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Dear chibi,
By the time you find this letter, I will likely have departed from this world and ascended (or descended) to the next plane of existence. There isn’t really a point in beating around the bush, in skirting around the subject, I know you would see right through it.
Sit down, pull up a chair and listen to my last words. Don’t come looking for me or stop reading this to conduct a search party, you won’t find me alive so might as well just stay where you are and read this.
You might be asking yourself why I’m so sure this time I’ll be successful when I’ve always failed to end my own life prior. It’s an easy answer, I’m not afraid anymore. What a travesty! Dazai Osamu was afraid?
Yes.
Petrified.
Death and I are well acquainted, I could call them an old friend with how many close brushes we’ve shared. But that’s all they were… brushes. I never embraced Death and Death never accepted me. It might have been an unconscious decision to never be fully serious as I tried to end my life, always making sure I was in eyesight of someone, or I just toed the edges of death, skirting a high ledge.
I was scared of the darkness, the emptiness that came with the numbness and nothingness of death. I craved it but it terrified me at the same time, and I got sloppy with my methods. Me, sloppy! How crazy is that?
But now I’m not scared. It feels peaceful, just the emptiness and laying at rest. Living is exhausting, chibi, so very tiring and I just can’t do it anymore. It suits you though, living… being human.
It’s gotten to a point now where I try and end it all so many times that no one seems surprised anymore, and it’s just another chore to stop my suicides. A resigned sigh as someone pulls me out of the river, a roll of the eyes as they untie my noose or a disappointed look when someone confiscated my pills. No one gives me real help and maybe that’s just a sign I’m beyond help.
So this time, I won’t cause anyone trouble, I’ll just do it in one swift go and that will be the end of it.
Is it morbid to say I hope you’re the one who finds my body? I don’t want Atsushi-kun to find it, not Akutagawa for that matter. I think I’ve caused them enough grievances for a lifetime, I don’t want the image of my dead body seared onto their brains for the remainder of their lives, an echoing message that if they had only been faster, noticed something, then they could have saved me. They couldn’t have. No one could have saved me.
Not even you.
And for once, that’s not me trying to rub something in your face and mock you about how the strongest guy in the Mafia couldn’t save me. No, I mean it genuinely. You couldn’t have saved me, there is no saving me.
I’m not one for romantics but considering these are my final words to you, I suppose I can be a little generous with what I say to you. You didn’t save me, but you eased my suffering. I think I might have tried to seriously end it all a lot sooner had you not been in my life, chibi.
So, as much as it pains me to express gratitude, most of all to you of all people, thank you. Thank you for letting me be a child just a little longer, thank you for talking back to me, thank you for not giving up on me even after I left you. Those two years on my own were the worst years of my life, and I mean that wholeheartedly. The only thing that kept me going were Odasaku’s words.
So why have I decided to end it all now? Why has my fear suddenly vanished and left me with nothing but a panging, a yearning for the void? Well, we saved the world. Fyodor Dostoyevsky, the bane of my existence, is dead and the Decay of Angels is in tatters, a mere clown and a tamed vampire left being the only ones still alive in their rankings.
The lack of threats is reassuring, I’ve done enough “good” now surely to cancel out the “evil”, haven’t I? I mean, we saved the world, surely that should satisfy Odasaku. And now, at last, I can let the darkness claim me and have another drink with him.
You gave me more to live for, Nakahara Chuuya, more than you’ll ever know.
Yours,
Osamu
Hurrying was fruitless, Chuuya mused, as he walked down the streets of Yokohama, his gloved hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. He didn’t deny that his heart was pounding furiously in his chest, but he knew that if he started running, the dam holding back his emotions would break and he didn’t really want to do that in the middle of the city.
So, for now he could hold it back, pretend this was just another nighttime stroll and not like he was going to look for the dead body that belonged to his ex-partner.
Several places cropped up in his mind when he thought about where Dazai could possibly want to spend his last moments.
The shipping container was the first one, one of their earliest shared memories, he supposed.
Chuuya glanced up a shipping container apprehensively. “You’re joking.”
“Me? Joke? Never!” Dazai gasped, his one exposed eye wide and Chuuya sent him a deadpan look. “Just because you live in a flat, doesn’t mean I want to. Ever think of that, hm chibi?”
“Whatever, stupid mackerel.” Chuuya muttered, watching as Dazai unlocked the lock on the front of the door and moved the latch aside, heaving the door open and practically skipping in to plop himself on a faded, leather desk chair, some of the leather peeling on the sides and cracks in other place.
Chuuya cast a glance around the small area, scanning it. There was a rickety looking desk behind the chair, that looked like it was barely hanging on, painted in a brown paint that desperately needed retouching and polishing. A fridge was shoved between the desk and a very stiff looking bed with a singular patched blanket that was fraying at the edges.
“You live like a king.” Chuuya said drily.
“You might look down on it, hatrack, but it’s a place that’s my own. Mine and mine only.” Dazai shrugged.
At the time, Chuuya hadn’t really realised why the shipping container meant to much to Dazai but as the years passed and he grew older, he understood. It was something about the fact that it was away from the prying eyes of the boss, Mori. At the container, Dazai was not under scrutiny, he didn’t have to put on any false pretenses. It was his place, separate from the Mafia. It was somewhere out of the reach of Mori’s claws.
There was also the Lupin bar.
Chuuya had never been to the Lupin bar, but he carried news from the boss to Dazai and he was told that would be the most likely place the young executive would be at this hour. So he stopped by.
He saw a sight there he didn’t expect to see, he saw Dazai sitting in between two other men, one of them he recognised as Sakaguchi Ango, an information agent for the Mafia. The other man however, he didn’t recognise. But he had reddish hair, and he was drinking with Dazai. The latter was animatedly moving his hands around as he told some sort of story, Chuuya assumed, but he looked happy. Happier than he normally did, anyways.
Silently, Chuuya slipped away. The news could wait until tomorrow.
No, Dazai wouldn’t kill himself in a bar where he spent some of his happiest moments with his two closest friends, even if Ango had eventually betrayed him and Odasaku was now dead. It wouldn’t be the bar, that was almost sacred, like a monument to something that once was and would never be again.
It wouldn’t be anywhere related to the Port Mafia, for that held no good memories for Dazai after Odasaku’s death. Nothing but pain and misery and the lingering tinges of regret. It wouldn’t be anywhere near the Armed Detective Agency either, Chuuya assumed. Considering what he had written in his letter, Dazai wouldn’t want any of them to find it.
So where –
Oh.
Of course.
Was it even right for Chuuya to be here? He never knew Odasaku personally, so why was he even here visiting his grave. He stood in front of the lone, unmarked gravestone beside a massive tree, the wind ruffling the red locks atop his head as he held his hat in his hands as a sign of respect.
“We never really met… or spoke… but I knew of you, Oda. You meant a lot to Dazai, but you’re dead now and he’s gone. I don’t know where he went. I came back from my mission and any traces of him were gone. Ango’s gone too, I heard he betrayed us.
“You must have been quite something if Dazai befriended you, the lowest member of the Port Mafia. God, I don’t even know why I’m here. Actually… that’s a lie. I do know. I’m here to thank you. Thank you for being there for Dazai, I think he might have been lost to Mori’s darkness and influence if he didn’t have you to guide him. So, thank you.”
Of course he would be at Odasaku’s grave, Chuuya berated himself for not having realised this sooner and quickened his pace without even realising it, his legs taking him right to the gravestone by the tree. There was a figure sitting, leaned against the tree and Chuuya’s heart jumped to his throat before it dropped like a stone when he realised Dazai’s eyes were closed.
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Chuuya ran, his shoes skidding as he almost fell over, stumbling up the little hill to Dazai and dropped to his knees in front of him, reaching out one hand to cup his cold cold cheek and the other going right to his pulse point on his neck. Nothing. He tried again on his wrist. Nothing.
“Hey, Dazai, hey.” Chuuya murmured, patting Dazai’s cheeks, cradling his face with both of his hands, thumbs brushing against the brunet’s cheekbones, his lashes barely touching Chuuya’s fingers. “Dazai.”
There was no response.
Chuuya fell back onto his feels, his hands dropping to his lap. Dazai’s head lolled forward suddenly, and the ginger’s eyes widened, leaning forward to lift it and let it rest back against the tree. “Sorry.” He muttered. “Sorry, sorry.”
A sharp inhale and he moved his hands away as though he was burnt, pressing his palms to his eyes and letting out a choked sob. “Fuck.” He rasped, bowing his head low to press it to the grass, tears running down his cheeks as his shoulders shook.
“Fuck. Fuck you, fuck you, Osamu.” He heaved through trembling sobs, digging his nails into the dirt and ripping chunks of grass out without even realising it. “Why didn’t you talk to me, you idiot!”
He lifted his head then, cheeks covered in tearstains and his eyes rimmed in red, dirt caked under his nails and pieces of grass scattered in his ginger locks. Chuuya’s gaze landed on Dazai, and he let another guttural sob escape, reaching his dirty hands out to cup Dazai’s cheeks and draw his head closer, pressing their foreheads together.
Dazai’s skin was cold, so cold. How long had he been here? How long ago had he died? Did he sit here, contemplating life before he decided to do it? Or has he been here, his body freezing after his death for who knows how long.
“Stupid. Idiot. Dumbass.” Chuuya muttered. “I hate you; I hate you so much.”
I know you do, Dazai’s cheery voice was supposed to respond but nothing came except for the whistling wind and silence.
Just silence.
Chuuya didn’t know how long he was sat there, holding Dazai’s body but eventually the sun slowly began to rise over the buildings and he shivered in the cold breeze, lifting his head and squinting as the bright light burned his eyes.
His phone rang and he absent-mindedly palmed at it, barely making out Akutagawa’s name on it and turned his phone off fully. He didn’t think he could talk to Akutagawa, not now. He found Kouyou’s name in his contacts and called.
“Chuuya? Why are you calling so early, lad?”
“Ane-san.” Chuuya croaked, his voice hoarse. “Ane-san –“
“Are you alright? Are you hurt?” She instantly sounded more alert.
“Ane-san, he’s dead. He’s dead, and I – I don’t know what to do.”
“Who’s dead, my boy?”
“Osamu.” Chuuya choked out, feeling the tears burn at the corners of his eyes. “He’s dead.”
“Oh, Chuuya.” Kouyou’s voice softened. “Where are you?”
“I’m… we’re at Oda’s grave. I found him here. Ane-san… he left me a letter.” Chuuya whispered.
“I’m coming, keep talking to me. How did he die?”
“Pentobarbital. I found the syringe beside him.” Chuuya said, casting a glare at the syringe, laid in the grass just inches from Dazai’s slender fingers.
“He never did like pain.”
“No, he didn’t.” Chuuya hummed in agreement. “I have to tell the Agency about this.”
“Not alone.” Kouyou said sharply. “Ryūnosuke or I will go with you.”
“Okay.”
When Kouyou showed up, she helped him up, wiped his tears away and hugged him closer to her, cupping the back of his head tenderly and murmuring assurances to him as he sobbed onto her silk-clothed shoulder, fisting the fabric between his scarred fingers desperately.
She brought out a dark cloth and helped Chuuya cover Dazai’s body in it.
“I don’t think he would want to be buried.” Chuuya said. “I think he would want to be cremated and for the ashes to be spread here. By Oda.”
“If that’s what you think, that’s what we’ll do.” Kouyou said, smoothing the hair on Chuuya’s head. “I think the Agency will want to see the body first though.”
Chuuya will never forget how the Agency reacted when he told them, when he showed them. The weretiger threw up the second they uncovered the body, his shoulders heaving from where he was bent over a bin, tears running down his pale cheeks as his knuckles whitened from how tightly he was clutching the bin.
“No, no, please tell me that’s not him.” He had begged, turning his pleading eyes to Chuuya who could do nothing but avert his gaze, fearing he himself would burst into tears right there and then and leaving Kouyou to be the one to explain it.
Kunikida had actually stumbled back in shock, falling into his chair and burying his face in his hand, muttering under his breath oh how could he not have noticed and how did he not realise how serious this way because it’s Dazai. Chuuya dreaded having to tell Akutagawa, he didn’t think he could stomach that. He had to ask Kouyou to do it for him, excusing himself to take the body home to the crematorium.
Akutagawa somehow made it to the crematorium, borderline hysterical and demanding to see the body. He saw it and stumbled back, his face sheet white and horrified, muttering denials under his breath and Chuuya could do nothing to even comfort him, feeling his own chest get heavy and his eyes sting with brewing tears.
Several hours later saw Chuuya back at Odasaku’s grave with Dazai’s ashes and a heavy heart as he knelt in front of the gravestone, bowing his head and slipping his hat off.
“Oda, I brought you a friend.” He murmured, unscrewing the cap off the vase and scattering the ashes over the ground by the gravestone and standing, putting his hands in his pockets, lifting his chin to gaze at the water to the side. “I wish it was under better circumstances, I really do, but I hope you’re both drinking together again.”
He inhaled sharply, feeling a tear slip down his cheek for the umpteenth time today, wiping it away hastily and putting his hat back on. “You owe me a game at the arcade, Osamu. I’ll cash that in someday.”