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A bottle of sake in his hands, a handful of pills in the other.
Osamu held death in his hands. He knew how to handle it well. Meddling in death’s affairs was a hobby that Dazai had learned to handle ever since he was a child, a tightrope that he masterfully teetered on.
Today was the day that Dazai would lose his balance.
The chill of the ceramic bathtub seeped through the beige trousers he usually wore to work. His outfit was scuffed, having worn it to sleep last night. It looked like he had stumbled drunkenly into his dormitory, shrugged off his waistcoat, and passed out on his futon a quarter way into unbuttoning his striped button-up.
Well, that’s basically what happened. It’s a wonder that the detective still had bottles left over. At least he took care of one of his problems, right?
Dazai idly leaned against the edge of the bathtub. An arm was slung over the rim, a delicate hand gripping poorly onto one of many bottles of sake. Not like he’d need the other bottles after this hour, anyway. A small bout of pills had been spilled onto his palm. The little orange bottle containing the tablets lay beside Dazai, a reverie of white pellets escaping it. Osamu didn’t know what they were. He just knew that they were prescribed to him years ago and were by now expired. That meant that he’d probably need the entire bottle, then. There were already painkillers in his system– with the added disorientation of sleeping for way too long– so at least that could potentially aid him in his mission...
How many should he take at once? He wondered. Five? Three? Dazai knew that he could take a good amount of pills at once. It wasn’t his first time doing so, he knew all too well how this process would go. Every time he tried, he always ended up gaining consciousness again. Maybe he was immune to sleeping pills.
Osamu filtered a few pills out of his palm, most tapping against the bathtub. Alas, three remained in his hand. Three expired pellets would do trivial amounts of damage to his health, he thought. But the alcohol would help accentuate it. Just a few more rounds of that and he’d likely lose consciousness. Well, the thought that he’d have to suffer didn’t really pique his interest. This was just his last resort. Kunikida took away the less painful methods he frequented.
He placed the bottle of sake on the edge of the tub. The bottle was green and had a foggy translucence, crisp to the touch. He had already uncapped the alcohol, some of it dripping from the bottle due to his sluggish movements.
Dazai brought the bottle of rice wine to his lips and tilted the bottle up. The flavor hit him instantly. It was bittersweet; the bitterness overshadowing the underlying sweetness. It didn't taste that acidic, but instead it blended in with the bitter taste, leaving a stinging trail as it travelled down his throat.
The bottle hit the tub a bit harder than Osamu wanted. He was almost certain that it'd crack, either the tub or the bottle. But why should he care, anyway? He's going to die soon, so he thinks, can I at least die without a concern?
The bandaged man gazed at the many white tablets in his palm with half lidded eyes. He counted mentally, hazel irises scanning each white pill. Three. There were three. Dazai needed to work his way up. He wanted to savor the sake.
He brought his palm to his mouth, the pills falling right in. He didn’t need the sake to swallow them down, but it was a nice addition. Osamu then brought the green bottle to his lips again. The prescription washed down his throat with the wave of alcohol, the trail of bitterness and acidity making him shiver.
First round of pills down, however-many-that’ll-make-his-brain-shut-down to go.
Well, it didn’t take him that many rounds. It really didn’t. Though it took about an hour of sulking in his porcelain bathtub, the sake and the hint of painkillers coursing through his veins worked a bit too well.
Dazai noticed himself breaking into a cold sweat when it started, but in no universe could he predict that it would get this bad.
Now, his outfit was utterly ruined. Everything he had eaten the previous night was now mushy bits of half-digested food on his signature button-up. Pure bile– likely just water at that point– was spilling from his then pale lips, wetting his already dirtied bandages with stomach acid. Osamu’s eyes were glossed over with tears from the vomiting. His muscles spasmed as he desperately attempted to keep himself under control. Well, that was hard when he couldn’t even interpret his own thoughts anymore. He could feel his ever-slipping grip on consciousness– on life skid away from his trembling grip.
He considered speaking out his last words right then and there, but it wouldn’t really be his last words, wouldn't it? If a tree falls and nobody’s there to see it, then did it really fall? Dazai never really considered himself all too sentimental. To some, his last words might’ve been a simple ‘bye’ when the day ended, or a simple ‘good morning’ when he entered the agency floor. But to him? Dazai couldn’t form a decent sentence to say as a personal goodbye.
His soon-to-be death wasn’t as spontaneously gorgeous as a firework, but at least they were both celebrated alongside a crisp bottle of sake.