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To be fair, it didn't immediately start out like that. Atsushi was a hopeless romantic, yes, but not that hopeless. He wasn't the type who'd "fall in love at first sight" or whatever ridiculous tomfoolery they teach the children these days. Love was tough, and he hadn't yet collected enough experience to know how it truly felt.
Until he met the man in black.
In all honesty, he would look alien to the place--if it weren't for the fact that he was apparently (as Atsushi's manager had graciously informed him), a regular here.
The first time that the bartender had caught sight of him was nothing special. He had just entered through the door, as other customers do, sat on one of the barstools, and ordered a drink. Checking his wristwatch every now and then, he would speak about his friends, whom he was apparently waiting for. Atsushi, only doing his job (which didn't suit him, apparently because he looked too young to be in a place like this, the man had said, and they weren't wrong), poured him a drink, and that was the extent of their interaction.
Over the next few weeks, he would return once in a while, often with friends from work that were also in formal business attire. Atsushi paid them only a little attention, only speaking to them when directly addressed or when asking for their bill, just like he does with other customers
One night, the man went into the bar alone. The air around him exuded a heavy hint of metal and cigarette smoke. Atsushi tended to him, as usual, but with more and more glasses of liquor, hesitance drew in and he'd stopped serving the man after the 15th shot of whiskey, telling him, "Sir, we don't particularly appreciate dead bodies in our establishment."
He laughed in a drunken haze, slurred to him about how he was "such a killjoy", and playfully asked for just one last please? which made Atsushi shake his head intently. The man slumped his forehead against the counter--quite unceremoniously may he add--that Atsushi was worried he'd cracked his skull against it. A defeated sigh flew out of him. An odd sense of pity for the man almost set inside Atsushi’s mind, in the dedicated space where he stored all the memories of him floating by like an enigma.
He was all sad and miserable, yes, but then he burped loudly, as any wasted person does--one of the things to cross off their to-do-list of "things to do when drunk" and Atsushi furrowed his brow, done with his antics.
The bartender only continued wiping a wine glass with a cloth, quietly hoping in the back of his head that the man would pay his tab soon enough. Truthfully, Atsushi had no idea how to deal with him, and he wasn’t obligated to nor did he have the time to. Right now, he was on a job which meant he had to serve drinks and not... comfort a drunk man out of miserably drinking to death. As the hours flew by, he only sat there on the barstool, like someone patiently waiting.
(Atsushi would later learn that he was waiting for absolutely no one and was just messing with him.)
Bored and glazed, a lonely brown eye was staring off into the distance (he always covered the other one with bandages.) Usually, he’d be loud when drunk, wouldn’t he? Finding it odd, Atsushi kept observing him.
Then, he saw it. Looking to be contemplating a deep thought or an existential question, the man appeared as sullen as a child who'd been abandoned by their parents. There was absolutely no shine in those dim, dark pupils, only a bottomless sorrow of nothingness. Empty. He was a train to nowhere. A ride with no destination. A locked chest with only dust inside. For the second time that night, Atsushi felt pity for him. How could someone that powerful be so miserable? Even so, the bartender could only watch from afar, unsure what he could even do to help.
Until, those frosted soil eyes stared back at him.
Immediately, he went back to what he was doing (and planted his sight firmly to the counter while he was at it), unsettled and flushed red in the face. He was caught staring, god why. The man probably thought he was rude.
But instead, those devious lips curled at the corners.
The man put one of his bandaged palms above Atsushi's (the one not holding the rag). He spoke, "Would you like to have a double suicide with me?"
The words set Atsushi’s cheeks aflame. At the same time, it deeply concerned him. Just who is this guy? Does he normally ask random people to die with him? Atsushi instantly retook his hand back. A hesitant declaration. “Uh… sir, I’m not sure about that.”
“Wait,” he blinked several times, like a child who had just gained sentience. He shook his head, coming back to his senses, which Atsushi was oh, so grateful for, “You’re not a woman. Forgive me… I must’ve had too much to drink.”
Yeah, you really did, Atsushi thought, too polite to actually say it to the man’s face.
That night was odd, indeed, but ever since then, Atsushi found himself constantly sneaking glances at the mysterious man every time he visited. There was just something mystical, something awful and melancholy about his existence. Of course, because of that, they had their fair share of sudden, and awkward eye contact that told him just how much of a nosy person Atsushi probably was.
(When their eyes met, brown eyes only offered him a glacial indifference that made him mind his own business out of intimidation. Now, there were no verbalizations from him that told Atsushi that, but he still felt that it was rude to stare, so he would quickly pan his gaze back to the tasks at hand in order to avoid staring at the man in his free time.)
It was another night on which the man went alone to the bar. This time, he kept fairly sober, only getting himself two orders of cranberry juice, of all things, and no alcohol to be wasted and passed out on the counter (after which, and depending on the day, either one of his friends or Atsushi would give the man a shoulder to usher him out of the establishment before they close up). The bartender had the itching curiosity to ask why the order, sir? Theoretically, he could’ve just gone somewhere else and not here, but why did he insist on staying?
“Come sit with me. Let’s have a talk.”
Atsushi tilted his head to the side, an “eh?” flying out of his mouth, “Are you talking to me, sir?”
“Mhm, if you’re worried about your manager, I’ve talked to him,” he said casually, as if there was nothing suspicious about that statement at all, “You’re on break, come on,” he patted the barstool next to him.
Atsushi looked around for his manager who only gave him a nod. He decided to finish up mixing the cranberry drink before settling on the stool beside him. He handed him the beverages which the man gave him a quiet thanks for, but he only took one. The other was left in front of the bartender. Atsushi promptly asked, "Aren't you going to take this one, sir?"
"That one's for you.”
To which he immediately responded by flashing a look of disbelief at the man, his cheeks setting on fire like he was a cranberry about to burst. Involuntarily, of course. "W-why?"
“Well, first of all,” the man started, sipping on the drink. The hints of a frown evident on his face, “why do you look at me funny?”
Atsushi jumps up in surprise at the question. “It’s just a coincidence, sir! I swear.”
“Really now? Or do you have other reasons for it?” he asked with the rise of a curved eyebrow.
No, sir, it really wasn’t because you asked me to commit suicide with you, Atsushi said in his mind.
“I did what!?” The stranger, taken aback for more than a few mere seconds, planted his palms on the counter, looking at him with such surprised eyes that Atsushi thought they might fall out of his skull. That was an exaggeration, of course, but at the moment, it felt like that. He’d never seen the man look so bewildered before, as he only had a set range of facial expressions when alone, like a committed stoic who’d lost faith in life itself.
Which also meant that: Oh no, did he say that out loud?
Atsushi hid his face behind his palms. The heat was so evident then, like someone put him in front of a volcano, and the lava was embarrassment in liquid form.
Although apparently, he wasn’t the only one embarrassed.
The bandaged man let out a noise of frustration, palm against his forehead and elbow against the counter. “Seriously?”
Atsushi only nodded.
The man’s chest heaved, trembling. And then he broke out into a fit of laughter. For the first time ever since Atsushi saw him, he laughed without the presence of his friends.
Atsushi felt the need to protect that laugh.
And so, an awkward giggle behind a gloved palm, was something that Atsushi thought could suffice--to ease the unfamiliarity between them. Maybe they could even be friends.
Here is the scene where Atsushi finally realized his growing crush on the mysterious bandaged man.
Picture this: a man walks into a bar (and no, it isn't the kind of opening line for a joke, trust him on that one), clad in pristine bandages and donning an all-black outfit that exuded an air of mystery only found in detective novels. He graces the air around him with only his sheer presence. And everyone in the room goes to stare at the dark angel who’s decided to come down from heaven and mercifully walk the blemished earth full of mortals like Atsushi.
Atsushi, who is at the moment busy restocking flowers in an elegant porcelain vase, stops his task to stare in awe. A lonely brown eye notices his starry-eyed stare, and he flinches once again, placing all his focus into the bundle of pink Camellias in his hand instead.
(This time, when their eyes met, the man smiled at him. Politely, of course--and possibly only that. The gesture never failed to make Atsushi’s poor heart go thump, thump, thump, in his chest, as if begging to be let out.)
A song starts to play in the background, someone must have requested it because Atsushi’s never heard it before. The guitar chord progression adds to the charming ambience that the man has brought into the dimly lit bar. Atsushi smiles, pleased with the display of Camellias standing upright on a vase. The fragrance of it fills his nose with a sort of longing, aching, yearning. It is beautifully poignant, like the beautiful stranger who is now raising his hand to order an alcoholic drink.
You’ve got me stuck to where I’m sitting,
looking at your eyes.
Atsushi goes to him, tending to his duty and fulfilling it quite nicely with the slosh of a burning liquid pouring into a glass. The man thanks him again. A sense of pride swells up in his chest. He sits on the opposite side of the counter doing nothing but appreciate the exquisite beauty of a Camellia, fallen in the autumn night. He wants to bring the color back into those lonely eyes again.
And I know I’m so pathetic,
I wouldn’t move to save my life.
The man doesn’t say anything further, instead clutching the cold glass in one hand and swinging it up to his lips. He scans the room, shifting on the stool impatiently. Is he waiting for his friends? Once he confirms that they’re not there yet, he deflates, setting down the empty glass back on the counter and calling Atsushi for a cup of water.
They tell me that you’re lonely.
It’s no surprise,
when you walk around all day
wearing those lonely, lonely,
lonely eyes.
Atsushi is brought out of his dazed daydreaming when the man politely repeats his request. Atsushi hurries to bring him a cup of water, even spilling some on himself because of clumsiness. The man laughs at him, and Atsushi can’t find it in himself to get mad. His laugh, so melodious and pleasant to the ears, like a wind chime swaying with the breeze, but rarer (or so he thinks, it’s rare that Atsushi makes him laugh), like the clink of silver falling out of a treasure chest. It’s a melody he can listen to for the rest of his life.
I try to tell you jokes,
I’m afraid you’d cry.
Atsushi doesn’t want him looking so sullen ever again, nor does he want to haul him out of the bar when he’s just five shots away from alcohol poisoning. He wants the man to be happy, but more importantly, he wants to make him happy. It sounds great, being happy with him. Together. Oh how much of an untethered dream that is.
And if you need a little sunshine,
you can borrow some of mine.
The bandaged man speaks to him, “What’s gotten you all excited?”
“Excited? Me?” Atsushi points to himself, “No, it’s nothing, sir,” he laughs off awkwardly. The music still plays in the background, and he realizes he’s been daydreaming because of it.
“It’s okay if you’re unhappy,”
I would say before I leave her.
“If you say so,” the man tips the cup of water, drinking it all and putting it back down on the table, “but I can tell there’s something bothering you. Is it a pretty girl?”
Atsushi shakes his head profusely.
The bandaged man smiles in amusement. He’s the one who came here to drink, but somehow, Atsushi is more drunk (off a certain feeling) than him. He’s just naturally intoxicating. Atsushi’s world sways around him. Makes way for him like blades of grass parting for the wind. He is the highlight of Atsushi's passing day. A bright, morning star, blinding and beautiful. He is the rain to Atsushi’s sunshine. Together, they will create a rainbow, colorful and light. He is the world to Atsushi’s moon. A stable ground in this crazy, ever-shifting world.
But right now, he is a bundle of Camellias so eloquent and alluring, changing the atmosphere of each and every room he is in.
When he supposes Atsushi is turned away, a bored look arrives on the man’s face. It’s obscured by his brown hair and the bandages that go around his head. He asks for another drink, and he’s back to being a husk of a human being again. Atsushi, while preparing him another glass, comes to the conclusion that he must be so lonely without his friends around. There’s a slight insecurity in admitting that fact. Isn’t Atsushi enough for him?
Just take a look around,
There's no one here that’s happy either.
His friends from what Atsushi heard is the actual Port Mafia soon make an appearance. And Atsushi retreats to one corner of the bar, watching them enjoy themselves with familiar glee.
There is an old song by a foreign singer (that his manager adores so, if the amount of times it’s played in the bar says anything.) It goes along the lines of:
Wise men say…
Only fools rush in.
But I can't help
falling in love
with you.
It’s perfect, for Atsushi is a proper fool that rushed in.
(Oh yes, the rush was so great that he had just realized that he hadn't even asked for the bandaged man's name yet, even with all their time spent talking and idly chatting together.
No, he isn't too shy to ask for his name. It just… slipped out of his mind, really.)
"Wait, you still don't know it?" the bandaged man asks while another bewildered expression comes from him, "I thought you would've heard at some point. Or are you just acting innocent?” Dazai squints, “You little eavesdropper."
"No, that's not it!" Atsushi exclaims in shame, "I--fine. I know your name. I just thought it would be weird if I already knew without you telling me."
"Hmm, in that case," the man stretches out a hand to him, offering a handshake, "the name's Dazai. Dazai Osamu."
The only consolation that Atsushi has for falling harder at that moment, is that Dazai is hot. The way he said his own name? It makes Atsushi feel like a lady being courted by a charming prince. To be fair, Dazai looks kind of princely himself. Maybe just sweep his hair back, put him in less darker clothes, and god, Atsushi is ready to have a nosebleed right there. He clears his throat though, to refrain from fantasizing.
"Well, just call me Atsushi. Nakajima Atsushi."
Dazai quickly chides in, stifling a laugh, "Isn't that on your nametag, though?"
He spits out his drink, the move of fools.
It’s been four weeks, and Dazai hasn’t been to the bar even once. Atsushi misses him already.
The Camellias are wilting in their vases. Taking an umbrella from the stand beside the door, he heads out to buy more from the flower shop just down the street.
Plip. Plip. Ploop. Plip. Plip.
Light raindrops dribble on top of his umbrella. It never snows in Yokohama, it only ever rains. Someone once said that his hair looks like snow. When will they come back? He walks to the flower shop sadly, the wet sound of his shoes clacking against the sidewalk.
Opening the glass door, the caretaker of the shop greets him and immediately hands him the bouquet of Camellias which his manager had already paid for. The walk back to the bar is a solemn one. The floral scent assaults his nose, and reminds him too much of Dazai. He cradles it against his chest in fear that the rain would ruin it.
Bang!
The sound of gunshots takes place somewhere in the city. Probably a zone controlled by the Port Mafia. Dazai is part of the Mafia, isn’t he?
A pink petal flies through the air, dropping to the rain-soaked pavement and floating on a small puddle. Atsushi swears under his breath. He just wishes he wouldn’t die.
It takes a couple of months for Dazai to return again.
But when he does, he looks certainly worse for wear. Two dark bags have collected underneath his eyes, gray and lifeless, like a zombie crawling out of its grave. He's sluggish, too, not even bothering to greet Atsushi. He just enters, downtrodden and unenergetic, sits down on one of the barstools, and asks for a drink.
Of course, Atsushi lights up once he sees Dazai come back, but the joy leaves as soon as it comes. A deep frown gets drawn on both of their faces, and none is too bothered by it to say anything. Dazai is too busy consuming another alcoholic drink, and Atsushi is too busy serving him it. The situation is a mirror of the first lonely night he arrived here, except now he's certainly less talkative and more gloomy.
Pulling out his newly bought earbuds out of his pocket and putting them back in his ears, Atsushi continues playing the song which he’d paused earlier. The lyrics left off at this part:
Well, the days keep going by,
and it doesn’t get much better.
Dazai downs the drink in one go and moves on to another shot like he’s about to drink himself to death. Frankly, Atsushi won’t even be surprised if that’s his intention, what with the words the man had told him one lonely evening. “Would you like to commit double suicide with me?”
You could be threatening to jump,
and all your friends would just scream,
“Let her.”
And where is anyone to take care of him, anyway? Why is he always so alone, despite being so powerful? Atsushi notices that he took off the bandages protecting his eye. There seems to be no problem behind the strands of cloth that once covered it. Why did he cover it then? Was he just waiting… for someone to take it off him?
Still, Atsushi can’t bring himself to look at the sullen, earth-colored eyes in fear that Dazai will look at him and think he’s judging the man somehow, so he just stands there, behind the counter, doing nothing to console him because he’s too much of a coward to prod.
They count on you to leave,
cause it’s always been that way.
But on the one day they close early,
that’s the one you want to stay.
The night flies by without a hitch (or in Dazai’s case, a break from alcoholic drinks.) In just a span of 2 hours, he has consumed enough alcohol to kill a fully grown woman, and Atsushi’s getting more and more worried. He tries to reason the same thing he said that first night, but the only reply he gets is (in a sluggish, slurred tone), “Don’t care… I wanna die…” and Dazai ended the sentence with a drunken laugh.
“Please don’t.” Still, Atsushi’s not letting go of the bottle of vodka, instead placing it far from the man.
Like a child throwing a tantrum, Dazai bangs his fist against the counter, saying, “W-who are you anyways, you’re… haha, not him! Can’t… tell me what to d-do,” he hiccups.
Hesitantly, Atsushi replies, “I’m your friend. Please, Dazai-san, listen to me.”
“All my friends are dead!”
The words make Atsushi flinch in shock. Then comes a sad laugh from Dazai, a crazed laugh, a… laugh. Atsushi can’t find the words to describe it, but it certainly isn’t a happy one. How can he be happy--with that revelation that he just threw upon him? If that’s true, then he’s mourning, and it’ll be understandable.
But what isn’t understandable is the fact that he wants to die alongside his apparently deceased friends.
“Well, they wouldn’t want you to die!”
“But I’d like… to s-see them again...”
“You don’t know if that’ll happen!”
Dazai starts off with a laugh, then looks at Atsushi, brown eyes encased in a thick overgrowth of brimming tears, “D-do you know… if it won’t?”
Atsushi averts his gaze, he might cry too. “Why do you even want to die so badly?”
“Why not…?” his voice trembles, “Dying, living… is t-too much of a pain…I can’t, just c-can’t do it!” he pouts, dragging out the last syllable.
It’s no use, the man doesn’t care anymore. The best that Atsushi can probably do is to convince him not to do it right here. But still, he doesn’t give up. He won’t let Dazai die.
“Or, well, what about…” Atsushi hesitates, and it’s because he’s ran out of points to say, “your plans of committing double suicide? Wouldn’t that be better than dying here?”
Atsushi grimaces.
“Right…” Dazai slurs.
“Right?” Atsushi scratches the back of his head, “I can’t serve you any more drinks because you might die, but you asked me to commit double suicide with you, and for the sake of this moment let’s just say I agree but I don’t really agree because I don’t want to die yet, and I don’t want you to die either, and your friends don’t want you to die either, and god , I’m really scared for you, so Dazai-san, please stop. I’m really glad that I met you and I’ll cry when you’re gone so please hold on.”
He’s all about to beg for his knees, until he hears the slight snoring of the man slumped on the counter in front of him. Dazai probably didn’t hear it.
Atsushi checks to see if Dazai is still breathing (cause he looks so passed out and dead on the counter that he might as well be.) When he sees the slight rise of his chest, he huffs out an exasperated breath of relief as well. His manager suddenly passes by behind him, chuckling a bit, which makes Atsushi ask, “What is it, sir?”
The manager says in turn, while wiping a glass cup from the shelf, “That boy, he’s a lot of trouble, isn’t he?”
Atsushi admittedly nods.
“I heard one of the gentlemen he used to come here with died recently. Oda Sakunosuke, he was a fine man,” the manager continues, reminiscing. He glances up at the circular wall clock, “Oh, it’s time to wrap up.”
“We’re closing early, sir?”
His manager nods affirmatively. “I have to pay respects to a certain someone.”
“Alright, sir, I’ll just clean up,” Atsushi declares in understanding, hurriedly putting away the used glasses on the counter and taking them to the back.
“Oh, one more thing, Atsushi-kun.”
“Yes?”
The manager’s gaze falls on the unconscious man. “Make sure he gets home safely.”
With a tap on a shoulder, and a curt answer of we’re closing to the question, “Why do I… have to l-leave?” they manage to exit the bar successfully.
Atsushi never anticipated that Dazai could be this heavy (not anymore, after two months, he’s already forgotten the weight of the man on his shoulder.) The drunken man is leaning onto his shoulder for support. And they’re not even five blocks away from the bar, yet Atsushi is already struggling to catch his breath and suffering to keep his balance. Additionally, Dazai keeps dry heaving, scaring Atsushi into thinking that the man will throw up on him, somehow. That will be very unfortunate, as he only has a set of clothes to wear and most of his old ones are already tattered for reasons he doesn’t remember.
His knees are stuttering in their heavy strides. Atsushi decides that it’s high time they take a break. Carefully sitting the half-alive, half-awake man on the gutter, he takes the spot beside him for himself. Hopefully, they can rest for a few minutes before continuing on their trip back home. So far, it’s been a nice trip. At the same time, a bad trip. A trip that only includes walking because they’re both apparently destitute at the moment.
Then, Atsushi is unexpectedly overcome with the strange urge to “eat the rich” as they say. The feeling ripples along him, like tides being pulled by the moon.
It’s hauntingly mesmerizing. The full moon is a new sight to Atsushi. He’s never really been able to take a good look at it properly, but now he has, and well, there’s just one thing he can say, “The moon is so beautiful. Isn’t it, Dazai-san?”
Dazai lets out a short hum at the statement. Atsushi finds himself smiling, whether he really heard him or not, he still agrees. Is that what alcohol does to people? He’s never really tried it himself.
Suddenly, a bad feeling washes over him. Like a tsunami, a whirlpool of bleached nightmares. He backs away, seeing a tiger in his peripheral vision. It’s going to pounce on him, on both of them (he won’t forgive himself for putting the bandaged man in danger.) The tiger roars, loud and terrifying and unpleasant to hear. Before it eats him, he has the audacity to scream.
And scream he does, loud and terrified and unpleasant to the ears.
That is, until a palm abruptly slaps over his lips, beckoning him to shut up. Unexpectedly (and quite magically), a blue-green glow radiates around them--winding, like a supernova extracted in ribbons. And he calms down because the tiger disappears with it. It’s not there anymore. It can’t hurt them anymore.
Did Dazai scare it away?
“Quiet… ‘m trying to sleep,” Dazai groggily informs him before promptly throwing up on the sidewalk, which makes Atsushi grimace once again.
The rest of the walk is comprised of tired sighs and even more tired arms. When Atsushi asks Dazai, where do you live? The man tells him that apparently, he doesn’t have a home because he’s a runaway. Atsushi doesn’t ask further because he can sympathize. After all, he too, ran away from home.
Now, they’re at the door of Atsushi’s shoddy apartment. He unlocks the door and takes the man in, albeit reluctantly because in the end, they’re still both strangers to each other. What if Dazai wakes up and accuses him of kidnapping? What if he calls the police on him? Or what if (and he doesn’t say this to be rude) Dazai is a serial killer who’s going to murder him while he’s sleeping?
Atsushi shakes the thoughts away, setting Dazai down on the futon. He takes a bucket out of the bathroom, putting it beside the bed in case the man needs to puke. As for himself, well, he just lays down on the cold, wooden floor. In truth, he doesn’t mind, already being used to sleeping without a bed. At least he isn’t laying down on cold, hard concrete.
The night comes to a close with the curtains being drawn shut because Dazai told him something along the lines of not being able to sleep unless it’s in complete darkness. Frankly, he agrees. However beautiful it is, the moon has always unsettled him, anyway.
The morning soon arrives with the departure of a certain bandaged man. When Atsushi wakes up, he instantly feels the texture of blankets behind his back. Did someone carry him to the bed? He stands up sluggishly, rubbing his eyes and looking around. Dazai isn’t here anymore. How disappointing, he didn’t even get to say good morning or goodbye or any of those things. Well, maybe next time, he’ll get to do that. Going to the simple table in his small apartment, he finds a note. In messy (but still quite elegant) handwriting, it reads:
Dear Atsushi-kun,
If you’re reading this, I’m probably floating down the river.
Just kidding. I won’t die, I promise, but I won’t be here either when you wake up. I think I’m going to do some soul-searching. You don’t need to look for me. I won’t be back soon, but this isn’t a goodbye, I hope. Take care of yourself, kid. And expect to see me in two years!
PS: I really like your eyes. The purple and gold really sell the tiger vibe.
Love, your resident bandaged drunk,
Dazai Osamu.
A gasp falls out of Atsushi as he reads the note. Did Dazai really leave just like that? He can’t help but sit down on the floor, clutching his knees to his chest. The world crashes around him. Dramatically, the skies fall down (someone commits genocide, the world ends and everyone is dead.) Delusionally, Dazai left the words of a parting lover. Bitterly, Atsushi smiles, because Dazai complimented his eyes.
The last consolation he has is to see in two years, whether Dazai keeps his promises or not.
Atsushi sighs, laughs, and drops the paper on the ground. The air flutters a beat (to his dismayed heart’s demise) as the note falls with slight resistance. He’s so close to sobbing for Dazai’s absence, but instead, he makes light of the situation, scoffing, “You didn’t even pay your tab…”
After two years, a man enters a bar.
There is something captivating about his eyes of soil. A thousand tales of pitch-black sorrow--he can tell, without uttering a single word at all. And yet, those eyes of his would light up with a sort of animated mask, hiding all its unpleasantries to the world once it meets the gaze of someone else.
Atsushi can trace the faint scent of Camellias, pink as his rapidly beating heart, while he gazes upon this stranger's eyes. The fragrance is all around them, seeping into the deepest parts of his memories, reawakening an old longing that he’d kept tucked inside his chest for so long.
He found it. His Camellia. His world.
Dazai sits on one of the barstools, and maybe Atsushi has been staring for too long, but he can’t help it. Dazai returned. He fulfilled his promise.
A beige trench coat hangs from his shoulders--clear contrast to the black coats he used to wear back in the day. None of his eyes are covered by any bandages, and Atsushi is glad for it. Although he looks like a completely different person now, he’s still very much the same Dazai Osamu that Atsushi met in this exact same bar more than two years ago. He looks happier, somehow, but those lonely eyes never lie.
“Beautiful moon,” grabbing Atsushi’s hand gently and tracing circles onto his palm, Dazai asks, “would you mind committing double suicide with me?”
“Eh!?” Atsushi pulls his hand back as though Dazai is a scalding pot of hot water, “Don’t tell me you came back after two years just to say that!”
Another man enters the establishment. He has a pair of square glasses on his face, and he holds a notebook in hand, sternly, which he uses to smack Dazai upside the head with. “Dazai, you bastard! I thought we went here to recruit him?”
“Ah, right.” Clearing his throat, the bandaged man smiles at him, and with the offer of an outstretched hand, he says, ever so charmingly, “Would you like to come with us to the Agency?”