Work Text:
Osamu Dazai says once:
“Humankind is not afraid of death.”
After taking a sip of his drink, he catches a look full of — exactly what he wanted — doubt and misunderstanding. Then he continues.
“It’s afraid of unknown and unfinished. If there’s no unfinished business left — there’s no fear.”
No sense, no sorrow.
He prefers not to speak about the things it is afraid of.
“People live not only to start and finish things”, the other man confronts, “you can also live for the sake of others.”
”Then you can’t call this a living. It’s like two in one — two living beings with the same essence.”
The clock strikes eleven. Ice cube softly cracks in the small ocean of whiskey. Nakahara frowns, pensive, tapping the counter with his fingers.
“Because then there’s no need to be afraid of your own death, as you share one. Behind every love or blind worship, call it whatever you want, hides the end the of your own personality and ego. The same goes to collectivism as a phenomenon: forming into a group, people begin to worship an allegedly shared idea, which, in fact, was created by the same being they all are. Except hierarchy matters.”
Osamu, musing and smiling to himself, as if thinking carefully about making a chess move, gets quiet for a second.
“What about you, though? Are you ready to die for someone or someone’s interests?”
A man sitting next to him tenses up. This question clearly enrages him.
He hisses in response:
”What the hell are you even doing in the mafia with such thinking?”
”That’s another question. You haven’t answered mine yet.”
Short silence follows after the rebuke. There are three people in the bar: them and a bartender. Piano, locked in the round plate of vinyl, plays in the background. Soft lights beam relaxingly. Raindrops hit the windows — hounds of rainy summer.
A seat in the center of the counter, usually warm at this hour, is now empty.
“At least I give a meaning to my life, unlike someone who’s happy to catch every passing bullet only to die dumb.”
And, not waiting for the other to react, he adds:
“When you know the price of something, you understand what can you give for it. And so with everything.”
“Are you making your life more meaningful by comparing it’s value to the value of other things?”
“You’re missing the point, Dazai. I don’t need to surround myself with something meaningful enough or others’ approval in order to feel important. That’s what self-sufficiency is.”
“I know what it is.”
“I’m not finished yet.” He frowns, as if almost hisses “do not interrupt”, “The thing I meant wasn’t about comparing the value of your head to someone else’s. I’m talking about being aware of the importance of your contribution. People wouldn’t have achieved anything if they hadn’t followed shared ideas and goals, which sometimes meant giving on their lives. And this is a meaning — to realise what your life can give to the general, and not to a one-day whim. And your selfish ass with fish-like brains don’t seen to get that.”
Yet another silence hangs in the air. Chuuya Nakahara’s gaze is pointed at the bar behind the counter, Osamu Dazai’s — in his own drink with a pea-sized ice ball on the surface.
They never seem to have a chitchat nor discussion without a fight. Too different people are on opposing sides.
No dogs — Dazai and Nakahara — are alike.
Osamu sighs, tapping the edge of his glass.
“You haven’t answered on my question, still.”
Ginger man snorts, finishes his wine in one big sip and fixes his hat that was askew. Then he says:
“Of course I am.”
***
That’s where their ways part.
Chuuya muses:
“You know nothing, a piece of an idiot.”
Osamu thinks:
“You understand nothing, you mad dog.”
Mad dogs seek peace in madness.
Stray ones — in wandering.
They split the bill: first half goes to Chuuya, the other one is on the house.
This is the last time they drink in each other’s company. In a month Osamu Dazai, who will loose and regain his life guideline in one day, will lie low.