the grey concrete and broken furniture.
He goes back to his shed and passes out. Somehow, it feels safe.
“You can hit me.” Dazai offers the next day at the breakfast table, tired of the way it feels like a bomb is about to come dropping on him at any second. “If it’ll make you feel better.”
Danjuro gives him a strange look and places his teacup down with a gentle clink. Manami pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth, a perfectly ripe strawberry hovering. Dazai finds himself tempted to just snatch it out of her reach for fun.
“For what?” Danjuro asks, then opens his eyes wide. “Oh, Dazai, I don’t really care about that anymore. Am I disappointed? Sure, but it’s not like I’ll never forgive you for it.”
He says it so casually. Mori had taught him that actions had consequences; that he should either avoid getting caught or take the punishment without complaint. He had tried taking the punishment the only way he knew and it hadn’t worked.
“I’ll come to the next one,” Dazai promises weakly. He doesn’t know how to make things right without the gentle assurance of violence.
“You better,” Manami huffs. “Missing out on seeing Gentle’s face on the TV is enough of a punishment.”
She finishes her strawberry like nothing was amiss, then offers Dazai one in an outstretched hand. He takes it gently.
—----------
“The suspect is entering the building,” the crackling voice of Yosano notes through Momo’s earpiece. She hums in affirmation, Kunikida’s steady weight on her back filling her with a sort of newfound confidence.
“I never thought this guy would be smart enough to bribe a police officer. I mean, the entire force is just a bunch of idiots, so maybe it’s just a matter of perspective - ”
“Ranpo,” Fukuzawa’s commanding voice echoes. “Stop distracting them.”
“But - ”
“Ranpo…” Yosano warns, her voice crawling into a disturbing high pitch. “I could use some of that enthusiasm on my operating table…”
The line goes silent after that. Kunikida, who is also listening in, visibly sighs in relief at the lack of their laidback mentor.
“We should proceed,” he comments dutifully, pulling out his notebook. A grappling hook materialises from it only a second later.
Momo nods and turns away to produce a small shield. The other’s eyes trail the ceiling awkwardly, clearing his throat when she finishes and zips up her new tracksuit jacket.
She creeps around to the front of the crumbling apartment complex. It’s obviously been abandoned for a few years, only home to a few potential squatters here and there. A propped-up rotting table serves as a door. With one swift nod in Kunikida’s direction, she hauls her shield in front of her and charges.
The table comes down in a massive crash, dust flying out so fast that momentarily, Momo loses her vision. It’s awful. She thinks of the clouds of rubble and plumes of smoke and the constant fighting that she heard through her shut eyes back then. Screwed so tight that it felt like they would never be able to open; knowing that opening them meant facing the truth about her classmate.
Kunikida steps into the fight with the telltale whiz of his grappling hook from a window to the side of the room. The distraction was a success, then, judging by the lack of resistance he seems to be receiving.
She doesn’t want to be scared of the past anymore.
Nobody ever advances if they can’t at least try to take the first step forward though. It’s a lesson that’s been beat into her through every training session. So, she thrusts a hand out to clear her vision and meets eyes with the purple mass ahead.
Kurogiri tied down is not something Momo thought she would see - the two times she had met him, he had always had this undefeatable prospect about him. This was besides the fact that his quirk was immensely versatile. Not once did Momo find him particularly hostile, which could be argued was worse than Shigaraki’s obvious unstableness and All for One’s cruelty. He simply felt like a robot - like a Nomu. That was what made him undefeatable, the notion that he had no fears nor motivations, and only lived to serve someone else.
“Master… is gone…” he groans, a mourning sound wafting from his not-quite-human face.
Kunikida stands over him with a furrowed brow. He, too, knows how much damage this one individual did to Yokohama and UA. Momo wonders if he feels sympathy for Kurogiri.
It’s almost sad to her, to see this villain reduced to longing and confusion. Momo turns and does not look back.
It is late at night when she hears a knock on the door of her small apartment. It’s bare now, similar to when she arrived, with her suitcase almost packed in the corner by the door. All that is left is her upgraded Hero costume in the dryer, the slow buzzing sound wafting by her ears, and the outfit she picked out for tomorrow hung up on the doorknob.
Momo lingers on the sight of her churning clothes for a few more seconds, then gets up to answer the door. Kunikida is in front of her, still in his slightly grimy work attire, holding his glasses in one hand. She doesn’t find herself particularly surprised - he had moved into the dorms a week ago, and now they were only two doors away from each other, just a minute down the hall. It reminds her of her own dormmates at UA.
The conflicted expression from hours before has not left Kunikida’s face; it sits strikingly against the determined one that he usually finds himself naturally leaning into as a light breeze ruffles his bangs.
“Will you accompany me for a walk?” he asks forlorn, head hanging low. It seems his mouth is set into a permanent grimace; jaw wound so tight that Momo is surprised he’s able to talk.
“Of course,” she replies gently, guiding him into the room with her arm. “Just let me grab a jacket - ” the rattling of the dryer dies down “ - and fold my hero costume.”
Kunikida nods easily, leaning against the wall as she takes the items of clothing out. It’s quite unlike her old one - Yosano had helped her design something easier to move around in and Ranpo had added features that would work for her quirk. Instead of the one piece, it was now a pair of long pants that could be unzipped all the way up to her mid-thigh and a sports bra with a loose cape-like cover that could easily be ripped off. It still needs to be upgraded using UA-grade materials, but it was something to remember the Armed Detective Agency and that is all that matters.
Momo places the pile down gently and picks up the coat, plucking a scarf from her suitcase to wrap around Kunikida’s neck. He doesn’t protest. Usually he’s so meticulous about these things, so the fact that he barely even twitches when they begin to walk tells Momo that there is something deeply unsettling him.
They find themselves in a park next to the water. Kunikida sits on one of the benches, elbows on his knees as his fingers clasp together. She follows his example with one leg crossed over the other.
“Kurogiri was the final loose end,” he says, eyes fixed firmly in front of him. “Do you feel better knowing that you can’t do anything more to fix what happened?”
The question is blunt.
“Relieved, mostly,” she answers. “I did something in the end, and knowing that makes me feel more positive about the future.” Momo tilts her head at Kunikida, whose hands are almost white with how strong their grip is. “Is something the matter?”
Kunikida stands abruptly.
“This is stupid of me, I apologise. I’ve just brought you out here to complain - it’s unprofessional - ”
“Stop it,” she orders gently. “Whatever you need to work through, I’ll help. I had friends to help me right after the Kamino incident, and… well, it seems like you didn’t. Something is bothering you about it.”
“There is something,” he admits, then pauses. He buries his face into the scarf for a few counts. Momo can hear his steady breaths in and out as other noise - drunk businessmen, the sloshing tides - all fade into nothing. “I watched my mother get crushed under the falling rubble at Kamino. That’s the reason I accepted the agency’s internship offer - it was to get revenge.”
He says it almost ashamed. He says it guiltily, like he’s the villain in the situation.
Momo doesn’t know how to deal with grief like that - something that sinks its teeth so deep into your heart that it’ll forever leave an imprint. She reaches her arms around him and squeezes hard, hoping that’ll reassure him.
“That’s alright,” she finds the words tentatively.
“I broke my ideals for some petty reason!” he exclaims angrily, trying to wiggle out of her grip. Momo squeezes harder. “Without rules and morals, people are nothing but criminals. I’m no better than them.”
“You’re going to be a great detective,” she whispers in his ear. “Don’t say that stuff about yourself.”
“You’re obliged to say that to me because you feel bad,” Kunikida states matter-of-factly. Momo imagines his face is set into a deep frown.
“I’m saying it because the Kunikida Doppo I’ve had dinner with almost every single day is an amazing person and I have never met anyone else with such a conviction to be good!” she almost yells, harsh and taunt and far more aggressive than she usually allows herself to be.
The silence is deafening in her ears like crashing waves.
“Er..”
Momo feels heat flush her face. All the anger and confidence she just had withers away. “Ah, was that too much to say? We’ve only known each other for two weeks but you were just saying these horrible things and… I do feel like I’ve gotten to know you..”
Kunikida clears his throat awkwardly. “No… I… thank you.”
He pulls away from the tight hug and rubs at his arm from where she had grabbed. Momo looks away bashfully, her hands curled tightly around each other on her lap.
“I want to hear about your mother,” she promises quickly. “Tell me about her, please. Just… wait there for a second.”
She tugs at the scarf to secure it in place then dashes away from their spot. Just ten or so metres away, a convenience store's lights are on, neon colours sticking out. She buys one of those icy poles - the type that has two sticks and you split them down the middle - and rushes back to the spot, almost tripping on the sidewalk as she does so.
Momo finds Kunikida in the same exact place she left him. Just like a statue, his posture is rigid and eyes forlorn.
“Sorry,” she says awkwardly. “I thought you might want some time to cool off. And I wanted to apologise for making you uncomfortable.” Momo nods to the ice block.
Kunikida exhales through his nose.
“You have nothing to apologise for,” he replies and takes the ice block reproachfully. “There isn’t that much to say about my mother. We weren’t very close. She was petrified of abilities, foolishly refusing any attempt to understand them. Never once left Yokohama.” He takes a bite of the ice block and silence prevails. “Despite all that, she really loved me. My mother would drive me to school every day without fail so I could study in the car. She’d never let me pack my lunch because she worried about my nutrients.”
Kunikida doesn’t cry; instead, he adopts some faraway look as he stares into the violent sea waves.
“It seems like she had good intentions,” Momo comments, holding a piece of hair back from the wind so it doesn’t blow into her dessert.
“She did. But it would have been nice to understand her.”
They don’t discuss it anymore. Kunikida escorts Momo back to her dorm and bids her goodnight with a slight smile. It’s quite a bit later by then, but she finds that she doesn’t mind.
Yosano calls Momo at seven-thirty in the morning and tells her to be ready in fifteen minutes. Still groggy, she pulls on the skirt and shirt that she had laid out over the washing machine the night prior. They’re a little bit wrinkled from being tucked away in the back of her suitcase - the clothes she was too lazy to unpack.
Sunlight drifts into the room, lighting up the stray dust particles weaving through the air just as a sharp tapping echoes throughout the small room.
Yosano takes one look at the bags under her eyes and the slightly prevailing windswept style of her hair and says with a light smile, “Adventurous night?”
Momo blushes bright red and tries her hardest to smoothen the mess on her head. She combs her fingers hurriedly through her midnight black hair, losing herself in the thick strands and the heaviness in her heart when she thinks about leaving Yokohama. Yosano sighs and shakes her head.
She steers Momo’s shoulders through the front door, swiping the keys from the kitchen bench as she fixes the final strands of the younger’s hair. Momo admires the sort of smoothness she carries - something halfway between graceful and assertive and not afraid to take up space.
“Where are we going?” Momo asks as they walk down the waking streets of the city. With the sun only just risen, the seagulls by the shore make for apt company.
“Ranpo wanted me to pick up some pastries,” Yosano hums, running her hand on the passing-by flowers. The dew drops pop when they meet her fingers - her perfectly manicured nails. “Such a hassle, he is.”
She tended to talk about Ranpo with complaints on her tongue accompanied by a well-placed eye-roll. Although quite often embodying the definition of bark and bite, when it came to her fellow agency member, her bother was mostly superficial. It was in the way that she tended to Momo hadn’t realised this initially, but after only a mere few days, she became accustomed to the odd dynamic.
“For what occasion?” she questions.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replies easily before stepping in front of a trendy-looking cafe. The smell of fresh pastries wafts out the door as they walk in, the little jingle of the door causing the barista to pause his activities. “Hey, you like tea, right?”
She nods.
Yosano gives her a small smile, then turns to order two cups of seasonal tea - some floral spring green tea blend that looks absolutely delightful - as well as an assortment of other sweet and savoury pastries. Almost all of them sound delicious, and secretly, Momo hopes that she’ll be able to at least try some of the leftovers.
Yosano instructs Momo to find a table while she waits for the rest of the pastries to be boxed up. Ever the obedient one, she does as instructed and watches the city wake up. She’s joined by the older woman soon after with their beverages and a large bag with a fancy-looking logo. Discreetly, Momo memorises the brand and makes a note to herself to look into if they have any other stores outside of Yokohama - just in case they’re as good as they look,
The two of them sit and chat for fifteen minutes or so before Yosano gets a call. She steps back in with a sense of urgency and hauls the pastries and Momo out of the cafe. While Momo mourns the loss of the warmth of the building, she prepares herself for another day of work. She hopes to at least see all of the agency members today before she leaves.
Cafe Uzumaki is suspiciously empty once the pair arrive. Momo almost walks right past the sole inhabitants, if not for the loud tutting that comes from a certain glasses-wearing detective. Ranpo is looking at her expectantly, arms crossed, with Kunikida next to him and Fukuzawa in the seat across. The table is adorned with a selection of fluffy pancakes with a whole array of toppings, teas and fresh fruits.
“Err…”
“You absolute buffoon, this is for you,” Ranpo replies to Momo’s confusion with his usual condescending attitude, a finger wagging midair between her and Yosano. “You really think we’d send you off without even a farewell party?”
“Well, crime does never sleep…” she replies awkwardly, fiddling with her sleeve.
“I’ve banned all crime for the day! Today is a day to eat treats!” he hollers defiantly, grabbing for one of the boxes of pastries that Yosano swiftly pulls out of reach.
“You do that anyway…” Fukuzawa mutters quietly, coughing awkwardly when he catches Momo staring at him. “Please, sit down.”
Like a robot, she pops herself next to Kunikida while Yosano glides into the seat next to the president. It’s almost a tight fit, with towering piles of food and four other people, but there’s also a sense of coziness to it.
“It’s going to be so lonely without another girl in the office,” Yosano bemoans, intertwining her hands with Momo’s. “Surely you visit the agency again?”
“If they’ll allow me to.” She promises seriously. “I’ve really learned a lot here - both the Agency and the entire city of Yokohama. It’s so different yet exactly the same.”
“I mean, we are pretty normal, minus the lack of comic book heroes and crazy supernatural abilities,” Ranpo comments as he shoves a tart into his mouth. It seems that had gotten into the pastries somehow.
“One of our members can heal broken spines,” Kunikida comments dryly, shuddering moments later as he pours himself a cup of black coffee.
“Pshhh… well, yeah, but there are some weird abilities in Japan.” He looks at Momo’s judgemental expression. “I don’t care if I’m being ‘quirkist’ or whatever! It’s true!”
She sighs. “It’s a real issue that people have to deal with, Ranpo.”
“Yeah, Ranpo, don’t be so insensitive,” Yosano chides snidely, digging her heels into his shoes.
“You’re all against me!” he huffs.
“Please don’t fight,” Fukuzawa scolds. “It reflects badly on the agency’s name.”
The bickering, while dissolves for a few minutes, starts straight back up again soon after. It makes Momo’s lips tug into a smile as she and Kunikida begin to chat about tea making as the other three begin taste-testing all the different pastries. The two of them split a jam tart, which Momo piles about two times the amount of whipped cream onto. Soon enough morning turns to noon and the entire agency accompanies her to the train station. They all pile into one car.
Momo takes the passenger seat as Fukuzawa drives. Lowly, amidst a red light and the quiet chatter from the backseat, the president offers her a few words.
“You’re a bright girl, Momo. I would love to take you on as another intern or even a full-time employee after you graduate.” He laughs to himself quietly, a sort of chuckle. “Although you might not want to settle for this humble detective agency. You could achieve so many different things if you so desired to.”
Not wanting to make a fuss, she thanks him profusely in an almost half-whisper half-rasp just as the light turns green. He smiles softly and turns back to the road.
Yosano and Ranpo both complain about her soon-to-be-absence as they make their way to the platform. Momo hears the truth through the jokes and jabs and takes comfort in the fact her presence will be missed by these people she has grown to trust. Yosano triple-checks that she has all their phone numbers, making her promise to call the moment she arrives, while Ranpo sneaks a few of his expensive imported chocolates into her purse when he thinks she's not looking.
And Kunikida is suspiciously quiet in the lead-up to this. It leaves an uneasy sort of feeling in her stomach as Momo thinks back to the night before and worries she had said something wrong. This is, of course, a silly worry.
“Don’t be a stranger, please,” Kunikida says, catching her arm meaningfully as the train pulls into the station.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
And, with the completion of Yaoyorozu Momo’s internship with the Armed Detective Agency, she finds herself with a sort of refined purpose and four more people to call home.
