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“Where the hell did that waste of bandages go?” Kunikida growls, pulling at his hair in an action that is sure to leave him bald if he repeats it another five to six times. His eyes sag with stress, even more so than usual. “At such a hectic time too!”
Atsushi bites back a defense, lets Kunikida air out his grievances for a bit. After all, he wasn’t nearby when it happened—he didn’t see the way Dazai’s face had turned pale as a sheet, or how he almost stumbled in his rush to get away.
Even now, that look of heartbreak haunts Atsushi.
“About Dazai-san, um—” Atsushi starts to say, but a firm hand on his shoulder stops him and a low voice cuts in.
“I’ll bring him back.”
Kunikida frowns at the interloper, scrutinizing the man’s red-brown hair and unshaven face, the subtle signs of battle-readiness that he wears as naturally as his sand-colored overcoat.
“Aren’t you Atsushi’s ghost?”
“Dazai is the one I’m acquainted with,” the red-haired man answers. “This boy just happened to be carrying his memento.”
At the mention of memento, Atsushi’s fingers curl instinctively around the scratched up matchbox in his pocket. Dazai had dropped it earlier when they bumped into each other, and something deep down had told Atsushi to keep it safe.
Breathing life into old mementos—that was the power of the ability user they had encountered this morning. It had been a surprise, and an unpleasant one at that, when the smugglers they’d managed to corner had lashed back with an ability of their own.
There had been chaos and confusion and revived traumas, and in the midst of it, Kunikida drop-kicking the ability user with a rage normally only reserved for his partner.
The result? Three members out for the count and a failed operation. Atsushi has never been more grateful that he doesn’t carry any physical reminders of the orphanage director. If he did, would he be like Yosano right now? Shut away in the infirmary, trying to drown out the presence of the young soldier staring holes into her back with nothing but denial and the stinging smell of antiseptic? Or maybe he’d be like Kyouka, crying in the arms of her mother through reassurances that she wasn’t at fault.
But that’s forbidden territory—he doesn’t want to entertain what-ifs about his relationship with that man. Neither about what it had been or what it could have been.
“Um, what’s your relationship with Dazai-san?” Atsushi asks the stranger, figuring that’s the one thing everyone wants to know.
Who are you to Dazai-san, that he could make a face like that when he saw you? thrums beneath the surface of his question.
When the man speaks, there is sadness and traces of regret in his voice.
“My name is Oda Sakunosuke. I was a friend of Dazai’s.”
***
Oda makes his way through the busy streets of Yokohama, entertaining thoughts of curry and a smoke. Packed with pedestrians going about their day, the city is as lively as he remembers it—though the subtle changes in his surroundings tell the tale of a world that has moved on without him.
A tobacco shop has replaced the hardware store on 2nd St. The ramen restaurant in front of the station is now a bakery. Some areas have been torn down, some have finished construction, and some are just as he remembered them—down to the rusty fire escape he scaled to evade a sniper and the grimy back alleys where gunshots rang out as frequently as heartbeats.
And most surprising of all, Dazai has changed as well.
From the quick glance Oda had gotten before Dazai had run off, his friend had seemed lighter, a little less shackled to his misery—at least until Dazai caught sight of him.
But Oda wouldn’t have been able to imagine the extent of that change until he’d spoken to Nakajima Atsushi.
“You’re asking me where I think Dazai-san went? Why?”
“You were the one who picked up the matchbox.”
“Just because of that?”
“A hunch. You seem used to dealing with him. I thought you might have an idea.”
“No one could understand Dazai-san. Even if he appears close by, he’s millions of light years away.”
“But you want to.”
“I do. He’s done so much for me, after all.”
“Like what?”
“Well, he saved me, for one…”
The corners of Oda’s lips tug slightly upwards. He did once tell Dazai to save the weak and protect the orphaned. Leave it to his friend to take his words so literally.
The path up the hill to the cemetery is vibrantly green, as if to compensate for the dreary gray of rows of stone markers. And true to Nakajima’s hunch, there at the top, sitting with his back against a small grave, is Dazai.
Oda approaches soundlessly, stopping a few feet behind his friend’s still figure. Like this, with his eyes closed and the sea breeze rustling through his hair, Dazai almost looks at peace.
“You’ll catch a cold if you sleep in a place like this,” Oda says.
It’s quiet for so long that Oda wonders if Dazai actually is sleeping. Then a soft murmur drifts up.
“Odasaku is here. You aren’t him.” Dazai peers up at him through dark lashes and a darker accusation, then promptly drops his gaze.
“That may be. I’m just a living memory. Even so, you don’t want to be the one to kill me.” Oda doesn’t miss the subtle stiffening of Dazai’s posture, the way his arms curl a little more tightly around his knees.
“If you know that, then leave me alone.”
In the past, Oda would have backed off at this point. He’s sensitive enough to Dazai’s fluctuating moods to know that this is a piss me off and I’ll shoot you kind of situation, though he’s never been on the receiving end of that kind of wrath before.
But if anything could make him bold, it’s dying once, so he doesn’t regret what he does next.
“I’ll have to refuse that,” Oda decides, and he almost lets out a chuckle when Dazai’s frown turns petulant. “Fortunately, the effects of this ability will wear off by the end of the day. I’ll disappear even if you don’t nullify me. That being said—”
Oda walks around to the front of the grave, coming to a crouch in front of Dazai. Sincere eyes meet guarded ones.
“—Won’t you accompany me for a day?”
Dazai blinks, suspicion slowly turning into reluctant curiosity. “Why?”
“I am a living memory. I share the same thoughts and desires as the person I was born from. And one of Oda Sakunosuke’s regrets was not treasuring the time he had with you. So come with me.”
Dazai gapes at him. “Odasaku wouldn’t…say something like that.”
“That’s how I really feel,” Oda asserts. “I just never managed to tell you. I suppose now’s as good a time as any.” Shifting on the balls of his feet, he weighs his words, eventually settling on what he wants to say.
“Even though we were friends, there was a lot that I didn’t know about you, and you about me. I guess I was afraid to overstep a boundary and break that tenuous connection we had. But, well, the truth of the matter is, you mean a lot to me and I want to spend more time with you.”
By the time Oda finishes speaking, Dazai has turned an interesting shade of red. “That’s not fair!” he groans, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t say that with Odasaku’s voice!”
“But I am Odasaku. Everything I say is what Odasaku would say.”
“That blunt way of responding really is the same, huh…” Dazai takes a deep breath that tapers off into a helpless laugh. “Does Odasaku really think of me that highly?”
“If I didn’t, would I still be here?”
Looking back up, Dazai slips on a smile that's somewhere between awkward and hopeful. As if he’s not sure whether to believe the words of a phantom, but they’re nice to hear anyway.
“When you put it that way…alright,” he sighs. “Just for one day.”
By the time they return to the Armed Detective Agency, Dazai’s mask is back in full force. He waltzes through the front door with Oda in tow and a merry excuse about eating expired dog food, teases Tanizaki about tripping over a manhole cover during their morning chase, and nullifies the effects of the stray ability with a simple tap to Kyouka’s cell phone and Yosano’s hair clip.
He wears normalcy so flashily that Atsushi keeps shooting him concerned glances and Ranpo’s sharp gaze lingers on him a little longer than usual.
Kunikida takes one look at him, swallows whatever complaint was on the tip of his tongue, and all but shoves him out the door.
“You’re dismissed for the rest of the day. We don’t need fools who have their heads stuck in the clouds dragging down our operations.”
Dazai pouts the whole way to the exit, prompting Oda to remark, “You have nice friends.”
“Rather than a friend, Kunikida-kun feels more like that mean uncle who lectures you at the family dinner about getting your life together~” Dazai claps his hands together, suddenly lively again. “So, where to now? Anywhere I can break into is fair game.”
If Oda notices the rigidness of his cheerful facade, he doesn’t say. Dazai’s masks exist for two purposes—to fool others, and to fool himself. If it’s the latter this time, then Oda doesn’t want to undermine his efforts, since Dazai’s gone through the trouble of humoring his request.
“Some food would be nice.”
With a declaration that he knows the perfect place, Dazai is off, dragging Oda by the arm. Oda falls into step behind him, and for a moment allows himself to believe in the intoxicating lie they’ve constructed between themselves.
An undercurrent of electricity connects them at their point of contact, a buzz of childish excitement running through them as they weave through the crowds of city goers.
Just for today, they can pretend that there is no pain or loss or past.
Just for today, they are simply Oda and Dazai.
***
The place Dazai brings Oda to ends up being a western style restaurant.
“The curry here is pretty good,” Dazai informs him, leaning back in his booth seat as Oda scans the menu in his hands.
No further explanation is needed, because Oda is already studying the curry section of the menu with utmost concentration. The low hanging rice paper lamps bathe the dimly lit space in a soft glow, making his serious expression stand out even more comically.
“...I want to try all of them.”
“Let’s do it!” Dazai’s eyes sparkle with mad glee. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, so let’s get one of everything!”
“Won’t that be wasteful?”
“You should take pride in your curry eating skills, Odasaku!” Dazai taps his chin thoughtfully. “Well, whatever we can’t finish, I’ll take home for later.”
“You’ll be eating curry for the next three days,” Oda points out.
“I don’t mind. I love curry.”
Oda doesn’t remind him that the last time they had curry together, Dazai couldn’t take more than a few bites before scrambling for a glass of water. That scrunched up face, red with sweat, had definitely not been one of enjoyment.
They order one of everything.
Predictably, Dazai cracks after a few bites and hastily flags down a passing waiter for a cup of matcha ice cream.
“Try this one,” Oda suggests, pushing a bowl of steaming curry noodles towards Dazai as the latter drains an entire glass of water and then steal’s Oda’s too. “It’s on the milder side.”
Dazai hesitantly pokes at the noodles with his chopsticks as if they’ll leap alive at him before chewing on a single strand. The result is an immediate wince.
“No good. All I taste is pain.”
“Here. These haven’t touched the sauce as much.” Oda starts picking out pieces of tonkatsu and tempura and depositing them onto Dazai’s plate.
“Wait wait wait, I can’t eat all of this!”
“You need to eat more,” Oda insists, and continues building the mountain of protein, much to Dazai’s defeated amusement.
By the time they walk out of the restaurant, stomachs satisfied and arms swinging with takeout bags, the uncertain tension between them has fizzled out into something a little more familiar.
***
“A bookstore?”
“You once told me you wanted to be a novelist.” Dazai spreads his arms dramatically, the curry in his bags sloshing with the movement. “Well, Kinokuniya is a book lover’s paradise!”
Oda’s gaze sweeps around the store, taking in the rows upon rows of labeled shelves all neatly lined with books. Bright and happy seems to be the store’s visual identity, from the pastel tiled floors to the display stands arranged by popping primary colors.
“That’s a lot of books.”
“Yes, which is why we’d better get moving if we want to see them all!”
The race to explore every corner of the store begins.
“With my powers of deduction, I’ll tell you what the plot of this book is from just the cover!” Dazai declares, holding up a hefty red paperback from the foreign classics section. He stares at the title, printed in bold assertive kanji, and concludes—“It’s a crime novel about a Russian terrorist who raises an army of rats to overthrow the Soviet Union.”
Oda doesn’t look up from his perusal of a mystery novel.
“No, it’s about an ex-student who murders a pawnbroker for his own gain and has to grapple with the moral and practical consequences of his actions.”
“Oh, so you’ve read this one!” Replacing the book, Dazai picks up another one with a simple blue and white cover. “Hmm…not many clues to go by…A rich foreign tycoon tries to buy an island nation!”
“A self-made millionaire tries to win back his former lover by throwing extravagant parties at his mansion.” Oda pauses, running through the plot in his head. “He dies at the end though.”
“How envious!”
A whimsical cover this time—a man seated in a futuristic machine, floating above a landscape of various locations and eras all blending into one another.
“Traveling back in time to prevent great disasters all over the world!”
“Traveling to the future, actually.”
“Close enough.” Dazai sets the book back on its stand, thoughts lingering on the premise and the possibilities it holds. “If I could travel back in time…”
Oda hums absentmindedly, attention taken up by a puzzling synopsis. “If you could travel back in time?”
“I’d make it so I was never born, of course!”
Without warning, Oda turns around and flicks Dazai on the forehead.
In the face of this unprecedented reaction, even Dazai’s cry of pain comes out half-hearted. “O-ow?”
“I don’t like it when you do that,” Oda states simply, then steps into the next section without waiting for a response.
Dazai hurries after him, feeling an uneasy mix of confusion and guilt. Maybe jokes of that nature were insensitive, considering their current situation. He grasps at another thread of conversation to restore the mood.
“Hey, Odasaku. You’ve read so many books, but which one’s your favorite?”
To his relief, Oda only looks thoughtful when Dazai sidles up next to him.
“My favorite, huh? There was a book I read when I was still an assassin. I’ve read many books since then, but that one will always be dearest to me. That was the book that changed my life.”
“It must have been an amazing book, for Odasaku to like it that much. Was that book the reason you wanted to become a novelist?”
Oda nods. “You see, that book was part of a set of three. I’d finally managed to get my hands on the final volume, but some pages near the end had been ripped out. I wanted to know what happened so badly that I decided I would write it myself.” He lets out a sigh. “Well, that didn’t exactly pan out…”
“Let’s find that book then!” Dazai suggests, eager for more distractions.
With nothing to lose, they split up with an agreement to meet by the 18+ section in half an hour’s time. (“Why 18+?” “It’s hard to miss.”) While Oda isn’t particularly itching to read the missing scene at this point, the sense of mission drives him to dutifully scour his area of the store.
In the end, as expected, his search turns up empty.
Dazai is leaning against a rather raunchy cardboard stand when Oda returns, a shake of his head indicating that he’d had no success.
“What an elusive book,” he drawls. “And here I thought there was only one elusive Book…”
“If you didn’t find it, then what’s in the bag?”
At Oda’s prompting, Dazai lifts up the plastic shopping bag in his hand and pulls out a small paperback with a quaint cover design.
“For you,” he says, offering it up with a flourish.
“For me?”
Oda takes the book, flipping it over to confirm his hunch—it’s the first volume of the trilogy he mentioned earlier.
“We knew each other for so long, but I never gave you a present.” Dazai gives Oda’s shoulder a playful tap. “The first book we read always holds the most nostalgia for us, doesn’t it?”
Smiling a little, Oda reveals that he also got Dazai a book.
“I hope it’s the Complete Guide to Suicide!”
“It’s not.”
“Bummer…” So Dazai laments, but the happy glances he steals at his gift from time to time tell a different story.
They spend the rest of the afternoon reading smut out loud, much to the horror of everyone in their immediate vicinity.
It starts out as a joke from Dazai, who grabs the raunchiest looking book off a nearby shelf, flips to a random section, and proceeds to read out, very loudly, a crudely written sex scene. Not to be outdone, Oda picks a light novel off a table and narrates several pages of foreplay in the flattest tone possible, sending Dazai into a fit of roaring laughter.
They get kicked out of the store of course, but it’s worth it.
***
If happiness were a countable thing, it must have been the number of times Dazai laughed that evening.
They stroll through town, stopping to look at whatever catches their fancy—Oda, calmly and attentively, Dazai, with a restless energy that could rival the shifting winds.
The low hanging sun shining off the sparkling waters of the wharf, a gaudy hat in the display window of a clothing store that brings to mind a certain short tempered acquaintance, the fresh scent of taiyaki, hot off the molds, from a street cart around the corner—anything that’s worth stopping for, or even if it’s not worth stopping for, is yet another welcome distraction.
Currently, Dazai is laughing to the point of tears because Oda sidestepped to avoid a lunging stray cat and tripped over the corner of a raised bed in the process.
“I c-can’t believe…F-flawless a-activated…because of a c-cat! Ahahahaha!”
Oda would like to point out that the cat had been aiming straight for his coat pocket, where he’d placed the matchbox he took back from Nakajima, so there was ample reason for Flawless to activate. He doesn’t though, because Dazai has only ever laughed like that when recounting the pranks he’d played on Nakahara Chuuya, and Oda likes the way the smile lines make him seem younger and more carefree.
So they flit about, letting whims guide their feet. The air tastes of adventure, heady and buoyant.
—On a park bench eating pon de ring—
“Are we high school girls or something?”
“I would make a super hot high school girl. Chuuya would be so jealous of my style.”
“You do have a very unique style.”
—In the midst of an impromptu bar hopping spree—
“Master! Can I get some bleach?”
“He’ll have water.”
—Making an important financial decision—
“Odasaku, look! Isn’t this such a good deal?”
“It really is. But how are you going to carry a two hundred pack box of bandages back home?”
“I was hoping you could help me with that.”
—Adding effects to a purikura photo—
“Let’s make Odasaku kawaii!”
“…Are those cat ears you’re adding?”
If happiness were a countable thing, it must have been the number of times Oda caught himself wishing for time to run a little slower.
***
The sun has dipped below the waters when Dazai makes a running leap for the lower rung of a fire escape and grabs onto it. Swinging his body like a pendulum, he pulls himself onto the platform and continues on towards the next level, the contents in his bags settling back into place with a rustle.
From behind, Oda starts to ask why they couldn’t just use the front entrance—an over the shoulder glance from Dazai reveals the answer in the shape of his mischievous grin.
Because it’s more exciting this way.
Ascending several levels, they climb onto the rooftop, where the sky spreads out in an inky dome above them.
“Ahhh, I’m wiped!” Dazai sets his bags down so he can lean over the railing, savoring the refreshing chill of the night air. “I really can’t handle crowds after all.”
“It’s nice up here though,” Oda says, coming to a rest beside him. “Quiet and peaceful.”
The cityscape gleams with a plethora of artificial stars—glaring blues and yellows and whites competing to make the loudest constellation. Dazai counts the tiny, indistinguishable dots representing people on the streets, and wonders if they’ll stay that way the next day as well.
It’s a foolish thought.
The numbers are always in flux, as is the starlight, and so is every moment, every breath. No one would notice if one more spark went out.
What a fragile thing.
“Hey, Odasaku. Did you have fun?” Dazai asks eventually.
“Yeah, I did.”
“That’s good then.” Dazai turns to face him, a goodbye in the palm of his outstretched hand. “I had fun too.”
For a moment, Oda only stares at the gesture, acutely aware of the slight tremors that run through Dazai’s hand even as he shows a serene smile. Dazai had made a similar expression once, back when they learned that Ango had betrayed them. At the time, Oda had found it indecipherable.
Now, he wonders how he couldn’t see the grief for what it was.
It’s a split second decision that has him reaching past to grab Dazai’s wrist, and with a tug, Dazai is colliding against him, a gasp stifled against the fabric of Oda’s coat.
Oda doesn’t hold him with any significant amount of force, but Dazai doesn’t pull away either, only trembling in Oda’s arms. He feels small like this, breakable—every bit the lost child who once looked into Oda’s dying eyes and asked with such utter desperation, what should I do?
It’s then that Oda realizes, maybe the deep chasm between them had only been a distance of a few centimeters. Here now, without the shadow of the mafia hanging over them, without status delineating the paths they walk, it’s clear to see. Maybe the darkness they had been so afraid to step into was merely loneliness begging to be shattered.
Slowly, Dazai’s arms come up, wrapping around the back of Oda’s coat. He clings to him as if he will fall apart without something to hold on to.
“Dazai. I’m sorry I was weak,” Oda murmurs. “I’m sorry for abandoning you. But I’m glad to have met you. I’m glad we were friends.” Each phrase wrings out another shudder from Dazai. “I’m happy you listened to my final wish. You’ve become a good person. I’m proud of you.”
He continues whispering assurances into the still air, up until his lungs evaporate and he is nothing more than the lingering warmth in Dazai’s arms.
A scratched up matchbox falls to the ground, clanking against the concrete.
Dazai stands there, stock-still, long into the night.
What a fragile thing happiness is.
***
—No one could understand Dazai-san. Even if he appears close by, he’s millions of light years away.
—But you want to.
Atsushi stops at the base of the lofty apartment building, the scent trail beckoning to him from the very top. Mixed in with his mentor’s scent is curry and fresh pages and the faintest hint of tobacco.
Dazai never returned to the dorms, and after the fifth time turning over in his futon wondering why, Atsushi had decided a midnight walk was preferable to sleepless questions.
Dazai doesn’t always return to the dorms, but tonight it’s worrying.
Concentrating his ability in his legs, Atsushi easily scales the side of the building, touching down quietly on the roof. His heartbeat is erratic despite the lack of exertion.
He walks over to where Dazai is sitting past the guardrails, legs dangling over the edge of the roof.
“Dazai-san, that’s dangerous.” Atsushi props his elbows against the railing, giving a curious glance to the plastic bags scattered by his feet. “What are you doing?”
“The stars are lovely tonight, aren’t they?” Dazai says, softly enough that Atsushi has to strain his ears to hear it.
Atsushi looks to the sky, where the moon peeks out from behind a thin layer of clouds.
“What do you mean? I don’t see any stars.”
“It’s there,” Dazai insists. “Just one. Right there, to the left of that skyscraper.”
Climbing over the railing, Atsushi settles down next to Dazai, the dizzying scenery below rushing up to greet him. His feet tap against the side of the building.
The distance between them is a mere few inches.
Atsushi’s gaze draws back to the expanse above them. Even with the tiger’s power concentrated in his eyes, he can’t make out any pinpricks of light in the sky.
A memory comes back to him, of Dazai and graveyards, filtered daylight falling on wistful smiles and an uncharacteristically bold question.
—Was it someone you loved?
Atsushi closes his eyes. “If Dazai-san says so, it must be there after all.”
Surely it must be the brightest star in the sky.