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There are papers scattered about his room, quiet and dusty; he should have expected this, Dazai thinks, reading over a few pages strewn across the desk. Each page is covered with writing, sloppy penmanship a testament to the many beautiful ideas that originated from that man's brain.
To be able to save someone is something Dazai never considered; a life here, in the mafia, such a thing was never necessary. Death was second nature, something to hardly even spare a thought of.
And yet, he used his last words to tell him that he of all people-youngest mafia executive, part of the infamous Double Black-was capable of saving someone. He thought Dazai worthy enough to spare his own emotions in favor of telling him that he was-could be-a good person.
(nevermind that he was the first, last, only person he thought of to be worth saving, and yet couldn't.)
(...weak.)
He gathers up the papers-as many as he can carry with him-and never enters the room again.
Years later, he stands at the makeshift grave, ages of neglect forcing the handmade gravestone into something unreadable. He clutches both a book and flowers in his slender fingers, laying both delicately over the rough stone. From a distance, Atsushi looks on wearily; whether it's of awkwardness or respect, Dazai is sure he'll never know, but he's thankful for the space all the same.
Four years. It took him four years, but he kept his promise.
He glides his fingers over the book's author-Oda Sakunosuke-and smiles.