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Dazai sat in his small, dimly lit apartment, his figure half-hidden in the shadows. The flickering light from his cigarette illuminated his face in sharp angles, casting his expression in an eerie glow. The cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, the ember burning steadily as he took another drag. His eyes, those moonstone orbs, stared out the window, tracing the distant outline of the city. The grey clouds in the sky mirrored the twisted, tumultuous storm that was his own mind. They were heavy, pregnant with rain, but not a drop fell. Just like his thoughts—heavily burdened, but never reaching release.
His fingers, long and delicate, played with the lighter absentmindedly, flipping it open and closed with mechanical precision. The light flickered with a soft click each time, almost like a heartbeat that didn’t belong. The way the flame danced reminded him of something—a metaphor, perhaps. He let the thought drift away as quickly as it arrived, unwilling to give it any room to settle. There was no space for poetry in his world. Only action and consequence. And right now, the only action he could bring himself to do was inhale the smoke, letting it claw its way into his lungs, finding a way to settle deep inside of him, just like all the demons that he never managed to shake.
A familiar ache bloomed in his chest. Who could ever love him?
The question had been gnawing at him for years, but it never grew dull. It never lessened in intensity. It was a constant, a reminder of what he was—flawed, broken, irredeemable. He had convinced himself long ago that he didn’t need love. That love was just another game, another illusion he wasn’t meant to partake in. His life was a performance, a play where he was the lead actor, but the role he played was one of a man who had long since forgotten what it meant to be whole.
“I’m not a righteous man, ” he muttered to himself, the words barely audible over the hum of the city outside. His voice was low, raw, laced with the same bitterness that had seeped into his bones over the years. “I never was. I never will be. ”
The thought of righteousness made him sick. He wasn’t a man of morals. He wasn’t a man of good intentions. What did it matter if he did good deeds, if he played the hero for others when he had long since lost the will to save himself? What did it matter if his hands were clean if his soul was so dark, it couldn’t see the light?
Osamu leaned his head back against the cool glass of the window. The cigarette in his hand flickered one last time before it burned out, leaving only the faintest trail of smoke to follow its fleeting existence. He dropped it carelessly into the ashtray, eyes still staring out into the grey horizon. The wind outside stirred the curtains lightly, the spring breeze brushing against his skin like a fleeting touch. It should have been comforting. It should have been something to welcome. But all he could feel was disgust.
The breeze was a reminder that life moved on, with or without him. The world spun regardless of whether or not he chose to participate in it.
And yet, he remained here.
Stuck.
He could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, the suffocating silence of his own mind. The scars that decorated his body, both the visible and the invisible, were like an eternal reminder of his failures. His hands, stained by his past, held nothing but memories of loss and regret. The burns on his skin, the jagged lines of rope-like scars from his past attempts at ending it all, were a map of his inner turmoil. They were the only thing that proved he was still alive, still fighting, even though he was so damn tired.
But then... there was that strange, unexpected warmth.
A soft weight pressed against his back, and for a moment, Dazai could almost forget where he was. He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. He didn’t need to. The arms that wrapped around his waist, the head that nestled against his back, the quiet, steady presence—he could feel it even without seeing it.
Kunikida.
The man who had stuck by him, despite all his flaws, despite all the twisted things Dazai had done to push him away. Kunikida had become an anchor in the storm that raged inside of him. It was something Dazai never asked for, never wanted, and yet... here it was. Something genuine, something real. Something that made him question everything he had convinced himself of.
Dazai leaned back, just slightly, into Kunikida’s embrace. He closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of it both comforting and suffocating. What was he doing here? What did Kunikida see in him? Why stay when Dazai was nothing but a broken, scarred man who could offer nothing but misery in return?
But as the warmth of Kunikida’s presence surrounded him, the aching question that had plagued him for so long suddenly felt... quieter. For just a second, Dazai allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something worth living for. Maybe the world could still surprise him.
He didn’t know how long they stood there, the two of them in the quiet of the night, as the city continued its endless hum. But in that moment, Dazai realised something—he didn’t need to have all the answers. He didn’t need to be righteous or good.
He didn’t even need to love himself.
But, for once, maybe he could allow someone else to love him.
Maybe that would be enough.