Chapter Text
Osamu Dazai was an awful person.
He was selfish, manipulative, narcissistic. He was arrogant, abusive, self destructive. He has always used countless lives for his own benefit, never having a single exception to his game of life.
Simply put, everyone was a pawn and Osamu was the player.
Osamu knew this. He knew from his very core who he was. He knew he was something so far from human, because no human could be so close to being a devil, right?
Osamu had always known the person he was from every angle and every perspective of others. He knew the words they used to describe him; He knew the looks, the feelings. Each part of Osamu contorted with the same revulsion others did.
They hated him, he knew that.
And Osamu Dazai hated himself too.
ミミ☆
Lupin.
The bar Dazai spent most of his time at in his earlier teen years. So much time, in fact, Dazai could even imagine the place no matter how far away from it he was. He could see the red and white (though now slightly yellow tinted) sign, the cursive font where the L curved at the edges; he could imagine the silly mascot at the top with its smiling eyes. He could see the man with his big top hat and eyeglass, his left hand wrapped delicately around a working microphone.
He knows exactly how many steps lead down into the quiet and secluded place, and how many steps it takes him to get to the second stool to the left of the bar. He could feel the smooth, cedar bar top against his fingers, the ghost of the flat surface dancing at his fingertips.
It was Dazai’s favorite place in the world for a multitude of reasons, many of which he’d never admit to a living soul. Never ever.
Now, here at nineteen years old, Lupin held an entirely different meaning to the man. Here he was, clutching a bottle of God knows what tightly within his hand, his fingers white from how hard he was gripping the neck of the green glass. He didn’t even know what was in the bottle; he just knew it was insanely strong and that’s really all that mattered to Dazai. He slowly brought the cool rim of the bottle to his lips, letting the cold liquid roll onto his tongue and fill his cheeks. He scrunched his face up at the bitter taste that hit his tongue and the feeling of it burning his throat as it traveled down.
God, was Dazai terribly drunk.
Each time he swallowed the burning liquid, the never ending pit in his stomach seemed to grow and stretch, his insides expanding to fit more. To Dazai, this was the worst feeling; knowing that no matter what, he could always drink more. Knowing that no matter what, he wanted to drink more.
Back when he was fifteen, Dazai never understood the preference for drinking; because he didn’t particularly like it at all. It burned all too bad, and the taste wasn’t anything to gush about. Sure, he’d have a few drinks, but it never meant he really liked them. He never craved the taste and feeling of booze.
Not the way he does now.
Nowadays, Dazai couldn’t go a day without having a few glasses of any sort of alcohol just to silence the constant pain of his brain into a quiet hum. Nights he lived through now were different than they used to be; nights where he needed the terrible burn and the disgusting taste of liquor under his tongue and against the roof of his mouth, gliding over every bit of his gums.
Nights that were oh so different from when he was fifteen.
Especially this day; On this day, Dazai understood why alcoholics always want more, greed in their gut as they demanded and begged and pleaded for more and more. It was simple to Dazai now.
A poisoned person will always yearn for more poison in search of an antidote.
The booze bubbled warmly within the lining of his stomach, seeming to touch every part of his insides. It dropped slowly to the farthest point of his stomach, sloshing around with the rest of the alcohol.
Though his belly didn’t quite seem finished, his body definitely was. His eyes felt heavy and dangerously close to shutting. He couldn’t focus on anything other than what was right in front of him; A tattered photo, a half-smoked cigarette, and a good amount of empty beer bottles. His legs felt like water, swaying and unable to support his weight. He couldn’t breathe properly; there was a massive weight on his chest, though he couldn’t tell if that was the alcohol or something more. Something deeper.
Since last year, this specific night always ended like this. His feelings being drowned under the weight of booze, his head buzzing with the effects of the alcohol. The swirl of pain being shoved deeper, his heart aching a bit more with every passing moment within his chest.
Dazai tilted his head back to finish the rest of the bottle, the lip of the bottle clinking against his teeth. When the last drops of the liquor hit his tongue, his body made an involuntary grumble, clearly upset by the consumption of nothing but booze. He swallowed, finally deciding that that was enough. He was already uncomfortably drunk, what was the point of continuing?
He set the bottle down, his fist tight and his brows knitted together in silent concentration. The echo of the glass hitting the counter was deafening to him, the ringing rattling his brain with unwelcoming comfort.
Dazai was awfully unsteady, even as he sat on the small barstool he rocked forward and sideways, swaying slightly as he tried to refocus his eyes on the items in front of him. They felt fuzzy, almost as if he needed glasses, and the light was awfully blinding, obviously too much for his sensitive mind.
Swallowing his nausea, Dazai focused his eyes over what was in front of him — since that was truly all he was capable of, currently — fingers releasing the now empty bottle. His eyes ran over the photo, looking at every detail within it. The slightly torn and folded corners, the edges covered in water damage, almost threatening to peel away at any moment.
Dazai felt the way his chest stung. Even with the amount of alcohol he ingested, it wouldn’t go away, it wouldn’t leave, it wouldn’t be solved. He closed his eyes and let the feelings stop drowning silently, pooling into his breath, clogging his mind with dangerous force. He could feel the way his blood boiled, the way his body shook, the way his heart felt as if it was struggling to beat. He ran his fingers over the center of the photo, hands trembling as he tried not to wrinkle or fold it.
It hurt.
It hurt so much.
God, why did it hurt so much?
When Dazai opened his eyes again, the bar was empty. Confused, he lifted his head, ignoring the pounding of his temples as he looked around. He was the only person left, the only person left who was fucked up.
Shit. What time was it? How long had he been here? Dazai couldn’t remember. He stood violently, the tan stool scraping against the floor. The bartender paused his task, glass and towel in hand, and flicked his eyes towards Dazai, taking in the sight of the drunk man.
God, Dazai was a wreck. His cheeks were flushed a terrible pink due to the affects of booze, his hair matted and his eyes sunken in. The bartender could very well tell how Dazai hasn’t slept in a long time, looking at the dark circles clinging around his empty eyes. His body was unstable, and he watched as Dazai stood there trembling.
It was almost pitiful. The way Dazai was clinging to that small piece of paper, the print of the photo faded and almost invisible. The bartender couldn’t place what the content of the photo was, and he didn’t bother to ask the man who was clearly — violently — drunk out of his mind.
The bartender looked away, going back to his work quietly. The sound of Dazai’s breathing mixed with the squeaking sound of the towel on the glass, the breakage of silence being threatened with every moment the two stood there. The bartender continued to clean the glass, white towel rubbing against the same damn spot over, and over, and over again.
If his patron was anyone else, perhaps he would have tried to console them. Maybe he would’ve taken up the picture and asked what the meaning of it was. Why it meant so much to them. Maybe he would’ve pulled a chair up, sat with them, and rubbed their back. Perhaps he would’ve driven them home, as they were obviously too drunk to function.
But it wasn’t anyone else.
It was Osamu Dazai.
And how could you help a man who was already far too lost?
Dazai never looked up, he just stared at the glossy, wooden counter of the bar as his hands fell to his side. He didn’t bother asking for the tab and the bartender knew better than to give it to him.
Only this night would he let it slide.
As Dazai stood there for a few moments more, he tried to swallow the rising awareness of self disgust and self hatred. He couldn’t describe how he felt. No matter how much he drank, he couldn’t swallow those feelings.
No, they were always going to be there.
Always.
Dazai pulled at the photo, pinching the corners with trembling hands as he frowned at it in concentration. He brought it higher to his face, looking straight at it as he folded the photo back up slowly, making sure to crease it in the spot he picked so it wouldn’t ruin the picture’s contents. Slowly and meticulously, he worked at it, and then made sure it was safe in the back pocket of his slacks. It was the only thing he had even thought of taking out of Lupin, clearly the only thing that mattered to his poisoned mind.
He stumbled towards the set of stairs, covering his ears and averting his eyes. He watched his feet shuffle against the wood floor, the clack of his dress shoes sounding too far away. He could hear his ragged breathing, and he felt the drag of grief nipping at the surface of his heart once again.
He slowly walked up them, tripping over himself as he missed each step, hand deathly white as he gripped the railing with his right hand. It was agonizingly slow, the process of trying to leave. It seemed as if everything in its power was trying to keep Dazai here, to keep him within the safe confinements of Lupin.
Alas, Dazai could not stay.
Once at the top of the small staircase, he ripped the door open, swaying with the weight of it. He exhaled softly, his head seeming to hiss as cool air hit his face. Without the warmth and comfort of Lupin, Dazai felt even more vulnerable. There was nowhere to hide himself. Nowhere to breathe.
Ignoring the feeling of loss, Dazai stumbled forward, feet uncoordinated as he walked. He clearly had a broken goal in mind of where he wanted- No, needed to go.
The bartender had watched the man leave, a slight pang of sympathy hitting his core. He set down the glasses he was wiping down and walked to where Osamu had sat. His heart dropped when he saw what sat untouched, angled in front of the empty seat to the right of Dazai’s signature spot.
Ah.
A small, cold glass of whiskey with a circular piece of melting ice in the center.
Odasaku’s old usual.