From Unexpected Places

“So what were you going on about before?” Dazai asked this with the appropriate amount of stupor, forcefully dragging his gaze away from where Tsushima Tane was leading his partner. “I’m sorry for the interruption, my mother was never one for patience.”

“I don’t mind,” Dumbledore smiled, eyes turned crescents even as they flickered towards the retreating pair. “As for before, I was speaking on the current political climate and its dangers,” he twinkled as he looked back at him, “Is that a topic you’re interested in?”

He barked a laugh, “Not in the slightest! Thought I’d escaped magical politics years ago.”

“Right.” Dazai watched that calculating glint flicker, gears whirling behind those eyes. “You’ve lived in the muggle world for many years then, haven’t you? After you’d separated from your mother?”

“Technically before then too, but yes,” Dazai shrugged, and here came the kicker, “It’s honestly better than anything the wizarding world would have offered me as the bastard of the Tsushima family.”

Dumbledore took the bait hook, line and sinker. The man was still wary, yes— Dazai’s heritage was certainly a stark red flag to him, he was sure— but in the truest of fashions, the man liked to meddle. He was like Mori, in that way— always looking out for what was best for the whole, the ‘greater good’ and all that. He wanted to frown at the comparison, but kept himself amicable. It should be coming any second now, after all.

“I have heard the Tsushimas are a rather old-fashioned family,” he consoled, a sympathetic tint to the words, his gaze penetrating. He felt a pinprick of energy, magic, prod forward. Dazai had to fight the natural inclination to let his eyes narrow.

Unfortunately for the headmaster of Hogwarts, legilimency, like most magic, didn’t work on him. Dumbledore clearly wasn’t a fan of this revelation. Ugh, Dazai was definitely going to have to take a peek at the chibi later, he wouldn’t want his petite fake-husband to suffer any more brain damage from the geriatric’s shoddy attempts. Dazai would hate to have to drag a brain-fried slug around on an actual leash. That was far too much effort!

“You and your mother spent time among muggles, then?” Dumbledore continued, displeasure leaking into his body language.

“Yeah,” Dazai revealed, “I had no issue with it— though my mother wouldn’t say the same.”

Dazai could tell the old man had stifled a grimace, a strained smile, calculatingly warm, stretched to hide it. “Then I assume you must have much experience with the muggle world,” was his next query. His topic changes could really use some work, but alas, Dazai would oblige.

He cocked his head, “Sure, with Japan, at least.”

“I find that fascinating,” Dumbledore pushed, “I know you didn’t complete your magical education, but Mahoutokoro admissions start at age seven, yes?” Dazai nodded. “Did your school have a muggle studies program? Hogwarts has one, an elective for third years and higher.”

He put a thumb to his chin in apparent thought. “There might have been one, but I do think it was barred to the upper years. You know,” Dazai snapped to attention, “I find that really annoying. With wizards being such a small population, a lot of us end up living partly in the muggle world anyway. It makes it so hard to adjust if you don’t know anything about it.”

“Did you have such a struggle?”

“Only a little,” he waved off, “But that’s mostly because I happened to be homeless for a bit. My mother and I had lived in a muggle neighborhood for a few years when I was younger before she ended moving back in with her family, so that definitely helped a little. It wasn’t much, but it was something.”

And that much was true. Sure, Dazai could have easily made up some story that would amount to the same thing, but he might as well use his past for something. It’s not like it mattered to him anymore, and he doubted the man he was speaking to would muster up any pity for it. He was still too caught up in the Riddle who wasn’t even relevant. Then again, that was the thing Dazai was counting on.

“So you say,” Dumbledore hummed. “You know, we have a wonderful muggle studies teacher. I bet she would love to hear your perspective on such topics, especially with your experiences in another country.”

“That does sound interesting,” Dazai offered. “I’ll be honest, I haven’t heard too much about the wizarding community here, and I left the wizarding world in Japan quite young, so I don’t know how much help I’ll be.”

“That won’t be much of an issue, truly,” the man laughed, settling in his skin for the moment as he seemed to come to a decision on Dazai, “My colleague has a healthy fascination towards any muggle topic, and I’m sure she’d be happy just hearing about Japan and its cultures.”

“I can do that much. I’d like to think I’m well acquainted with Japan’s culture,” he grinned. Dazai was sure Professor Charity Burbage would like what he had to say. He did have to wonder how much she kept up with non-magical news outlets, and foreign ones, at that. It might make for an interesting interaction. “How would I contact you? I don’t imagine you have a cell phone, and I don’t have an owl.”

“You mentioned you were staying at the Leaky Cauldron? I could pop by tomorrow if that is alright with you?” An express trip right to his temporary doorstep, Dazai couldn’t have planned it better.

“That sounds absolutely amazing!” With that finally falling into place, he let himself tune in to the heated voices he’d been ignoring.

Wisps of harsh Japanese carried to his ears, far enough away he couldn’t make them out, but Chuuya’s sharp tones would always be recognizable. Well, it was probably time to bail him out. The poor chibi was probably getting his ears lopped off by the woman by now, which would be fine and dandy if it wouldn’t tempt his dog to bite more than bark.

A shout, Dumbledore looking concerned as he snuck a peek behind him. Yeah, he should probably step in.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I need to fetch my husband before he chews out my mother,” he slumped over, already beginning to walk past the headmaster.

“Ah, family gatherings can be tense at times, I’ve heard,” was the jovial response, one Dazai responded to with a simple chuckle as he made a beeline for the growing spectacle.

He locked eyes with Tsushima Tane as he approached, her disdain more than apparent. Hah, she’d really let herself slip if she was bothering to let him peek under the facade. Or, as was more likely, she’d done it just for him. Not that anything she did could ever matter now. Certainly not with her reputation.

She held his gaze as she spoke, just as much to him as to Chuuya as he was finally in earshot, something like amusement sparking. “Looks like he did get something from his father after all.”

Dazai slung an arm around Chuuya, the chibi startled enough to relax his fists.

“I did hope you two would get along, but alas, I can tell this conquest has been futile,” he jokingly dramatized. He offered Tane a wide grin. “I’ve heard that’s a common problem among in-laws.”

“We’ve got more than just a problem,” Chuuya glared, scowling at the woman.

“It’s fine, slug,” he placated. Playfully, he laid his cheek against the top of Chuuya’s head. “Now you know why I waited so long to let you meet my mother.”

Rather than the entertaining twist to his partner’s demeanor as he no doubt imagined throttling Dazai, Chuuya interlaced his hand with the one Dazai had hung around him. A lump formed in his throat as Chuuya pulled him closer. He was still glaring at Tane. “Wouldn’t have minded it being longer.”

Tane Tsushima looked them up and down, reeking judgment. “Of that I’m sure.”

Chuuya barked a laugh, something sour in its twisted edges. “You wanna get the fuck outta here, Dazai?”

And here, Dazai felt his grin stretch, “Thought you’d never ask.”

***

“What the fuck were you thinking!”

Chuuya’s hand gripped his throat, pinning him to the door the second it closed. Firm, but not bruising. Ah, Dazai thought, conscious of the pressure, whatever mood the slug was in before clearly hadn’t lasted. They were back at the Leaky Cauldron, and Dazai knew this had been coming.

“I was hoping we could pick up some dinner on the way back, since chibi’s paying for it,” he suggested, meeting narrowed eyes.

“The marriage, you fucking waste of space,” Chuuya replied, fingers tightening.

“Oh, that!” he nodded— or attempted to, at least. Chuuya’s tiny little hands didn’t give him the greatest range of neck mobility. “I was just working with their legal system, chibi! This was the easiest option.”

“Like hell it was!” Dazai slumped backwards as Chuuya threw his hands up in the air, taken to angrily pacing as his fists clenched. “You know there’s other options, don’t you. Did you think fucking with me is above the mission, because this plan of yours isn’t going to fucking work.”

Dazai smirked, “What? Is the slug homophobic now? I didn’t know you held such bigoted beliefs.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he glared. “And has anyone ever told you that you are the problem?”

“I bet that’s something chibi hears every day.”

“I can’t fucking deal with this shit,” he put a hand to his head, “And you’ve condemned us to this fucking farce for the next, what? Few months?”

Dazai kept his grin plastered to his face. “I didn’t realize you thought it was such a problem. You were fine with it five years ago.”

“Since when was I fine with it? It was a fucking order,” he spat, “And we were only undercover for two weeks.”

A lick of something sour curled at the back of Dazai’s throat. He lifted his head in a petulant tilt. “Well, it’s already been set up, there’s nothing you can do about it now. And it’s convenient.”

“Like hell it is,” Chuuya growled, “How are we supposed to seem married?” He turned away from him, going back to his angry pacing. “Did you just decide to screw us over?”

Dazai rolled his eyes, “I didn’t screw us over.” He flopped over himself, whining, “Does the chibi really hate the idea of being married to me that much?”

He sent him a deadpan look, “Obviously, you’d be a shit husband.”

“My dog is being so mean. This is spousal abuse!” That got him a glare. “Anyway, I’m the one who has to suffer being married to a dog.”

“Why would you phrase it like that?”

He gasped, “Chuuya’s so dirty minded.” He reveled in the way the hatrack’s face reddened.

“Shut it! You do remember how that mission went, right? Or did it leave your brain like the fucking logic you would’ve needed not to make this decision,” he snapped.

Dazai didn’t see the problem. Sure that mission had ended in what their unknowing onlookers would’ve probably called a divorce, but that was planned to be that way!

And it’s not like Dazai ever actually filed the divorce papers— not that Chuuya knew their marriage was properly filed. It was a joke he’d never gotten around to abusing before he left the mafia, though he’d have plenty of time to do it now. And speaking of…

“As much as you might dislike this, it was the most viable option considering we’re still legally married,” he flaunted with a wave of his hand.

“You— what the hell, Dazai?” Chuuya burst. Dazai grinned.

“I had to tweak a couple of things, but our original marriage certificate still counts. Though I took the liberty of certifying it here too,” he added, approaching the addled Chuuya. He stood over the redhead, smile sharp, “To the governments of France and the U.K., we’ve been married for nearly five years!”

The brim of his partner’s hat hid Chuuya’s blue eyes, but Dazai could still feel them darken. He stepped to the side as Chuuya punched forward, hitting the air where Dazai once stood. The hand hung there for a moment before the man scoffed, shouldering him as he walked past.

“Is the chibi running off? It’s a little late to get cold feet.”

“I’m getting some air,” he said as he snatched his coat, slamming the door behind him. Dazai let out an amused huff, sighing as he plopped himself on the edge of the bed.

Chuuya would come around eventually— it wasn’t like this was all that different from the undercover missions they’d been assigned in the past, after all. Even if it had been a while, Dazai loathed to admit they still worked well together. It was a logical move.

Getting on Chuuya’s nerves was just a bonus.

Dazai chuckled as he fell back into the mattress, messing up the made bed Chuuya bothered to fuss over earlier. It was looking like he had the rest of the evening to himself.

Staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts drifted back to Yokohama. To the agency. He sighed.

Dazai wondered if Atsushi had found the gift he’d left him.

***

The room was bare.

He knew Dazai had never been one for decor, but as Atsushi sat on the stale futon, he couldn’t help but miss the clutter. Sake bottles of varying emptiness, the canned crab Dazai hadn’t bothered sticking in the cupboard, slowly letting the empty cans fill his trash. All little signs of life this place now lacked.

Atsushi had never realized just how little presence Dazai had. His mentor was loud, demanding attention and disruptive by nature. And yet, if he hadn’t known Dazai had lived here, he’d have thought the room had always been empty. It was a disturbing thought.

Letting out a breath, he forced himself to stand, taking in the lacking area. His eyes caught on a small gap in the closet doors.

There was no sound as he padded closer, fingers posed to slide the closet door shut when he paused. Gently, he slid the door open, reaching in to grasp at the tan garment hung within.

Atsushi blinked away the tears that rose. They had barely gotten to say goodbye, that day. Dazai had walked out the room with a cheery attitude and a promise of returning. He hadn’t mentioned anything Atsushi had overheard, the magic, the strange assignment the Port Mafia boss was sending him on due to it. His mentor had given him a smile as he announced his wishes for the agency, giving him the instruction to annoy Kunikida for him in his absence. And with a final see you later he was off. It all happened so quick.

It’d been a week now. The office was quiet, unnervingly so as he found himself waiting for the door to burst open at half past eleven, for Kunikida to chide Dazai for being late, for an extra pile of paperwork to be snuck onto his desk. He hadn’t stopped waiting, but the agency couldn’t afford to dwell on it. There was dealing with the fallout of the press, partitioning out the unfinished cases interrupted by their persecution, and trying to incorporate Sigma, the Decay of Angels member who’d apparently helped Dazai defeat Fyodor, into the agency.

Atsushi honestly pitied the man— as much as they welcomed Sigma, a fervid energy pervaded the members still at work as they kept themselves together. It wasn’t exactly the ideal time for a new addition, but Sigma seemed understanding enough.

Blinking, he refocused back on the coat in hand. He hadn’t realized Dazai’d left it behind. Atsushi pulled it from its hanger, watching the thing as it drooped in his hold. Wait, he thought as a bulk sagged in the coat’s right pocket.

With clumsy fingers, he moved to pluck a little figurine from it. It was a glass tiger, patterned in black and white just like Byakko.

“What is this…?” he muttered before letting out a yelp as he felt himself twist. A sickening yank forced its way through his system and all he knew was compression as his surroundings blurred. Atsushi stumbled on the resurgence of the floor— and when had the floor disappeared from beneath him?— when a sharp pain struck through his shoulder.

Atsushi let out a pained grunt, and he was only half aware of what might’ve been an angered statement. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he uttered, one hand clutching his stomach while the other kept him from sinking all the way to the ground. Well, that and the thing still in his shoulder. He winced as it dug deeper.

Blearily, he was able to trace the black thing embedded in him back to its owner and Atsushi couldn’t help the way he scrambled back. It was an unimpressive feat, considering all he accomplished in doing was dragging the perpetrator with him, ending in a pile of collapsed limbs.

“Weretiger!” the figure snapped, “I demand you release me at once!”

“Wha— Akutagawa?” he shouted, “What just happened?”

“What happened? What did you do? How did you get here?” Akutagawa stood over him, holding him by his lapels.

“Here?” It was only now Atsushi realized he was somewhere he didn’t recognize. “Where did Dazai’s room go?”

The baffled look Akutagawa gave him was enough for him to cringe at his own words. Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best thought to air aloud considering he now had no idea where he was— but it was clear that he was the one that went and not, in fact, Dazai’s whole apartment.

And where even was he, anyway?

“Stop spewing this nonsense,” Akutagawa rattled him, “Now I’ll ask one last time, how did you get into my apartment?”

“I’m in your apartment?” he blurted, head swiveling towards his surroundings. He was in a living room, a coffee table perched a few feet from his head. Atsushi thought he could see a kitchen counter at the edge of the space. Huh, Akutagawa has an open floor plan, he thought, instead of any, you know, useful observations.

“Where else would you be? You showed up here,” was spat in his face, and Atsushi drew back to Akutagawa’s scathing glare.

“I didn’t mean to!” he scowled back, ripping at where Rashomon was still embedded in his skin. It only dug in deeper, pulling a hiss from him, “Will you stop that.”

“Do you expect me to believe you landed here by accident?”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe, it was an accident,” he grunted, eyes darting about as his breath shortened. “I was in Dazai’s room and then—” he locked onto the tiger figurine, pushed aside in the scuffle, “That!” Atsushi wrenched an arm at the thing, but before he could grasp it, a tendril of Rashomon beat him to it.

He didn’t get a chance to catch his breath before the world was pulled out from under him for the second time that day.

“I definitely need to puke now,” Atsushi muttered as he laid on what he assumed was another floor. A ragged series of coughs broke him from his stupor. He blinked up at the ceiling, recognizing it this time before his gaze drifted to the side.

He was back in Dazai’s apartment, Akutagawa hacking up a lung on his mentor’s dingy futon. Dazai’s coat was crumpled on the ground, and the tiger statue laid discarded on the floor.

Once he felt like he could hold his lunch, Atsushi sat up. Akutagawa was still coughing. He winced, “Do you want some cough medicine?” Atsushi didn’t know how much it’d help considering it stemmed from the man’s lung disease, but he offered just in case.

“Don’t patronize me, weretiger,” the mafioso sneered at him. It was only then Akutagawa seemed to notice the room. “Where are we?” he barked.

He deflated, flinching when he shifted the shoulder Rashomon was still embedded in. “We’re in Dazai’s room, and can you please stop stabbing me.”

Akutagawa seemed to freeze. Atsushi took the opportunity to rip out Rashomon, letting the tiger start to heal the wound. “Dazai’s room?” he echoed, voice void of emotion as his gaze latched onto something. Following it, Atsushi saw Dazai’s trenchcoat. “Take me back,” Akutagawa spilled out, a clinical sort of panic as he forced himself to stand regardless of their shared vertigo. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“I think it was the tiger,” Atsushi mumbled. “The tiger statue, that is!” he amended, “It wasn’t me.”

“Of course it wasn’t you, do you think I’m an idiot?”

“You literally asked me what I did like two minutes ago?” Atsushi was unimpressed with the scoff he got in return.

“I found it in Dazai’s jacket,” Atsushi continued, and Akutagawa eyed the garment with a look he couldn’t decipher.

“Why were you looking through Dazai-san’s clothes?” Akutagawa glared at him.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he fought a fluster, “I was just surprised he left it behind!”

The other didn’t respond, rather, Rashomon extended to pick up the coat. Invading its pockets, a note slipped from the left— the one Atsushi hadn’t checked. He didn’t even have a chance to take a peek before Akutagawa snatched it up.

“Hey!”

“Silent, jinko.” Atsushi rolled his eyes. Akutagawa’s expression shifted the longer he stared at the paper. Well, since Akutagawa was apparently occupied…

His gaze drifted to the tiger statue. Shifting to his feet, he approached the figurine. Tentatively, he gave it a light kick.

Or he would’ve, had his other leg not been pulled out from under him. He hit the floor (the third time in the last five minutes, not that he was counting).

“Why did you do that?” he shrieked.

“You were foolish enough to try and touch that thing after it teleported us,” Akutagawa stressed, Rashomon squeezing the life out of his leg. “I would expect a detective to have a modicum of sense, but I assumed too much of you.”

“It apparently sent me to your apartment last time! And then it sent us back here. Why wouldn’t it work?” He reached for the thing again, only for Rashomon to leap to that limb as well. “Come on!” he thrashed, his free leg managing to knock into Akutagawa as he shifted it into its tiger form. The man toppled like a gang facing Kenji. It probably helped that neither of them had completely recovered from their jaunt with teleportation.

“Even if it did, I am not letting you back in my apartment!”

Right, he’d honestly forgotten about that bit. “Why does that even matter?”

“Why does it matter. You insufferable—”

“Atsushi? Are you alright? I heard…”

They both froze as the voice trailed off, and Atsushi’s head whipped to the room’s entrance. Kyoka stood in the doorway, hand clinging to her phone with a wary expression.

“What are you doing here, Akutagawa.”