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He ends up on a tree-lined street.
He looks up at the gaps of sunlight.
“I miss you more than anything.”
Dazai breathed to the sky above, the wind carrying away his words as the faint rustling of leaves caught each whispered letter. His gaze befell the weathered stonehenge again. A layer of earth had begun to climb her way up the coarse curve of the grave, hoping to alleviate the weight of death by infecting it with her life. How cruel it all is, truly— for her to slip through the cracks of his fingers just to grow back over his cold body, just for each blade of grass to taunt him of every opportunity he had to save him from the warm embrace of death.
S.Oda read the rigid engraving, too polished for the faint scene of his blood staining Dazai's bandages lingering in the back of his head. He could almost feel the dying weight of Oda on his lap again.
“ODASAKU!”
Dazai's voice rang throughout the hall. It was wide, glamorous, yet not enough for the grief he would develop to cling to. Truthfully, he knew Oda wouldn't make it out of the building, but the thought of being able to save him blinded any other deduction.
He kneels in front of Oda's grave, grass blades pricking at the fabric of his trousers. One knee presses against the Earth, the other looks up ahead at the leaves of a distant tree. Dazai's gaze is distant; not empty, though allowing the void of his thoughts to reflect in the depths of his irises. The faint wind carries his thoughts towards that hall once more.
“Whether you're on the side who kills people.” Oda took a sharp breath, “Or on the side who protects them,” His voice fell into a shaky, desperate whisper, clinging onto his words as if they were a lifeline, “you won't find what you're seeking.”
Dazai wonders if Oda would change his mind upon witnessing him recruit Atsushi, or when he's gleefully prodding at the confidentials of Kunikida's notebook— maybe even when he's reminiscing in the bed of some middle aged woman he picked up at Bar Lupin, blankly staring at the dark ceiling as she sleeps soundly next to him. Dazai wants to know what he'd think. Not validation, not a thumbs up— just something. A subtle nod, a telling blink, just a sign of Odasaku.
He knows Oda's opinion wouldn't change.
Still, he pushes the thought down just to wallow in the possibility.
“The seasons like to change a little faster when I think about you.” The words spill out before he even realizes that they are. Normally, a sense of unease would follow him when he unraveled himself like that.
The faint whistle of wind that follows after is enough of a response for Dazai.