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Dazai Osamu never informed his coworkers of his absences, nor did he explain them. What was the point? They don’t care. They don’t need to know. Knowing is too personal. He’s only there to live out Odasaku’s wish until either the universe agrees he is a waste of space or he finally succeeds in taking the matter into his own hands.
If both sides are the same, be on the side that saves people…
----
On the 10th of January, Dazai did not show up at the Armed Detective Agency. Not a single person cared enough to question. None of his coworkers called him or went to his dorm to see if he had finally found success in one of his attempts. No one batted an eye. They went about their day as usual---working on cases, sitting around the office chatting, and occasionally goofing off if the moment allowed it. They were like a family, one that Dazai had not been welcomed into warmly. His coworkers may have noted his absence, but if so it was brushed off as a “typical Dazai move"---which it was. By that evening, the day at the agency had been cataloged as a productive one, since their residential waste of space wasn’t there.
It makes sense they wouldn’t notice or care. Dazai has only been working there for a year and although the group is nice, someone like him, a 20-year-old with a suspiciously blank background, is likely to stir up distrust in the others. His lackadaisical behavior towards the job and his attendance, of course, did not help his case. Due to their lack of care for their newest member, his skipped days became a familiar thing to them. His typical work day consisted of either a late entrance, an early exit, or a complete lack of attendance.
Of course, he was berated and punished for these things, but because Dazai is who he is, he couldn’t find it in him to care about said punishments enough to deter him. Besides, he is a master planner, always thinking ten steps ahead in every situation; he was intentional in behaving this way. He’s already set the precedent that his attitude is lazy, therefore, if he’s always going missing, who would notice his absence on this specific day?
Just as no one in the office cared he was gone, neither did Dazai. He couldn’t feel enough to know if any of it really bothered him or not. But, that would be the last thing on his mind today.
Today’s date is permanently burned into his brain as the day Oda Sakunosuke was driven to offer himself up as a martyr for the Port Mafia. The day Dazai relives over and over in his dreams. The day Dazai remembers thinking for the first time that the smell of blood is sickening. The day his best friend died.
It’s been three years since that day and yet, Dazai feels just as much pain as he did the night it happened in front of his eyes. He’d hoped that the numbness that consumed every thought and feeling of his already miserable existence would eventually seep into his grief, but alas, that did not happen. Dazai felt nothing except the pain of losing Odasaku. This was the one instance in which he wanted his debilitating numbness to work its magic, and yet Grief avoided it as if it were a disease.
During the first two anniversaries of his loss, Dazai was hiding underground, going by an alias and waiting for the day he could resurface as the man Odasaku wanted him to be. He had never felt so much pain as he had those two years. Because of his situation, he was forced into isolation through his hiding, leaving him to mourn and grieve the loss of not only Odasaku but also the guy who betrayed him—Ango Sakaguchi-–all alone. He had lost one to death and one to betrayal. And he went through it all alone. That was enough to drive him mad. He didn’t know what to do or how to handle feeling something so deeply and emotionally—the pain sinking deep into his bones and flooding every crevice of his body. He was willing to do anything to replace the pain with something else.
At some point, he learned how to replace the pain with anger; an anger in which he channeled into Ango’s betrayal. It was Ango's fault just as much as it was Mori-san's. Ango practically gave Odasaku to Mori for slaughter. It was Ango’s fault. He ruined everything. He was a conniving liar—something that Dazai was himself, and perhaps part of Dazai’s anger was geared toward the fact Ango had proven better at it than him.
Two torturous years later, Dazai had resurfaced as a ‘changed man’ and sought out Chief Taneda for help getting settled in his new life. He had learned how to turn his pain into anger when it became too much and he brought forward his new happy-go-lucky façade that everyone came to know him by. He started his job at the Armed Detective Agency, passing his entrance exam and quickly learning he needed to adjust some behaviors and procedures if he wanted to go undetected.
He moved from living in a tiny bunker in the middle of nowhere to a tiny dorm room in the city—a room with potential for comfort, unlike his shipping container and bunker. But, Dazai is Dazai and so his dorm lacked decorations or furniture. The dorm only contained the cheap futon and appliances that came with the room. His place lacked any indication of personality; fitting, considering he couldn’t feel enough to have a personality that is noticeable.
The only object of his personhood that Dazai kept in there was the photograph of him, Ango, and Odasaku at Bar Lupin all those years ago. So often Dazai thought about burning that photo. Perhaps that was the object you hear about in horror movies; the one that ties your ghosts to you. Maybe, if he finally gave it up the pain would turn into numbness and the ghosts would haunt him no more. But, as bad as he wanted, Dazai couldn’t bring himself to. He wanted to believe it was because looking at Ango’s face helped channel his anger, but anyone who knew his story would know that wasn’t the real reason.
Today, on the third year of Odasaku’s anniversary and Dazai’s first time out of hiding, was an even harder day than usual. Dazai was convinced it was because of all of the changes that had followed him in such a short period of time. He’d always been good with change when it was on his terms, but in the last few years change was thrust upon him, forcing him to adapt without having a solid plan of how it would all turn out. He refused to let that happen again; no longer would anything slip by him. He would be in control of everything in his power. Every move, every plan, and every idea would be something he knew about. He wasn’t going to make those same mistakes again.
Dazai has never been one to learn the proper method of doing things when it comes to his own well-being. He had mastered the methods of planning, manipulation, and lying but he could care less about mastering anything that revolved around himself. He can’t even master his own suicide. It’s selfish to seek help. Odasaku told him to be on the side that saves people, not be one that gets saved. Since entering the public sphere again, not once had he considered getting help. He was self-destructive and always has been. Dazai knows that any self-respecting person would seek out healthy coping mechanisms for the hard parts of their life. But, Dazai is not a self-respecting person. He never has been.
Anger had been his go-to coping mechanism while he was underground, but he was finding it more difficult to live off of that alone in his new life. He had resurrected himself as a sardonic person and anger does not fit in his new description. Plus, not being in the Port Mafia made it harder to let out anger. There was no righteous explanation for letting your frustrations out through pure cruelty. So, Dazai had to find something else to channel his emotions into. In the end, he turned to constant distraction. If his mind was constantly being stimulated, when would he have time to dwell on the pain that lives so deep in his bones?
He’d bought noise-canceling headphones to blast music through to silence his thoughts. He bought countless books to read repeatedly in times of desperate need. Alcohol was also an option, although, in some cases, the drink only exacerbated the pain. In those moments, he would try everything in his power to sleep it off, though that rarely worked. The world had never been kind to Dazai Osamu, why would it start now?
The most recent investment he made to aid his distractions was a chess set, which he played constantly, giving himself no room to think about anything other than the game he was playing against himself. Plus, it was good practice for strategy and planning. Perhaps he would one day need to rely on his knowledge of chess and the skills he acquired by playing so much.
The little distractions Dazai collected slowly decorated his dorm, if you can call them “decorations”. The books piled up in the corners and empty or partially filled bottles of sake littered the floor. He had his video gameboy lying around, plugged up in a mess of cords that led to nothing, worked for nothing. The cluttered mess of his room did a miraculous job of hiding the photo that haunts Dazai. He had almost forgotten about it. Out of sight out of mind.
The chess set, though… the chess set always sat on his table. The table was never cluttered, nor was there anything else sitting on it. It was never messy or out of place. All the pieces were in order, either set to their original positions or set in an unfinished game. It was the one thing he kept clean intentionally. Why? he doesn’t know. Perhaps it is some sort of compulsion? Anxiety? Obsession? Dazai doesn’t know nor does he care. He just made sure it was taken care of at all times.
He knows that another option for distraction is to be around other people, but he refuses to do that, especially not with his new coworkers that don’t give a shit about him. He is highly aware that he is susceptible to breaking character today. Grief, fresh and formatted into a new being, is heightened and easily triggered. He wasn’t going to risk breaking his new character to the people he considered strangers.
There was one person that Dazai knew would be perfect for the role of distraction should he want it. But, Dazai also knows he lost the privilege of showing up at their place unannounced as soon as he disappeared that night. Hell, they might not even know he is alive, and for Dazai, that’s a good enough reason to keep avoiding their place. Besides, they would probably only hate him more for disappearing and Dazai would be stuck listening to hours and hours of griping. If he’s going to distract himself, he’s going to do something within his own control. This person would not let Dazai be in control in that scenario.
The first half of Dazai’s day was spent in a drunken blur. He’d tried to sleep but failed as always and January 9th rolled right into the 10th. A clock somewhere out in the city chimed, indicating that it was midnight. He knew he needed something, and quick. This day was dangerous for him—more dangerous than normal. He scrounged around for a bottle of sake that was lying in his dorm and did his best to forget the pain. Fortunately, it worked this time and he spent the early hours of the night drunk and reading his favorite book. By morning, he had reread his suicide guidebook four times, trying to memorize the entire thing in case his book was lost or stolen. Somewhere in those pages that he was rereading, the buzz from the sake had worn off and sleep deprivation overtook his brain.
Several hours later, Dazai woke to the sound of rain pouring outside. The sky was so dark that it could’ve been mistaken for nighttime. Dazai’s dorm already had very little light in it, but the hard work that his single lightbulb was doing was pointless. It felt like a second night. You might have fooled someone that it's already the next day. Oh, how badly Dazai wished it was. But alas, Dazai couldn’t deny that the second darkness was fitting for a day like this. A day where Dazai’s soul is blacker than it ever has been. If he felt this darkness swallowing him whole, so should the rest of the world.
Getting up from his futon, Dazai walks over to the singular window in his room and watches the rain fall. Hardly anyone is outside, unsurprisingly.
“Guess I really am trapped in here all day” Dazai mumbles. “What a shame! I was hoping to use my workday skip to tour the art museum again. Ah, and I have no more sake! Truly a dreadful day,” he says in the whiny voice he uses around his coworkers. Even in his solitude, Dazai couldn’t help but slip into his lighthearted persona sometimes. It was easier than facing his own mind. He was used to acting, but his attempts didn’t work well on himself. As both the actor and the audience, the story is no fun when you can read both sides.
A habit Dazai had found himself in during his time underground was reassessing all the angles of Oda’s death. He would go through every possible scenario and event and dissect them piece by piece, seeing how they connected together to create his tragedy. He worked every angle to calculate a perfect scenario in which Oda would have survived. He could never find it; every option always led to his death eventually, even if not at that moment. Odasaku was not meant to survive in any of the Port Mafia’s futures, and it’s all Dazai’s fault. He’s the one who brought Oda to the mafia in the first place. If he hadn’t dropped himself on his front door, Oda would be alive, writing books like he wanted to. He would probably work in some kind of system with or for kids. He would be alive and helping those who need it. He would be happy.
If Dazai bringing Oda into the mafia wasn’t enough guilt, he also was to blame for his children being brutally murdered. He had tried to save them and yet, as with everything he touches, it is ruined. His best friend was killed in his attempt to do something good. Dazai had moved the children to a Port Mafia safehouse, which gave Mori a perfect setup for Gide to entice Oda into a fight. He had delivered Oda’s children to Mori on a silver platter. Mori was never kind to children, Dazai knew better than anyone, and yet, he managed to give them to the boss as manipulative ammunition. He was so stupid, so naive. He should have known better.
Here and now, on this rainy day, Dazai found himself dwelling specifically on his faults in the situation. What a worthless waste of space he is. Odasaku wants him to be on the side of good, but did he not realize that when Dazai attempts to do something good it never has positive results? He was merely biding his time, currently. It’s only a matter of time before he fails at his new job; likely by attempting ‘good’ and getting everyone hurt instead. When that happens, he’ll run away again. There is very little chance he will ever be in a stable situation. He truly believes that he will be running for the rest of his life.
For the next several hours, Dazai played chess to distract himself. Chess had become his favorite activity and it was the only activity that provided pure distraction from reality and also felt productive. The intense, multi-directional strategy was the only thing that mattered to him, wanting to undo everything he had in the past.
A hunger pain too sharp to ignore shot through his stomach. It was enough to break Dazai out of the trance he was in while playing his game. The game was, of course, at a standstill. It’s impossible to win chess if you are playing both sides. You will always know what is going to happen next. That is precisely why Dazai likes it.
“Ouchie,” he whined dramatically to no one. “I guess I must eat at some point.”
Getting up from his chess table, careful so as to not bump his game and destroy his hard work, he headed over to the cabinets and run-down refrigerator in his room. Of course, his cabinets were empty.
“No crab stored away for me? Devastating!” he feigned shock. “You would think the Armed Detective Agency would take better care of its employees!”
“I suppose it’s not that bad. I can wait until tomorrow to go-” Dazai didn’t get to finish his sentence before another pain shot through him, this one sharp enough that he doubled over.
“Goddamn it.”
Normally, Dazai would have used the pain from his hunger to distract from the mess in his mind, but today that was not an option. He had to admit he was going a little crazy being in his tiny room all day. As much as he did not want to trek around Yokohama in the pouring rain, he needed to get out of his stuffy dorm for a bit.
Grabbing his coat and haphazardly throwing it over his shoulders, Dazai headed out the door.
The first drop of rain that fell upon Dazai sent his memory back to the night before Oda died. His hand desperately grabbed at Oda’s coat, only to miss by mere centimeters. The fear and rage coursed through his veins at that moment as he screamed “Odasaku.” It all flooded his brain. He remembers how difficult it was to see Oda as he walked off. Between his soaked, shaggy hair hanging down, the hard rain, the bandage, and the fear, Dazai didn’t see Oda walking away clearly. His fear held him steady, his feet unwilling to run after his friend. Perhaps it was the blurred vision that stopped him, as well. Maybe he had not truly seen what he thought he had. Oda would be fine, Dazai just wasn’t seeing clearly. Oda walked away to safety.
Startled and distressed by the flood of memories in the rain, Dazai forgot about his plan to get food. Instead, he just started walking, unsure where his feet were taking him.
When Dazai had managed to walk off some of his panic, and when he came to, his feet stood at the entrance of a place he knew by heart but had not visited since running away. He wasn’t surprised that his mindless wandering around led him to Bar Lupin, the place where he, Oda, and Ango got to experience a moment of fun and peace in their daily lives. This was his first time coming back in two years. The mere idea of stepping inside terrified him. He could feel his heart racing as he looked at the sign glowing red and yellow in the dark street. If only he cared enough to actually steady his heartbeat; a trick Mori-san forced him to learn to better his lying abilities in captivity schemes. He doesn’t know how long he stood there soaking in the cold rain before a car driving nearby snapped him out of his thoughts. Hesitantly, he took a step forward and climbed down the steps into the underground bar.
The warm air of the inside seeped into him and tried to reverse the damage the cold rain had soaked into his thin tan coat. The bar is rather small and in all its years Dazai had rarely ever seen anyone other than his two friends drinking here, so he wasn’t too surprised to see no customers inside. The same old bartender who was always working was the only person in the room. Dazai said nothing to the old man and he didn’t say anything either. Silence had proved to be this bartender's best friend. In all the conversations Dazai, Ango, and Oda had in front of him—good and legal or bad and illegal—the man never spoke a word. He simply let them be. He never spilled their secrets nor displayed any fear of them, partly because his bar was protected in Port Mafia territory, but also because he saw them as normal people, normal friends. He listened day in and out about how dangerous Dazai was through Dazai’s own discussion of Port Mafia affairs, but he treated Dazai the same way his friends had. Dazai was just a normal boy in an unlikely situation.
Dazai takes his normal seat in the dead center of the bar and sits in silence. The place itself had not changed one bit, and yet, Dazai felt like he was in a brand-new building. He lets his mind wander, an unconscious sense of safety seeping into his bones. All of his memories of this place were replaying in his mind at once and along with those came their subsequent emotions. He could feel the pain in his stomach from the nights the three of them laughed so hard to the point they were coughing and unable to breathe. He remembers all the times he let his mind clear and would engage in nonsensical conversations. He remembers talking about partners and romance and crushes; he remembers denying consistently his crush on another Port Mafia member, which the other two teased him for relentlessly. They even invited him to the bar on one or two occasions just to fuck with Dazai. He was so embarrassed and angry those nights, and the anger only agitated by the yapping man who could not handle his alcohol. He remembers speaking in hypotheticals and discussing Port Mafia orders and jobs and future prospects. He remembers having friends.
Dazai remembers the night Ango came in late and the mood shifted ever so slightly. He remembers the wet umbrella and the camera in Ango’s bag. He remembers the photograph the three of them had taken. He remembers Ango getting captured and saved by Oda, just to betray him in the end. He remembers the rage he felt when he found out what happened.
Fuck Ango.
Dazai hated him; he hated him with passion. Anger is still the only thing that successfully combats his grief, and right now, his anger made the pain that has been weighing on him all day, disappear. No longer is he dwelling on the alternatives and his own mistakes. No, he remembers that it’s all Ango’s fault. He’s the one Dazai should blame. He has more reason to blame Ango than himself. I mean, Ango fully betrayed them, while Dazai was simply misled and made a wrong choice. Fuck Ango.
Dazai wanted to kill him.
While lost in his mind as it swelled with a mix of fury and hurt, he let his guard down and wasn’t aware of the customer who came in. His back was turned and he didn’t notice until a voice called out to him.
“Dazai-kun.”
Dazai knew that voice. He would never forget it. He knew coming here that it was likely that the man of the hour showed up. Not like he has any right to be here, though. But if Dazai had learned anything in the last few years, the predictability of others is something he understands. And yet, Dazai still brought himself to this godforesaken place.
He takes a deep breath and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Ango” is all he says, voice flat and void of any emotion, despite the swirl of them that he was feeling.
He didn’t turn around to face the man. He feared that facing the man would unleash everything he was feeling, and while he wanted to believe it was for Ango’s safety, he knew it was for his own pride.
Ango sat down at the bar. Not in his usual seat. Thank god. Dazai doesn’t know if he would have the restraint to not kill him had he sat in his old spot. Still, the proximity was too much for Dazai. He was feeling and thinking too much.
“You have no right to be here,” Dazai says, voice soft but in a tone angrier than before. “A man who killed his friend has no right to be in the bar their friendship was built in.”
Dazai is met with silence, which only bothers him more.
“Tell me, was your plan of betrayal set from the beginning? Did you let him rope you in, become his friend, a trusted confidant, knowing that you would be his killer one day?”
“I didn’t kill him,” Ango interjects heatedly.
“Ah, so the traitor can speak after all,” Dazai replies. “Did you ever have any doubts or regrets? Do you feel bad? I can’t imagine you do. Murderers don’t feel pain for their victims. I know I don’t.”
Again he is met with silence.
“Wow, Ango. Not even an attempt to deny it? You must be colder than I thought. You’ve never cared for another person in–”
“I regret my choices every goddamn day!” Ango suddenly yells. “But I had to do that, you don’t understand. It was my job , my duty. It was necessary– ”
“Save it for when you face whatever wretched god is out there and plea for your sins. I don’t care.” Dazai interrupts coldly. Every word is spoken with venom.
Ango sighs. Then softly, “Dazai-kun…”
It sounds like pity. Like he pities Dazai for being upset.
Something in Dazai snaps upon hearing his name said in that tone, and everything he was holding back comes out. His body and his mind detached completely, and he was moving on his own. Next thing he knows he’s throwing his glass in Ango’s direction; the cup shatters against the wall behind the man, spilling his drink all over the place, glass shards covering the floor. He can’t hear anything except the blood rushing through his ears, and someone screaming “fuck you” repeatedly. It didn’t take long for him to realize it was him screaming. His whole body was shaking in fury, heart racing faster than it’d ever had before. It isn’t until the bartender grabs Dazai’s arm and pulls him back that he snaps out of it.
I guess the bartender only interferes when it harms his own shop. Or the safety of other patrons.
Whatever fog was clouding Dazai’s judgment the last few minutes suddenly dissipated when the old man grabbed him, and he returned to his normal, robotic self, convincing himself that everything was fine. That he is fine. No feelings, no emotion, no thoughts. He’s no longer human, just as he should be. The switch between his personalities was so fast it shocked him a little.
Dazai grabbed his still-soaked coat, turned, and headed for the exit. “Thanks for the drinks, Ango!” he yells cheerily, knowing Ango is pathetic enough to still pay for his tab.
—
It’s nighttime now. The rain has slowed but it’s still in a state that is inconvenient to walk in. Dazai doesn’t care, though. He walks mindlessly back to his dorm, trying his best to push away every thought that surfaces. He was back to being the happy version of Dazai and he needed to stay here.
He decided to take as much time as possible to get home; the sooner he gets home the sooner he is deprived of sensations that counteract his thoughts attempting to come to the surface. He walked the longest route, taking every detour he possibly could. It was so late that most places were closed, but for those that were open, Dazai took a peek in. He bought another bottle of sake and some canned crab in a run-down convenience store he came across, and he stopped in a bookstore as it was closing and bought another book while the store owner yelled at him to get out. He, of course, tried to flirt with the owner and get her to keep it open late just for him (he wanted to browse around more) but that only made her angrier.
After an hour of wandering, he passed by the detective agency’s building, just a few blocks up from his dorm. The building housed many different businesses but it seemed like the building was completely empty except for a single light that shone from a window on the agency’s floor. Dazai knew it could only be one of two people: either the president or Kunikida.
“Oh, how fun it would be to go inside and smother Kunikida-kun with my gracious presence” Dazai sing-songs to himself. “Ah, but it may also be the president, and in that case, he will scold me for my absence. We can’t have that!” He speaks to the building as if it will respond.
“Goodbye Kunikida-kuuuun” he laughs, high off the faux giddiness he had acquired in the past hour from playing pretend with his own mind.
Dazai hoped that he had spent enough time on his way home building up his fake persona in public that it would carry over into the solitude of his room. He hoped it would last long enough to get through the rest of the night until this horrendous day was over.
It didn’t work.
As soon as he stepped foot into his room, everything he had been trying to avoid broke through the barrier and the weight of his existence rested upon his shoulders once again. His dorm was like a reset button. He had become so used to taking his mask off after a day of work that he Pavlolv-ed himself into doing it unintentionally.
“Shit” he whispers, his voice unsteady. He didn’t want to cry, he didn’t want to be angry. He didn’t want to feel anything. He wanted his numbness back; he wanted to go back to feeling like an empty shell.
Walking inside, he set his newly purchased items on the ground, unable to muster enough strength to focus and even take them out of the bag. His head was spinning and he could barely keep his balance, stumbling over the mess on his floor as he searched for his futon. He felt himself knock the pieces off his chess board as he stumbled around, scattering them everywhere. Dazai had been playing the same game of chess against himself for a year now, and had he been in a more lucid state, he would have been annoyed that his game was forcibly ended. All of the care he put into keeping his sacred game clean and organized was ruined within seconds.
Clambering about, he stepped on one of the scattered pieces, snapping it in half. He looked down to see what he had broken, mindlessly noting what piece it was.
It was the king; the white pieces’ king, specifically. One of the two most powerful pieces on the board was now unusable.
Of course, Dazai couldn’t care less at the moment. He just wanted to lie down, drink himself numb, and then sleep. He desperately needed everything to just stop. Everything was too much.
He was too aware of everything happening in his own body. He could hear his heart beating and the blood rushing through his ears. He could feel his damp clothes and bandages up against his body, rubbing uncomfortably. He could feel his head swimming with all kinds of thoughts, mixing together with every emotion possible to further confuse him. The single lightbulb lighting his place buzzed, a sound Dazai couldn’t stop focusing on.
As he bent over to pick up the pieces he had just scattered, a familiar photo caught his eye on the ground.
It didn’t take long after that to lose control. He looked at the three of them sitting there, blissfully unaware of what was to come. He looked at himself, sitting on the right, a fond, but tired smile across his face. His anger toward Ango in the bar quickly turned into anger toward himself, self-hatred burning in his veins. A voice ran around in his head, spewing accusations and only enabling his downward spiral.
How could you let this happen? How could you be so reckless? You just sat and watched as he got backstabbed and then sacrificed? You were the one who placed him on the silver platter. You like to blame Ango, but you’re just as guilty. You’re even worse. Ango didn’t put him directly in harm's way, you did.
Self-hating thoughts continued to run through his mind, reminding him of everything he did wrong that night, mulling over every detail and nitpicking his conversations with Mori. He should have known sooner. He should have predicted this. The voice in his head rang louder and louder the further he spiraled. Dazai had lost complete awareness of his body. He couldn’t tell if he was sitting or standing if he was actually screaming or if it was just his mind. He couldn't tell if the hot streaks running down his face were blood or tears. His whole body felt nonexistent; the only thing that he could sense was the anger in his head and his chest.
He scratched his face and pulled out pieces of hair—an automatic and unconscious attempt to get his mind to shut up. His whole body was trembling, hands still fisted in locks of brown hair, holding on tight and tugging. He was crunched down, hot liquid pouring from his eyes as he fought and fought to get away from himself.
“Shut up. Please, please shut up,” was all he could say.
—
When Dazai woke up, there were a brief couple of seconds in which he felt at peace, until the memory of his mere existence slammed into him. He doesn’t remember much about what happened after he got home from the bar, but the heaviness of his sorrow set deep in his chest. He could feel his arms and legs were sore, and the cuts and scrapes on his face were stinging. His scalp felt bruised and small clumps of brown hair were lying around him.
He doesn’t know how long he slept. Hell, he doesn’t even know what time he left the bar, or what happened when he got home, or how long he has been knocked out. His dorm was dark, the only light being the small lamp that was in the corner. One glance at the window told Dazai it was nighttime, but he had no idea if the day had passed yet. Sitting up made his head swim, but he needed to find his phone and check the time.
11:37 pm, 10th of January. Thirteen minutes before the day of hell was over. Dazai let out a long breath, steadying himself and his mind before grabbing a scarf and a second coat, and leaving his dorm. He was off to his finale destination of the day.
The rain had mostly stopped, only a light sprinkle coming down. The air was even colder than before, his nose burning with each inhale. He readjusted the scarf so that it covered the bottom half of his face and pulled his second coat over the trench coat, putting his hands in the pockets and wrapping the warmth around himself. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.
“Hello, Odasaku,” Dazai says softly, looking at the slab of stone set in the ground. He had reached his final destination for the day. Ironically, this is the only place he planned on visiting today, and yet here he is, only spending the last few minutes of the night with his friend.
Given Odasaku’s low ranking in the mafia, it took a lot of effort on Dazai’s behalf to even give him a proper burial and gravestone. His Port Mafia savings were worth something, at least. Dazai had set him into the ground before running away and hiding for the next few years. This was his first time visiting since the burial. He knows he should be feeling something as he sat there; anger, sadness, mourning, anything. But he didn’t. Not at that moment. He felt safe, and that was it.
There was a bouquet of fresh flowers resting on the ground near Odasaku, and Dazai knew it could only be from one person. He expected anger to come after seeing those flowers, but no. He was too exhausted. He felt nothing. He wanted to bask in the short-lived safety that he was experiencing in Odasaku’s presence.
Sitting down, Dazai rests his back against the tombstone, cold stone fighting its way through his layers of clothing. Basking in the serene safety that overcame him, Dazai sat in silence with Odasaku for a long time.
“I’m trying, Odasaku. I’m trying,” he whispered. “I’ll make you proud eventually, but now is not the time.”
His words ended there, speaking only in his mind, hoping that somehow Odasaku was listening to everything he was saying. Before long, his one-sided conversation drifted off. His mind was shutting down and the exhaustion was finally taking over for the final time. Despite the frigid air and the mist of rain falling on his face, Dazai fell asleep curled up on Odasaku's grave.
For the first time in ages, Dazai sleeps without nightmares. His dreams are nonexistent, but that is better than feeling dead weight and warm blood on his hands.