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"Excuse me, but you must be mistaken," the tall man said confused.
What had he been thinking? Of course, it wasn't him. Dazai mumbled a bored apology and hurried along to their safe haven. The person he had grabbed looked nothing like him. The shade of his hair was not the honey brown he remembered, the style too. Honey? But...
The brunette tripped over air, hands scrambling for something in his coat.
'Honey? Amber? Red? Red, it had to be,' he mused, fingers finding purchase on that very image.
A bitter cough and air prickled his lungs once more. Breathing seemed so laborious that day. He could almost hear Oda chastising him for being so reckless. Almost. Try as he might only his hoarse breathing and pathetic sniffles reached his ears as he painfully hid the memories away in his pocket. Why was it so cold all of a sudden?
Hurried steps carried him down a cramped flight of stairs. The young man ignored how the walls pressed down on him from all sides. It just wasn't his day. Nostalgic hues hit him all at once and the feeling was a welcome one, joyful rather than melancholy. This was where the memories lived on.
Copper eyes perused shelves memorized long ago, dim lighting making the contents almost illegible. A quiet clink and his attention was finally drowning in smoky liquor.
A stray itch on his cheek ripped out a distant memory. They had been stumbling back, alcohol hitting harder on a chilly evening. Tipsy giggles echoed through the empty streets as he tumbled into his companion's arms. The hug had been warm, warm enough to keep him in place for a few blissful moments. Dazai could vaguely remember tugging on his friend's coat to find his footing, bumping his head and rubbing their cheeks together. Even now it prickled his skin. His breath...
His breath fanned over his face, probably smelling of alcohol. What had happened after that?
Oh well, he had been so terribly drunk it wasn't fair to demand a perfect picture. There were other memories they had shared in those very seats.
Right?
Moving to face that very seat, the frazzled man willed the images to life. Except the picture wouldn't show. Features distorted by time, a smile he could no longer feel the warmth from, eyes that seemed too distant. It horrified him. Dazai once again reached for the piece of time he treasured, eyes deliberately trained on this version of his dearly deceased friend.
Oda looked so content.
They had talked into the wee hours of the morning, despite the heavy blanket of sleep fatigue had swaddled him in. The redhead had chuckled at the silly remarks thrown at him, even let out a breathy laugh at a particularly stupid comment. He had, right?
Then why was it so quiet?
Dazai tried to remember what it was he had said, but all he could recall was an earthy scent as he dozed off. That was most likely his companion's cologne. Did he wear cologne? Focusing on it didn't help as whiskey overtook his senses.
But Oda must have smelled like whiskey, it was his choice of alcohol after all. Yes. That had to be it. He straightened his back, a hollow chuckle washed down with what felt like acid. The brunette chastised himself for such an honest display, thankful to be away from prying eyes.
As the drinks kept coming, that very loneliness became so much more apparent with every sip. Usually, by his fourth glass, the voice would start to call out for him, by the start of the second bottle he could hear the clinks of a nearby cup, by the time his blood was pumping with poison fingers in his hair would lull him to sleep.
Getting drunk held no meaning if there was nobody to keep him company. If the voice couldn't carry him home anymore then at least it could wish him goodnight.
But it didn't.
Time was supposed to heal his heart, but all he could feel was an overwhelming itch – the scabs in his chest too deep to reach. He had never felt human, but it seemed that his memory was exempt from his woes, threatening to escape along with his tears. Even as he looked down at those blue eyes, Dazai couldn't remember what it was like to be their sole focus.
The detective willed his eyes dry, refusing to ruin the one thing that time couldn't steal from him with his disgusting tears. His hands shook and he put down the laminated paper, not trusting nervous fingers to keep the image free of pesky wrinkles.
But it wasn't just his waning memory crushing his lungs. A feeling he could faintly recognize as guilt stung like needles down his throat. Realistically, Dazai knew this feeling was temporary, that given time and loving caresses the smiles wouldn't all stab at his gums. He hoped. He also understood that all of it was thanks to his dearest companion's dying breath. And there he sat, unable to put a voice to the words in his head. What right did he have to call him his friend?
But that was it, wasn't it? Dazai never really deserved Oda's friendship, he had simply had it. The subtle affection they had shared was never about rank or reason. Oda had cared for him without obligations. He had died with no demands. Dazai hated that even in death his fading image made him feel helplessly human.
A familiar smell caught his attention as warmth sparked in his fingertips.
Coffee. Oda had smelled like coffee.
Memories of a shared hug danced behind his closed eyelids once again and the brunette couldn't help a wet laugh. A few quick words to the bartender and a steaming cup joined his lukewarm glass. Bitter liquid scorched the roof of his mouth, tongue numb from the scalding beverage. Dazai smiled at warming seafoam eyes.
"Happy birthday, Odasaku," he quietly whispered.