Crab Day

by JollyLad, peachtopus

Summary:

Dazai barges into the agency with one terrifying revelation: Crab Day has arrived.

Chapter 1: The Day That Shouldn't Be

Summary:

The use of his first name snagged in Kunikida’s mind, strange and wrong—but not half as chilling as the implication of Dazai’s words. At least now he knew what must be done.

Notes:

Enjoy? Wrote this because of Dazai's affinity for crab. I'm not sure how long it'll be oops but chapter 2 is in the works

The moment Dazai waltzed his spindly form into the ADA’s office, Kunikida knew that today would be different. Of course, he was accustomed to Dazai’s daily antics and provocations – but he had a sinking feeling that today would not be that. Dazai shut the door behind him silently, whirling around with inhuman speed to lock eyes with Kunikida. A disturbing aura radiated from him as he slithered toward Kunikida’s desk, sending an involuntary shiver down the man’s spine.

 

Kunikida, realizing that he was about to be completely derailed from his carefully crafted schedule, nearly broke his neck from the sheer speed with which he looked down at his watch. Disturbingly, Dazai had arrived earlier than Kunikida had ever witnessed. For someone who had never clocked in to work before one o’clock in the afternoon, arriving at eight in the morning was a miraculous anomaly. 

 

Dazai was clad in his normal getup—his signature tan coat layered over an ill-fitting vest, a white button-up, a bolo tie fixed lopsidedly around his collar, and bandages enveloping his wrist and neck. But his right arm, normally wrapped with obsessive precision, was left bare, the omission jarring enough to make Kunikida glance twice. 

 

As if that weren’t off-putting enough, he came armed with accessories. A large black backpack looped over his shoulders, an absurd number of fanny packs fastened around his torso and hips, and a comically large headlamp strapped around his head. 

 

“KUUUUU-NIIIII-KIIIIIII-DAAAAA,” he screeched in a sickening, sing-songy lilt. 

 

Kunikida rose slowly from his desk chair, unsure if he was prepared to wring Dazai’s neck this early in the day.

 

“Shut up, you useless pile of bandages. We just managed to get Ranpo to sleep. He broke into the emergency sugar reserves—the ones we set aside after the last incident. He’s been wired for 52 hours. I had to play Monopoly with him just to keep him from leaving the office—six hours of calculated financial ruin at the hands of a sugar-crazed genius. 

 

Do you know what that does to a man?” 

 

He sputtered, slamming his hand against the solid oak of his desk. “Have you ever played Monopoly with him? Thirty-five minutes in, and I’d lost every property. Somehow, I gambled away my car, and the game still dragged on for six hours,” he spat, almost maniacally.

 

Dazai stood before the blonde detective, seemingly weighing his next action. He flicked the headlamp on, sending a seventy-watt beam of light straight into Kunikida’s retinas. He groaned, throwing up a hand to shield himself.

 

“My good man, your commoner’s plight is of no concern to me. Notice my elegant and abundant adornments—” he posed dramatically, hand lazily draped over his forehead. 

 

Suddenly, his tone shifted, sing-song giving way to something sharp, cold, and deliberate. 

 

“What day is today?”

 

Kunikida, still reeling from the attack on his vision, slowly sank back into his desk chair, wary of making any sudden movements. He begrudgingly turned to face his imbecile of a partner. 

 

“Tuesday. Shouldn’t you be finding an oil drum to die in?”

 

“I’m going to scream and wake Ranpo if you don’t answer correctly this time, Kuuuniiikiidaaa,” he cooed, voice turned smooth and lilted just as quickly as it flattened a moment before.

 

The blonde detective sighed, breath catching in his throat once he was met with a closer look at Dazai. Eyes bloodshot and blinking wildly, darting between Kunikida and the wall behind him. Chestnut hair ruffled in a way only Atsushi’s barber could achieve. His entire body vibrated with…excitement? Frustration? Cocaine-induced mania? Kunikida couldn’t be sure—he clutched his notebook, fingernails leaving dents in the worn leather. He had to be prepared to defend himself the second Dazai twitched in his direction. 

 

“Don’t you DARE,” Kunikida started, feigning composure by folding his hands into his lap. “What day is it, Dazai?” he sighed, doing his best to sound disinterested, not as if he was about to leap from the nearest window to escape his partner’s intense gaze.

The older detective froze, his expression inscrutable but still commanding Kunikida’s full attention. Resting a rigid, lifeless hand on the desk, he bent slowly at the waist, his movements too measured and deliberate until his eyeline leveled with Kunikida’s.

“Doppo. He’s been calling out to me. I can’t resist it any longer,” he stated, completely deadpan, his eyes hollow and eerily fixed.

No one else even looked up. 

The only thing anyone had noticed was Dazai arriving early, which was unsettling enough. After that, they paid no mind. Chairs flying, shouting obscenities, Kunikida’s sanity unraveling—it was all just the regular background noise of working with Dazai. Only Kunikida seemed to grasp the true horror of what was unfolding, and his comrades’ indifference left him feeling utterly alone.

The use of his first name snagged in Kunikida’s mind, strange and wrong—but not half as chilling as the implication of Dazai’s words. At least now he knew what must be done.

He immediately shot out of his chair, the force sending it flying backward into Atsushi’s. His notebook clattered onto the glossy tile floor of the office. The boy yelped, nearly toppling forward onto his desk. Kyouka, who had pulled a chair up beside Atsushi’s desk to work with him, let out the faintest laugh—soft but unmistakable.

Kunikida, barely noticing the assault his desk chair just inflicted on Atsushi, snatched up his fallen notebook with shaking hands.

“Wait here. I’ll call Yosano in and inform the president.”

The ponytail-bearing detective turned on his heel and began booking it down the hall to Fukuzawa’s office, leaving Dazai and his black hole eyes in the main room.

His hands shook, his joints creaking, his heart hammering with each frenzied step. The normally pleasant breeze of the office’s air conditioning felt hostile against his skin. Every part of him felt rigid, and he found himself fighting the urge to hyperventilate. He forced himself to stop once he reached the office door, unable to muster the dignity to pull himself together before entering.

Fukuzawa was sitting at his desk, peacefully constructing a LEGO bonsai tree, as if the world beyond his desk were not collapsing.

“President,” he stammered breathlessly, gritting his teeth until they creaked. “President, it’s Crab Day. Please, help me locate Yosano. We are all sure to suffer if she’s not found and brought to Dazai soon.”

 

Usually the epitome of tranquility, Fukuzawa’s reaction only motivated Kunikida’s knees to nearly give out under him. 

 

The president audibly gasped, color draining from his face. He swept the LEGOs off his desk with a smooth, measured swing of his arm, causing them to clatter haphazardly to the floor. Eyes widened with concern, he nodded curtly and reached for his Nokia, which was nestled in a sunflower bowl (crocheted—albeit poorly—by Kyouka) at the end of his desk. 

 

Kunikida, now having taken a seat in the chair across from the president’s desk, watched as Fukuzawa punched Yosano’s phone number into the Nokia with great fervor. Neither man could bring themselves to breathe as the dial tone rang out, echoing into the deafening silence of the room.

 

The line clicked.

 

 

“You have reached the voicemail box of [Yosano Akiko]. No one is available to take your call. At the tone, please record your message.”

 

 

Kunikida had endured countless threats during his time at the agency. Robberies, murders, the constant, looming threat of Yokohama’s destruction, assassination attempts from the Port Mafia—nothing had shaken him like this.

He slowly lifted green eyes to meet Fukuzawa’s, fighting back the sting of tears welling in them. The agency president appeared listless, eyes glazed over, hair somehow turning greyer.

 

“President—” Kunikida tested in the softest whisper he could muster, “where could Yosano possibly be right now?”

 

“We must summon Ranpo.”

 

Chapter 2: Sincerely, Joe

Summary:

His unbandaged eye now fixed on the man, Dazai's hand tightened around the grip of his gun as he shifted, tense in his seat. He had no reason to linger, to subject himself to the stranger’s droning. For all he knew, the man could have been a spy—an enemy of the Port Mafia that Dazai would be better off luring outside and vanquishing in an alley.

Notes:

hi so chapter 2 took forever to edit but it's longer than the first to compensate

chapter 3 is on the way :)

sorry for what's ahead

Ninety-six hours had passed since Dazai last knew sleep, let alone the familiar walls of the detective agency office. He rarely used the cramped dorm anymore—the room served mostly as a façade, proof that Dazai “lived there,” rather than in Chuuya’s lavish, overpriced sheets most nights. Such were the politics between the Port Mafia and the ADA.

The warm night air drifting in might have felt nice, if only he could feel his face. He also could not, to save his life, remember how to close the window.

Empty bottles of sake and crumpled magazines littered the dingy floor of his domicile. The only light permitted in his space was that which bled in from the moon and streetlamps outside. His phone, long dead and abandoned on the bathroom tile, guaranteed his solitude. 

Lying limply on his futon, Dazai stared at a worn photo of him, Odasaku, and Ango, its edges frayed and softened by age. Their expressions held a fragile peace, delicate but unsteady. At night, the silence was palpable. The soft hum of the fridge he’d recently plugged back in, its motor stirring to life again after long months of disuse, carried on its purpose, obvious to him if to no one else.

 

Unfortunately for Dazai, he had been unable to enjoy the tranquility that nighttime afforded him, not since it started. A memory, his voice—needling at the edges of his mind. He tried to shake it off, drown it in drink, but the thought always circled its way back. 

He peeled himself from the futon, head hanging heavily as if loaded with wet sand. Stumbling his way toward the open window proved perilous—he hadn’t been this drunk since Odasaku was taken from him.

A rogue sake bottle dripped into the cracks of the old floorboards, its betrayal sudden and sharp as he tripped over it. His lanky form thudded unceremoniously back onto the floor. He debated vomiting, but the logistics felt exhausting. Lying still was easier. If he stayed down long enough, the floor might claim him for good, a fittingly efficient end.

Finally, he hauled himself up again, this time allowing his palm to skim the wall for stability. He blinked hard, lids heavy and raw from exhaustion. 

Relief washed over him as the breeze caressed his face, easing the nausea bubbling in his throat. He leaned heavily on the sill, head sagging out to better drink in the air. A fall from this height wouldn’t be glamorous, but it promised peace that sleep could never match.

Chuuya would absolutely not approve, which proved reason enough to hesitate. He could picture the scowl, the hands on his hips—splattering on the pavement paled in comparison to a tirade from Yokohama’s smallest, loudest headache. He felt it was decidedly safer to let his thoughts wander to the cityscape instead. 

Gaze settling on the city port, he remembered the sting of cold as he lay in his futon inside the shipping container. His fingers traced over the faded matchbox he always pocketed, the motion mindless. Oda’s laugh came to mind—the warmth in his voice, the way he carried himself. His thoughts turned to Ango, and Dazai wondered if he was sitting at Lupin alone, as he so often had on nights like this.

Lupin. The thought of it alone tumbled into the memory of meeting him there.

 

---

 

The small bar sat in its usual quiet reserve. Rain beat a steady rhythm into the roof, leaking in through the ceiling to drip onto the mahogany counter. The warm, low lights buzzed faintly, enveloping the room in comfortable shadow. Dazai sat alone at the counter, long returned from investigating the Mimic case with Oda. His finger circled the smooth rim of the glass–the round ball of ice inside was already half melted, leaving water where whiskey had once been. His eyes lingered on the water-stained wood. 

As much as he longed for the return of Oda’s company, Dazai couldn’t find a reason compelling enough to call him. He toyed with excuses to coax Oda from his orphans, but conceded as each sounded more pathetic than the last. Besides, Oda would see straight through him, and Dazai wasn’t sure he could stand being read that easily.

 

He hardly stirred when a man appeared in the doorway, dripping so heavily it looked like he’d swum there, then shuffled toward the bar.

“Terrible fucking weather we’re having, isn’t it?” the man barked in a brash, hearty voice. A lopsided grin spread across his face as he wiped droplets from his forehead. 

Dazai hummed a quiet, indifferent reply. The man’s damp frame loomed too close, carrying with him the faint aroma of seafood.

Joe shrugged off his raincoat and draped it over the empty stool beside him. Now, having shed a layer, his bulk became obvious—broad, rounded shoulders and chest like a barrel. His balding head glistened under the tungsten lighting, accentuating the deep laugh lines worn into his face. Everything about him spoke of years dedicated to grunt work, the skin over his knuckles thick with calluses and pale tan lines peeking from under his stained sleeve.

“What’s a kid like you doing holed up in a lonesome dive like this?”

The mafioso cocked his head toward Joe, eyebrow twitching slightly. Drawing on years of Mori’s tutelage, he stifled the annoyance flickering in his chest and met Joe’s eyes with a stony, inscrutable glare. He discreetly slid a hand into the leather of his coat pocket, fingers brushing over the familiar grip of the pistol inside. The lot of it—pistol, leather, and habit alike—an unwanted inheritance from Mori. 

Joe narrowed his eyes, deepening the creases at their edges, determined to make conversation.

“Come on, humor an old man, would ya? Just got off shift, and damn, what a day. First month at my brand-new spot right outside Yokohama, and this storm rolls in outta nowhere, lights flickering, half the place flooding, customers shouting at me like I control the weather. Thought I was gonna lose my head tryin’ to keep it all together. I’ve never seen so many—”

“If you intend to keep prattling on like this, kindly let me know now,” Dazai muttered in a low, gravelly tone. 

“Prattling, huh? If this is prattling, wait ‘til I’ve had a couple beers. Speaking of drinks—what’s yours?” Joe flicked his hand, summoning the barkeep.  

“Not drinking,” he said curtly, though the flush in his gaunt face and the drained glass still slack in his hand spoke otherwise. 

“Not drinking, my ass. Kid, I’ve seen fish lie more convincingly.” He rolled his eyes exaggeratedly before asking, “Barkeep—a Sapporo for me and the same again for him.”

 

His unbandaged eye now fixed on the man, Dazai's hand tightened around the grip of his gun as he shifted, tense in his seat. He had no reason to linger, to subject himself to the stranger’s droning. For all he knew, the man could have been a spy—an enemy of the Port Mafia that Dazai would be better off luring outside and vanquishing in an alley.

Unfortunately, Mori had drilled into him the value of diplomacy, a harsh lesson delivered in ways only Mori could devise. He’d been taught that efficiency mattered above all else—every action deliberate and purposeful, every cruelty economical. Anyway, the Port Mafia’s reach touched every part of Yokohama; he didn’t need to waste his time. Mori would call it strategy. Dazai called it not caring, which, in practice, was close enough.

Setting his glass on the counter soundlessly, Dazai began to rise from his seat. Joe gently laid a textured, sun-reddened hand on the brunette’s shoulder.

“Hold on there—you still got another drink comin’.”

He flashed a crooked smirk in earnest.

“I’m Joe. ​And you? Or do you prefer sittin’ there lookin’ mysterious?” 

 

---

 

As his senses trickled back, Dazai told himself it was nothing—just a scrap of memory refusing to burn away. Even so, each night it pressed harder than the last, whispering, insisting. 

By morning, he knew it wasn’t a matter of if he gave in, but when. 

 

Wisps of morning light crept further into the room, an indicator of time’s unrelenting forward march that mocked his hollow dissociation. The ceiling, no more interesting than it had been for hours, finally drove him to rub the bleariness from his eyes. Every muscle in his body shivered—courtesy of a sinister cocktail of borderline malnutrition, incessant hangover, and lack of sleep.

Finally having reached a passable degree of sobriety, Dazai lifted gracelessly from his futon. Darkness bled into the edges of his vision as he stood, skull throbbing viciously while the room tilted around him. His stomach lurched, prompting his legs to carry him toward the bathroom before he’d had any say in the matter.

After a miserable ten minutes, the dry heaving subsided. Drained—but finally able to breathe—he eased back from the toilet to rest against the cool ceramic of the shower’s edge. Once able to force his head upright, the glimmer of fluorescent light bouncing off his phone’s fractured screen caught his eye, slumped on the tile like it had given up too.

Reluctant to move from his post by the shower, Dazai sluggishly raised a gangly leg over the phone, dragging it toward him with his heel. Once in his grasp, he tested the power button, letting his head thud back against the slab behind him when it refused to wake. Mustering the little strength left in his body, he staggered upright, stamping the floor to chase the pins and needles from his feet. He shuffled to his desk and plugged the device in, dropping it onto the marred wood—discarded like one of Chuuya’s cigarette butts. Unwilling to be confronted with the certainty of missed calls and texts, he turned to seek refuge in a hot shower. 

The shower handle squeaked as he turned it, sputtering before settling into a steady stream. He shed his sleepclothes and went to work unraveling the bandages that bound him, more out of ritual than necessity. As the weak stream trickled over him, Dazai hoped the—unfortunately lukewarm—spray would wash away the stink of sake, maybe even smother the craving Joe had left festering in him.

Just as it began, the water sputtered to a stop—once again leaving Dazai at the mercy of silence, broken only by the swishing of his toothbrush. What a shame to be alive, as he stood there nude, dismal, only his head and chest wetted by the sorry stream.

He stepped out, running a towel across his hair as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes blinked too fast, hair sticking in damp tufts, his face bearing a sickly pallor. He tilted his head—left, then right—studying the stranger in the glass, before smirking faintly as if the joke were on him.

The muted chime of his now-revived phone saved him from finishing the thought. As expected, several missed calls and texts clamored for attention, most from Chuuya. 

~ You’re not gonna believe what your little scourge Akutagawa said to me just now. I’ll tell u about it at home

~ Ane-san brought me a silk scarf from Kyoto. Don’t laugh but it actually suits me

~ Did you know Hirostu has a pet turtle?? 

~ Its name is Kiko

~ Where the hell are u? It’s late. Leaving the window unlocked. Don’t break ur neck climbing up the fire escape

~ Answer your damn phone

~ If you’re dead in a ditch somewhere I’m not dragging u out

Reading as he sat down in the desk chair, he rewrapped himself with new bandages, lacking his usual meticulous intent. As fond as he was of Chuuya—and of provoking his temper— it was never satisfying to be seen in such a state if it could be avoided.

— I answered. See? Alive and well. Buuuut a tongue-lashing from you might still kill meeeee, fingers crossed

~ Stupid Mackerel. 

~ I called u five times and I haven’t actually seen u since Thursday. You’ve been dodging me since then and now you’re texting me back at 7:30am when I usually can’t get a response until AT LEAST 10.

— And each one made my little heart flutter

— Consider me wooed 

~ Cut the crap asshole where are u?

— Here, irritating you, as is my solemn duty

~ Think you’re cute huh? Seriously where are you so I can go work with a clear head

— Omw to the office 

— I’ve turned over a new leaf to become the most dedicated, strikingly handsome, hardworking detective the agency has ever known

~ Bullshit. Yosano told me you haven’t shown up to work for days now

— Exactly. It’s a difficult job keeping Kunikida and company on their toes

— Thankfully shock and awe is my specialty. I would hate to deprive them of my shining presence

 

Suddenly reinvigorated by the reminder of his mission, Dazai quickly finished rebandaging and clothed himself in his everyday attire. Pocketing his beloved matchbox, he rifled through his small closet for anything that might suit his purpose. He settled on a large black backpack, several fanny packs—unflattering, but useful gifts from one of Kenji’s ill-fated bulk purchases—and a headlamp, one of Chuuya’s measures to keep him from ending up crumpled beneath the fire escape. 

Mind suspended, clouded in the wilderness of thought, Dazai flinched as the spry chime of his phone pinged.

~ U sound really off

~ Just come over I have some time before Mori needs me anywhere  

— Tempting, but no. Later

— After

~ Tf does that mean?

 

…

 

~ Osamu?

 

Dazai thought it wiser to leave things there—leaving Chuuya confused was preferable over lighting his fuse and walking away, at the very least sparing himself the damage control he would inevitably have to perform. Slipping the still battery-depleted phone into his pocket, the detective looped the empty backpack over his shoulders. The plastic clasps of the fanny packs dug into his ribs as he clumsily strapped them over his frame. 

He swept one last glance over the modest dormitory, checking for latched windows, shadows in their proper place, nothing left unsecured—old stains of Mori’s tact seeping out against his will. The photo, now laid facedown on his desk, trapped his gaze longer than he noticed. 

He pulled the door shut, imagining his time there would permit him to leave his ills behind, futile as it was. Something inside him ached, reminded of Mori’s disdain for childish ideals.

Halfway down the creaking, narrow steps to ground level, he noticed the foreign brush of air on his right arm. Slowing his pace, he ogled at the pale, unbandaged skin for a long moment, then let the omission stand. It hardly mattered now.

Overcast skies loomed above, rainclouds threatening to spill over the city. Echoes of Joe’s promise swathed him in a trance. Yokohama could have fallen to ruin around him, and he would not have stirred. He tried to anchor himself in the faint sting of petrichor in his nostrils, the tack of humidity on his skin— but still, the craving gnawed at him like a second pulse with each step toward the agency.

By the time he reached the outer door, the tremor in his hands returned. He forced them still against the frame before slipping inside, footsteps quiet against the mossy green tile. The headlamp nestled in his backpack seemed to beckon him. Dazai obliged, strapping it on.

Instead of heading straight for the main office, he turned down the hall toward Yosano’s room, finding it devastatingly empty. 

Her absence rang inside him, and, for a moment, the air felt too thin to breathe.

He shut the door, wide-eyed and twitching with frustration. Realizing the solution to his dilemma, a strange calm settled in place of aggravation. 

Spinning back into the hall, he darted toward the main office. Kunikida would have answers.

Mad dash morphing into gentle waltz, he entered.

Notes:

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