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Ever since Atsushi’s mentor died, Akutagawa has wondered how Dazai would die.
If one asked him a month ago, he would’ve answered quickly and honestly: suicide. It’s the most obvious answer, and anyone who has spent at least five minutes with the man would agree with Akutagawa's response. Ryuunosuke trained under Dazai for hours on end for years, yet his perspective was no different than the average person’s.
Now he isn’t so sure.
Dazai approached Akutagawa the day that the orphanage headmaster was hit by a truck, and instructed him on what to do. He remembers wondering directly afterward how he would feel if his own mentor were to pass. Dazai had not told Akutagawa to be kind, but he treated Atsushi with such anyway. It’s how he would want to be handled if he were under the same circumstances.
He’d imagined it: a report in the newspaper, his afternoon scan of the obituary, the boss, or even Atsushi. He’d grieve for a day, maybe two, and continue on trying to gain Ghost Dazai’s approval. Somehow, he didn’t believe death could stop the Demon Prodigy from affecting the living.
Akutagawa no longer believes that he will only grieve for a day. He does not believe he will grieve for two. He doesn’t know if he will grieve at all, or if Dazai’s passing will shroud his shoulders like Rashouman. Uncertainty spreads through his veins like wildfire as he walks away from the woods, away from Dazai and the task waiting ahead.
“Before you leave, Akutagawa, I have one more thing to tell you.”
“What is it?”
“I won’t live to see the saved world. Do not let this stop you.”
Dazai didn’t explain further, and Akutagawa didn’t ask. The details wouldn’t matter in order for the mission to be completed. A part of him wishes to run back and kneel before his old mentor and beg for him to reconsider. The world could burn and Akutagawa would be happier for it if it meant Dazai would stay to watch the flames.
Akutagawa doesn’t see this as an act of suicide. Just as he makes his way to the Port Mafia building for the last time until the Decay of Angels is exterminated like unwanted rats, he’s not doing so out of personal desire. He does so because he was told to and that is that. Dazai will die not by his own will, but so the mission will be completed and the world can move on.
The man sitting on a tree stump will be dead. Akutagawa did not say goodbye.
Atsushi’s orphanage headmaster perished in a hit-and-run. Something that could’ve happened to anyone at any time anywhere. To most people, it was just an accident. To Akutagawa, his death was only another name to the many under Dazai’s long list of murders and coordinated demises.
He wonders, then, if Dazai’s death will appear as such in the newspaper.
Dazai Osamu, age 22 and member of the Armed Detective Agency, horrifically passes away in an apartment fire.
Armed Detective Agency Member Dazai Osamu dies from an unexpected heart attack at the young age of twenty-two.
Dazai—
The building Akutagawa finds himself in front of is not the main Port Mafia complex. He stands in front of the condo he shared with his sister with his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Usually, it’s a sign of an oncoming cough fit that will end in his inability to breathe properly for the next twenty minutes.
It’s not the same this time. He unlocks the front door and walks inside, tense beyond what’s strictly necessary.
Falling off a cliff.
Twenty-two.
Drunk driver.
Overdose.
Dazai Osamu.
Drowning.
Armed Detective Agency.
Akutagawa blinks. Rashouman holds an envelope in its jaws in front of his face. It’s colored an unstained white and seemed as though it had been pressed by a steam iron. He doesn’t remember turning on the lights, walking to the dining room table, nor activating his ability. Sometimes Rashouman could get a mind of its own, but it couldn’t have made him lose consciousness.
Disregarding the dread pooling in his gut — though he long learned to trust his instincts when his survival depended on it, and to ignore them when he had something to prove — Akutagawa grabs the envelope from the charcoal-black maw and dismisses his ability. His grip is uncharacteristically light.
Akutagawa Ryuunosuke does not receive mail. The envelope in his calloused and dirty hand is a bloody, beating heart; a raindrop still falling; a golden goblet filled with poison.
The penmanship is remarkable. His name is spelled out in kanji, dedicated to him and only him. It cannot not be mistaken for mail sent to his sister. It says Ryuunosuke, with each line fading in and out at the dots without fail. It does not say Gin.
Before he turns it around to open the envelope, he notices that the house is empty and the table is barren. There is no sign of life, no sign of a break-in, no sign of anything else misplaced or otherwise handled in any way, shape, or form. The envelope did not appear in his P.O. box, though he doesn’t ever go down to it because he does not receive mail.
He can infer that the sender knows that about him. That implies the sender knows many other things about him as well.
This does not worry him as much as his lingering thoughts of mentors, hit-and-runs, and detective agencies. Stalkers can be killed. Endless possibilities and anxieties do not die so easily.
Akutagawa returns his attention to the envelope and carefully unseals it using a pocket knife. The paper inside is off-white and thinner than the envelope. It crinkles and shakes in Akutagawa’s fingers.
He has a steady hand, he thinks. The letter shouldn’t be moving.
Perhaps it trembles in time with his unreliable heart. He continues to think of rivers, drugs, and mountains as he places the envelope on the table and properly opens the letter. There are a few things he’s expecting to be the contents: a ransom for his sister, blackmail to the police, or God-forbid a love letter.
He doesn’t consider the possibility of there being four words and a hand-drawn tiger.
I’m sorry for everything
It’s not punctuated, and the handwriting is the same as the one displayed on the envelope. Before he can truly process the sentence, he crumples the letter and throws it onto the table. The noise it makes is unsatisfying, and Akutagawa wishes it had been a head he’d slammed. At least then his anger would have a pay off.
He breathes deeply, his throat pinching in pain, and scrambles to undo his damage. He rubs the creases on the edge of the table, hard enough to get the job done but not so rough that he tears through the paper.
It doesn’t help and he panics, smoothing it out over the surface with a hand this time. Akutagawa notices his own trembles and knows that he’s been doing that since he left a dead man behind without saying goodbye.
He chokes and reads the letter and rereads it again. He presses his palm to the thin edges and hangs his head over the words as though it would encourage more to appear. The tiger head drawn below the singular sentence taunts Ryuunosuke with its little whiskers and winking eye. It isn’t cute despite the clear intention of it being so.
The Port Mafia does not apologize.
Dazai Osamu is no longer an executive under Mori. He is no longer Akutagawa Ryuunosuke’s mentor, and that has never been clearer to Akutagawa now.
His fingers curl and it takes a piece of the paper with it. When he sees his action he hurries to release, but it causes the letter to tear. A paper cut on his pointer finger bleeds and stains the letter, and the nights he spent bleeding out from Port Mafia Executive Dazai Osamu come rushing to the forefront of his mind.
I’m sorry for everything
A tiger. A goddamn tiger . Akutagawa doesn’t delude himself into believing that it’s some sort of joke; it would only waste his time. He reads it again and again and again until he’s sure he could repeat it to each and every person in the world those exact words without faltering once.
Dazai can’t be sorry. The Demon Prodigy has never apologized to anyone in his life, least of all to Akutagawa. He didn’t say sorry when he punched Ryuunosuke without warning. He didn’t say sorry when he made Akutagawa gut out an alleyway cat. He didn’t say sorry when he shot at him in front of the Black Lizard without warning. He doesn’t say sorry, nor can he be.
Akutagawa realizes with certain clarity that Dazai’s death will not be suicide. He will not set himself on fire, drown in a river, or shoot heroin in his arms until he dies.
If the plan is to commit suicide, Dazai would not have sent him an apology letter.
Dazai Osamu is no longer the Demon Prodigy that cares for no one and looks for death at every corner. He is not the Grim Reaper, the youngest executive in Port Mafia history, nor Akutagawa’s mentor. Dazai is a detective, helping innocent people, keeping himself alive, and taking care of the people around him.
Someone who doesn’t care would not go out of their way to know he doesn’t check his P.O. box, to learn his passcode, and leave the condo completely untouched because they know Gin likes to keep the living area clean and Akutagawa doesn’t like to upset his sister.
Akutagawa thought that Dazai didn’t care. He hadn’t said goodbye to the man sitting on a tree stump, but that man said goodbye to him.
I’m sorry for everything
Detective Dazai Osamu says goodbye, and Akutagawa slouches over and cries onto the hand-drawn tiger.