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The raindrops sang a sad and sweet melody. Melancholic, nostalgic, yet hopeful, nourishing. The air smelled different during the rain. It was colder inside his lungs now, each time he breathed in the feeling was almost exhilarating. There wasn’t even any wind. Terrible stillness against the rippling disturbance of the rain. The comforting chill of it, too, welcomed and embraced. Dazai tapped his foot, watching and listening how the wet ground responded to his action. Tiny drops wetting his shoes superficially. But most importantly, he liked the sound. The absence of it that came with a rainfall like this one. Tap-tap-tap. Not many people were out in such weather and if they were, they were likely seeking shelter.
He had found his shelter. This tiny gazebo deep in the park. Too old, too small and too hidden to attract people here. But the wild greens grew around it without control or care, creating a garden of sorts, wild and untamed. Dazai stayed here not because he feared soaking through. He was waiting. It was only ever the reason for him to stay somewhere, ever. Standing was getting tedious; Dazai sat down and crossed his legs. Still just as quiet as before and just as still. A thin and delicate veil on the face of the world. The drops moved the leaves upon falling; they exploded hitting the ground, sending ripples. But other than that, the world was at halt. If he couldn’t derive pleasure from it, he could appreciate it. The way one appreciates a painting or a good book.
Dazai opened his book, knowing it word for word, yet still reading it. Truly reading it, appreciating it. This state of waiting, of anticipating something was exhilarating yet calming. He knew that they would come. Without a doubt, without fail. They would come here. But what would happen after that, he could only guess at. This was a territory he held no ground in. He didn’t want to guess, however, or try to predict. It was a rare opportunity not to fully know. He didn’t want to spoil this feeling.
Every year, once a year, during the rainy season, they managed to find each other here. It was as intentional as any searching went. The only person he allowed himself to meet. The only one who was allowed to find him after fleeting Mafia. Against all rational thought, he let them remain attached to him. Despite knowing what was best for either of them, he allowed this day to repeat again and again.
Chuuya fell down on the ground. Gravity-manipulator used Corruption and was rendered useless. Dazai sighed, a little annoyed.
“Move!” they were eager to command. Perhaps if their voice wasn’t as flat as it was, he would consider it an order. “We have to find shelter from the rain.”
“I know,” Dazai agreed, irritated. He wasn’t looking forward to manual labor in such weather. Taking Chuuya by the hands and them taking his legs, they moved unconscious body inside a mall abandoned gazebo. The wood was old and dark and started to faintly smell of rot. Chuuya was laid down on the bench, breathing steadily yet still unconscious. They flexed their fingers and placed them on his stomach.
“We can’t let him stay soaked and freeze,” they said as if to justify their actions. Dazai didn’t exactly care. He understood what they were trying to do without having to explain themselves.
“Sorry I can’t help you.” They sounded truly guilty of this inherent inability. It was so typical of them to apologize for things outside of their control. Aggravating quality to possess and so proudly display. Young mafioso wasn't in the greatest mood to begin with to tolerate their with dismissive, apathetic silence.
“Don’t apologize for something out of your control,” Dazai scolded, turning away and choosing to stand at the entrance. “You should dry yourself off.”
“No. In a state like this, during weather like this, I am much less powerful.”
“All the more reason.” Merciful wasn't a word to describe the demonic protégé . But he still dropped the clear statement that they were weak regardless of the circumstances.
“No,” they insisted, annoyed. “It is, as you said, a circumstance I cannot control. I have to learn to work under temperatures so low my teeth would chatter.”
“Where is that in Japan?”
“Oh, stop it, you,” they laughed. “I’ve practicing. A lot. For eight weeks now.”
“Someone is teaching you now?”
“No. I’m teaching myself. However, Mori came to know about it. He asked for weekly reports on my progress. It’s been three weeks since then.”
“And what did he say?”
“Nothing of substance. But he starts to see potential in me.”
“That’s good,” Dazai slightly turned his head to see what they were doing. He couldn’t recognize the expression on their face since it was too dark and in profile. But he could guess it was a neutral as it always was. Unshakable. Unmovable. At times Dazai found himself annoyed at that. They could, at least, pretend.
“No! No, it’s not!” Even when their voice was raised, it still sounded flat. “He just hopes I could set things ablaze or steal heat from bodies…that would be very...‘physician’ of him. I know how he thinks. So, now he has someone watching over me.”
Dazai was relieved to see that they were not looking at him. No one was able to notice how repulsed he was. Because those were precisely his thoughts too. And he felt regret. If that was their potential, he should have seen it first and taken them in before anyone else. Such ability could prove very useful. He was too late. He lost to Mori.
The only person he deemed worthy of staying close after his betrayal and escape. Because he knew they wouldn’t question him, less so turn him in. He knew them as he knew the palm of his hand. Better, he knew them as a person he sought to know. Barely a year younger than him; they were both fifteen then. Until June of that year, they were both fifteen and in the Mafia. A child of a low-rank Mafia member born with a minor ability. Dazai loathed them. The only person who aggravated him more was Nakahara Chuuya, his partner, a significant annoyance. But this naïve child assigned to him due to appropriate age, he loathed them greatly until June of that year. Inexperienced, incompetent, sheltered child with an insignificant ability gave him a birthday present. “Mori mentioned you are not fifteen anymore. So, I thought you had a birthday.” What an incomprehensible thing they did, what a terrible sin of kindness.
Someone approached and folded their umbrella. Dazai raised his head and smiled.
And so they came. A terrible sin against Mafia. If someone was to know that they were meeting a traitor here. An unforgivable sin born out of duty of care. Neither of them ever asked the other about meeting here. They simply did; each motivated by something unspoken and unobserved.
“Quite the weather,” they spoke nonchalantly, shaking off the wetness from the umbrella. The recognition in their eyes felt familial. The smile gracing their features hadn’t changed despite everything that changed. The child he remembered being resentful of had changed: no longer incompetent, no longer naïve, no longer sheltered.
Dazai was taken in by Mori Ougai. The things he could say to describe the man, the words he could string together to create the feeling of him… Quite unpleasant. Secrets of his very few were privy to were no less sinful than the man himself. Those who were capable of loyalty and devotion said Mori was looking ahead, into the future of Port Mafia by taking an apprentice. Dazai deemed it foolhardy and a digging of one’s own grave. He wasn’t capable of loyalty or devotion. That’s why it was foolhardy. But that time, strangely, he could remember vaguely. It seemed as if Mori grabbed him by the hand and led him into a study. And then the demonic protégé had become the youngest underboss in the history of Port Mafia. And he just accepted the fate dealt. Eventually, he would become the next leader and take over Port Mafia.
And Chuuya was mostly taken by Ozaki Kouyou. But this child, a year younger than either Dazai or Chuuya, was less lucky. Insignificant ability, young, naïve, moistly useless but belonging to the Mafia like a property sold and signed for. Mori wasn’t willing to let them loose. A dog is born a dog, he said. Dazai knew his mentor meant to say slave, trained and obedient. Thrown around because they could be, because it was easy to do to a child. Because Dazai refused to officially take them under his ruling. He refused to, denied them that opportunity to feel like they belonged. Weak, nugatory, not enough. Some part of him was waiting for them to simply get crashed, swallowed by the darkness of the world they were born into. A sin in itself to be born. But more the weight of it to be born of Mafia and as unfitting as they were. If there was a sliver of hope he could ever offer to another person, he disdained to even try. It was a sin in Mafia. And there are no slivers of hope there either. Lying is a sin everywhere, truthfulness is a sin in the wold of trembling darkness. Thus, in a place dark and cold they were shunned because of his inability to understand it.
Until Mori placed them in Soukoku once just to see if it would help the fighting. Only a diamond can polish a diamond, he said, but one doesn’t do it by smashing them against each other. Dazai never showed it to Mori. Not even for a second did his boss catch on the fact how much Dazai loathed the idea of having to work with the two people he detested. As if Dazai would allow himself to reveal that much about himself to someone like Mori. Tiny mafioso could be amusing in his own right and he was strong. That Mori could have. But that weakling, fleeing and easy to be startled away by people, was too much to bear. But the order from the boss is obsolete. And so, the three of them — two boys of sixteen and a fifteen-year old — worked together once, twice. He detested them a little less each time, noticing how they managed to avert the inevitable clashing between two boys. It wasn’t because he respected their skill but because he found it convenient. At times, Chuuya’s temper was less fun and more of a liability.
Still a child then, a year younger, they knew where Dazai and Chuuya would spend their free time but never came. Two boys of sixteen as unable to get along as they were yet having nobody else. The world of adults so eager to reject unless they were needed. Dazai once found them alone, sitting on the floor, with one hand over their knees and a book in the other. Ostracized, alienated, and just as rejected. He approached them not because he felt guilt or empathy. Of that he was sure. But if he was required to give an answer, he couldn’t. A whim would be a plausible answer. Perhaps he was curios how can a person with ability like that could hold a book without setting it on fire. Perhaps he thought it would be fun or entertaining. Needless to say, he invited them to come with him. Chuuya was shocked to witness Dazai being considerate of another person. But hat-wreck had half-a-brain to not question Dazai’s intentions in front of the other person lest appearing too cruel, too mocking, too eager to hurt.
Soon, he found their control over using their ability to be far superior to anyone he’d met. The power behind, however, most insignificant. Soon, he found their presence as unbothering as anything in that room. To this day he wasn’t sure if it was their quiet nature or intentional effort to blend in with the furniture. Perhaps it was fear that drove them or rejection they met all around. Focused on the book before them, they rarely talked unless spoken to and only ever answered questions halfheartedly. Chuuya was especially bad with his phrasing and giving too much leeway to obfuscate.
“What so interesting about this book?” Nakahara mocked, tapping their forehead in a playful, friendly manner.
“It doesn’t disturb me when reading.”
“Smartass much?” Nakahara was never enraged by them, not truly, despite their glib and flippant answers.
“It’s the reading, sorry.”
Dazai laughed, thoroughly entertained, falling back against the chair. That, however, awoken the wrath of the short mafioso. Dazai was baffled why one thing could cause such a reaction in Nakahara while something more audacious was overlooked. But he never let his lack of understanding to slip and show, careful lest any trace of it would be visible. He, of course, came to understand it a bit later in life.
He placed the book in his lap. “Nothing like the rain.” They nodded in mute agreement. Without questions or a proper invitation, they came inside and sat opposite of him. Dressed in casual clothes they seemed so extraordinarily normal. Nothing would suggest the things this person could do in the dark. Dazai envied what he saw in those eyes: how they didn’t not desire death or cruelty, remaining passive, indifferent mostly. It may as well be an answer to survival in the dark uncaring world of cruelty and viciousness. The only curiosity he’d ever seen in those eyes is when it came to books. A shame, truly, he never thought of introducing them. Why hadn’t he? That’s right. When Dazai met Oda, he was already an executive. And whatever fragile relationship they had, it fell apart and turned to dust by then. Both were pulled in the opposite direction by people who wanted something from them. The world of adults eager to accept them now that they were a little older, a little less children, a little less. It forced them in, twisting, menacing yet so stimulating. The two of them were suddenly demanded in the world of adults that shunned them before. Both mutely accepted the cards dealt to them. To accept something with acquiesce as they did was it sinful or virtuous? Were they hopeless and despaired or benevolent, thankless martyrs?
“I said it before and I’ll say it again.” they spoke softly. Fingers tracing the shape of the umbrella anxiously; the water vaporizing from the touch. “It’s nice to see fewer bandages on you.”
“Why?” he asked, curios, fully turning to face them. This was the best of meeting here once a year, every year. The best part of having to have kept one person from his previous life and knowing he chose wisely. The conversation he thinks they will have, they could have, and will have is never the same conversation. He preferred to keep it this way, not to think much about them, not knowing them no more than the palm of his hand. Diving in too deep in their mind and he feared to predict it. And then today would loose its beckoning charm.
“It seems like you are healing,” they said as if the answer was obvious. “And this is the first time you actually asked. Before you simply glanced it off.”
“Did I?”
“You are doing it again,” they pouted. They caught on. He could never understand why or how and what gave him away. But they’ve always caught on sooner or later. Dazai wanted to ask if it truly seemed like he was healing or if they could notice any difference. But he couldn’t. If the answer wasn’t what he wanted to hear, he didn’t know what he’d do.
“Some things about you never change,” they said as if reading his mind. Some things meant there were things that have changed, right? It was foolish to grasp at straws as he was doing now. But straws were better than grasping nothing, not even thin air.
“I could say the same about you,” he said instead of speaking his mind, stretching his back.
“Same old book,” they shook their head in disbelief. “How old is it now?”
Dazai looked down o his lap. A book with a cover touched too frequently yet still looking none the worse for wear. He had taken a great deal of care not to damage it, to preserve it. But he would not speak of the plastic bag tucked in his pocket to carry this book here in this weather. He cared for his one and only birthday present.
“You know when you gave it to me,” he shrugged. “You can count yourself.”
“Already sensitive about your age?” they teased.”A pity. You’ll only get older and live even longer.”
Dazai grimaced. “Don’t place such a curse on me.”
“As if it could stick to you. Even the rain doesn’t hurt you. I have an actual umbrella with me, and yet you are dryer.”
He smirked. It was only because he came very early in the day when the clouds were only gathering. He had known today to be the day they’d meet. There was a great deal of care put into their meeting on each side. They couldn’t be followed. No one in the Mafia could know they were meeting. That was a threat on their livelihood more than his. However, if Mori were to know, he’d likely make them fish for information more than traitor’s execution. Rainy days, that’s why.
They scooted to the side of the bench to rest their head against the wooden pillar. Always so protective of personal space, reluctant to take up more than needed yet loathing to give up what they claimed. That was something that hadn’t changed since they were younger. Dazai had noticed it early on in the strange definition of friendship that was budding between the three of them. Always taking up the side of the leather sofa with the armrest. Always in whatever book they were reading at that time. One day Dazai was bored. He entered the room, they didn’t notice. He came to the sofa, they didn’t even flinch. That day Dazai decided to invade that little world they created in their headspace. He turned around, “One.” Still no reaction from the other person. Dazai rose on tiptoes. “Two.” And then he fell on the old leather sofa backwards. His head landed on their lap, legs comfortably resting on the inside arm. “Three,” he giggled, watching shock washing over their face. Eyes wide and fearful, they were looking down while he was giggling. But then, they calmed down. Again the expression of indifference was swapped for that of surprise.
“Read to me,” Dazai all but demanded. It was an exhaustively boring day. He was desperate for entertainment. They sighed to show their reluctance.
"You don't know the characters or the setting," they complained.
"I can make it up," he grinned and tapped his temple. "Just continue reading but out loud this time."
They started to read to him. That was the only time he could recall their voice coloured with sincere emotions, feeble and muted, but obviously present.
Dazai picked up the book from his lap and stood up. The person sitting before him indifferent to the change. Always apathetic to everything around them. After having met Akutagawa and Chuuya, he knew how they were reacting to his presence, to the idea of him being alive and on the opposite side. But not this person. Not once did they show any trace of emotion. They were not angry or hateful, which at first pleased him. Now he was bothered by the absence of emotion, slighted even.
“Chuuya made me his subordinate,” they said. A year ago they met and talked a little more about their current lives. “He doesn’t treat me like one when we are alone. And when he’s drunk, he says your name. Incomprehensibly but the emotion is there.” They should have laughed after saying this or smiled but didn't. Their indifference faltered only for a moment so short, he almost started to doubt it, and it only happened to touch a corner of their lips. If that wavering was true, was it because they were rueful?
“You can become an executive instead,” Dazai offered passively, chasing away his thoughts. Those wouldn't do him any good, he needed to be in the moment for fear of missing another slip up.
“Mori won’t allow it,” they answered, amused. “He detests me.”
“Why?”
“He always did.”
Dazai felt uncomfortable asking the same question twice. But there was no other way of knowing. He placed his elbow on his knee to support his head. “Why?”
“Because I wasn’t…. enough of a child, I guess.”
“You were the most childlike person I’ve met there. Including Chibi.”
They laughed. “You’ve mistaken my beliefs for naiveté, my passive nature for inexperience, my weariness of people for sheltered childhood. Or maybe you didn’t. I don’t remember myself very well from back then.”
The bandaged man hummed, intrigued. He tilted his head, observing them once again. They had changed, of course, they had. It was in their height, in their posture. It had shown in their face, thinner and sharper than before, the lines under their eyes. But the look in those eyes hadn’t changed. He couldn't know and couldn't tell if it was for the best. “Tell me then.”
They shook their head. “We don’t have time for that. And that’s a bad topic too. Let’s talk about something interesting.”
Their hand traced the wet bench beside them. The liquid vaporized. The pleasant smell of wood mixed with fresh air. “Come,” they beckoned, petting the old bench. Dazai smirked, noting the improvement in their skill, power, and control. Control was never something they lacked but, still, it was impressive to watch. He had no doubt they could burn this old gazebo to the ground, set it ablaze in seconds. He sat down next to them.
“Nothing like rain for the garden of the soul,” they spoke absentmindedly, looking into the distance. The rain hadn’t let up in the slightest. Still strong and drumming against the roof, the ground, and the leaves.
The garden of the soul. Dazai had questions he didn’t dare to ask. Did he have a garden like that? Perhaps neglected and pestered by weed and rotten roots, but it would still be there. Perhaps dying and never have bloomed, but it was better than not having it at all. Could he do anything? Could he learn to care for it? Pluck the weeds, nourish the soil. Perhaps it could improve. Perhaps it could even bloom one day. But he held no answer to those questions. And posing them he was incapable of. Was he capable of change and had he? He wanted to ask if they saw it in his eyes: the craving of death. He couldn’t tell so himself. It could be that he simply wanted not to notice it staring back at him in the mirror.
There was no such thing as fate, but he wanted to know if he was the unchangeable constant.
It was always easier with other people: to notice the change, to tell the differences. And he wished they'd ask him if they changed. He could tell. He could tell so much. But they never asked. Never spoken more than needed, more than sought. Never posing question he knew the answers to as if afraid to bore him.
He wanted to know if they felt anything when he left, when they found out he was alive. How did they feel about him working for the opposite side? They never showed anger or relief, any concern or surprise. No hatred, no spite, no grudge. He didn’t know if he should respect and admire that instead of feeling insulted. He could ask but he wouldn’t get an answer. And if he did, he wouldn’t know what to do with it. After all, they were here today just as they were last year. And — if he dared to develop hope — they’d be here next year as well. Maybe next year he could ask without dejection, without trepidation, if he was hated by them. If they felt angry with him. If he, inadvertently, betrayed them. And if there was any hope for him inside their heart. He held no such hope for himself. But just because he didn’t have didn’t mean he had to stop. What’s so wrong about trying to make your world a little more beautiful? He would wander the darkness for eternity. There was nothing that would fill the hole inside him. Except, maybe, just for this one day in a year.
Dazai placed his head on their lap. They hid their hands, crossing them, assuming a defensive position. Just like when they were young and in the Mafia.
“Go on, read to me,” they prompted and closed their eyes. Dazai rested the book on his chest and started to read. The pages and the words were engraved in his mind. He changed the words and twisted the sentences, watching if they would notice and react. But they didn’t. Dazai continued to read.