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“They should really be paying you to live here,” Dazai says, flopping back against the fire escape’s black railing. Behind him the city sprawls in every direction, miniature some 140 feet below. He looks just right like that.
Oda looks away, out at the horizon, at the buildings hiding the setting sun.
“It’s a good workout.”
“I would sleep in the dumpster in the alley if I came home to fourteen flights of stairs after a long day.”
I’d carry you up, Oda doesn’t say. The words beg to break free, drowning out any other options, so he takes a drag of his cigarette and doesn’t respond. Dazai doesn’t wait for him to. He turns, resting his elbow on the railing and setting his chin in his hand, to stare out over the city with him. His expression turns thoughtful, dim, melancholy.
“Over forty million people live in the Tokyo metropolitan area. Did you know that?” He says. “Forty million people living their own lives just like ours. Thinking their own thoughts, trapped inside their own heads. And in a hundred years every single one will be gone.” Dazai’s gaze slips to the ground below their feet. “Makes you wonder what the point is, doesn’t it?”
Sirens echo off windows and cement, their source unknowable, headed to one of thousands of buildings holding thousands of people. Oda looks at them and tries to imagine what that many people might look like.
Forty million people, all with as many memories as him.
Forty million people, all holding conversations like this.
He can’t do it. He can’t even see all the buildings they live in from here.
All these buildings, someday gone. So why build them, is that it?
“Well, when you put it that way,” he murmurs.
Dazai tilts his head to look at him.
“Is there another?”
Oda takes a long drag of his cigarette, blowing smoke into the air. It doesn’t reach the other buildings. It doesn’t even leave this one.
“Their lives, their problem. I’ve got enough trouble looking after my own.”
“Hah!” Dazai grins. It doesn’t reach the next building, or even leave this one. It doesn’t leave his face, and that’s enough.
“Just think smaller, is that it?”
“Hmm,” he agrees. Or disagrees. He’s not sure. “Well, there’s a reason I’m not an executive like you.”
“Is that the reason?” The knowing glint in Dazai’s eyes comes with a warmth he’s grown used to. Teasing. “I should be worried you’re after my job if that’s the only thing stopping you.”
Oda huffs. Alright, he’ll play along. He shifts to lean on his elbow, facing Dazai too.
“Life is short and nothing matters, right? Am I ready to be a big shot now?”
“Almost! Next is: so it doesn’t matter who lives or who dies.”
It’s getting darker. One moment the sun is setting, the next it’s night. Dazai’s eyes reflect the neon lights turning on around them, the darkness dwelling in their depths waiting to meet the night that colors it. He hopes Dazai stays long enough for him to compare their shades.
“...I think it matters to someone.”
Dazai’s smile warms. “I see! You’re a romantic.”
“Huh?”
“If nothing matters, not even life or death, but a life might matter to someone else - then you’re saying only love matters.”
“Am I?”
It doesn’t sound wrong. Thinking back over his youth of cruelty and killing, it was always moments of love that moved him. A promise against morals. A gift from a stranger. A ruined painting.
“That sounds nice. I’m glad I said it.”
Dazai laughs, his shoulders shaking with it, and flips around to lean his hands back on the railing. He looks down through the wrought-iron grate keeping them suspended in the air, his gaze far away.
“It does, doesn’t it?”
The cheap girly bar on the corner turns on its flashing sign, dying Dazai’s black in shades of blue, then gold, then blue again.
Oda’s worn leather shoes creak under his shifting weight. The fire escape announces each of his footsteps with a clang, but Dazai doesn’t look up until Oda slides his hand onto the railing by his side.
He catches Dazai’s chin, tips his head up, holds him steady. Dazai’s skin squeaks against the railing as his grip on it tightens. Oda lowers his head-
And stops.
Dazai’s sixteen.
Cigarette smoke trails up from his fingers, sways beside them.
Dazai’s lips part, then close. He swallows, tries again.
“Please.”
Oda hesitates another moment. He flicks his spent cigarette away.
The first brush of lips startles a soft sound from Oda’s throat, an agreement with Dazai’s breathless keen. It’s perfect. He forgets to think about the motions and parts and how they fit together, forgets finesse and inexperience. He focuses only on Dazai, on pulling him closer, on making him his. Dazai tastes of licorice and spice, of understanding and home. His hands are cold but holding him feels like holding sunlight in his arms.
He, Dazai, whichever of them said it, if they’re still different people, was right. Everything else could disappear tomorrow. This is all that matters.
Dazai slouches in his arms when they break apart, both of them gasping. His fingers clutch Oda’s sleeves, Oda’s latched onto his hip and curled into his shirt over his back. He waits for Dazai to look up, flushed and pleading, and lets his expression pose the question he doesn’t need to voice.
“Don’t stop,” Dazai whispers.
Oda tugs him inside.