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On a cliff overlooking the sea, a cemetery stands alone. The white faces of the tombstones fade into a deep red orange as the sunset descends, burning every grave.
Below, warm hues of sunlight overtake a port city as buildings and streetlights flicker to life. Bar Lupin lies buried further inland, within the streets of Tokyo. Inside, the bartender cleans a wine glass, a few drunk patrons lie slack in the booths, and one man sits at the bar.
Sakaguchi Ango places a glass of whiskey on the counter. The single, circular ice cube in it clinks. Ango studies the bartender -- he is not the same man as before, but he works as if he has been here a while, fast, and greeting customers with a casual tone.
The government agent looks around. Aside from the bartender, not much has changed. Even he, is sitting in this seat once again.
Ango lowers his head, spreading out documents from his briefcase before him.
It’s been four years now.
He scans each paper, touching them with his fingers, lifting them as if he were measuring the weight of each page.
One document, filled out in his own neat handwriting, began:
Armed Detective Agency member.
Dazai Osamu. Age 22. Birthday: June 19.
This page is the cover piece for the stack of hefty, stapled-together files, firm in his grip.
Bloodtype: AB. Height: 181 cm. Weight: 67 kg.
He takes a sip of his drink and sighs. He realizes, Dazai is now taller than him.
Paperclipped to the corner is a passport-sized, 45X35mm photo of a beaming Dazai Osamu. The man is handsome, but no matter how one looked at his photo, one could see multiple things were wrong.
Non-combatant. Ability: Ningen Shikkaku.
Strange, gauze bandages wrung themselves about his neck.
Notes: Nullification ability. Highly dangerous.
His smile is too wide -- as if fishing hooks lodged themselves at the corners of his mouth and pulled, tight. He is hardly smiling at all.
How nice for you, Dazai-kun. Ango takes another sip of his whiskey. A normal portrait, peaceful ability, a place at this lawful agency.
Above all, Dazai’s eyes are empty. Not a single flicker of light exists in the photograph.
Ango rests his finger on his now empty glass. He thought that if he kept coming here, it would be a sufficient replacement. There was no other place to honor someone like that man, really. And tomorrow was the day.
“Odasaku-san would want us to relax like this, on his day,” he mutters, adjusting his glasses and pressing the file back onto the bar counter.
A torn piece of a napkin, no bigger than Dazai’s passport photo, peeks out from the stack. Ango had stuffed it here, buried in this file.
His fingers tremble as they draw it out from the pile. For a moment, Ango stares at his hand. And then, focusing his attention on the scrawled text held in it, he reads each number, the street -- an address, to himself in a low voice, as if reciting a prayer.
He places the napkin piece down.
“Odasaku. Please excuse me, once again.” Ango removes his glasses and hangs his head, cradling it against his left palm. “But I cannot right now.”
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The next day, at 5 sharp on a Wednesday evening, Dazai Osamu enters Bar Lupin with his tan coat tossed over his shoulder, hands in his pockets, while humming a popular tune he heard on the radio that week.
The bartender welcomes him and Dazai takes his seat and usual double of whiskey.
“You’re early.” The bartender nods.
“I’m celebrating today,” Dazai says.
Dazai scans the warmly lit bar: he is the first and only customer right now.
“A toast!” Dazai exclaims. His bandaged hand thrusts the glass high. “And then, I plan to drink the whole night.”
The bartender busies himself with cleaning more glasses, preparing them for the after-work rush. “You’re always smiling about something, aren’t you? What’s it today? Get a raise at work?”
“No, no. It’s my friend’s birthday today.” Dazai laughs. He pushes the glass of whiskey higher in the air, admiring the way the light hits the glass.
“You should be drinking with your friend, then.” The bartender offers. He places another wine glass down.
“I spent time with him earlier today.” Dazai presses his drink to his lips.
A few customers filter in, seating themselves at the other end of the bar. Dazai glances at his new companions as they pass by.
“By the way, that glasses-wearing man came by last night,” the bartender says.
Dazai leans back on his bar stool, downs the drinks in his hand, and then slides the glass across the bar. “His hair pushed back, like this?” Dazai sweeps his bangs back and holds them in place. His forehead exposed, he then gives the bartender a tired, half-lidded expression. “And his face like this?”
“Yeah. He sat right there.”
Dazai can only hold his imitation for a few more seconds. He bursts out laughing.
“Get me another double.”
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Ango walks along the alleyway outside Bar Lupin at 10:15 P.M. In the darkness illuminanted by dim LED lights, a tall, spectral figure wearing a tan coat waits for him at the entrance. It’s exactly who he expects, but he feels his own body stiffen nevertheless.
Dazai Osamu is standing there, smoking. Ango adjusts his glasses, his eyes flicker across Dazai’s.
“Good evening, Dazai-kun.”
Dazai smiles and tosses his cigarette. “I heard you still drop by sometimes too! The rumor was right.”
“You are 22 years old now, Dazai-kun.”
“So, how was Odasaku?” Dazai’s voice is cheerful as usual.
“Adults know how to greet each other properly. You are an adult now, aren’t you?”
“Oh, well good evening then!” Dazai beams wide. “So how was Odasaku?”
“You would know better than I.” Ango says.
“Why’s that?” Dazai frowns, before suddenly smiling again.
“I am not here to play games, Dazai-kun,” Ango says. He feels his shoulders grow tense. “Especially not today.”
Dazai takes a few steps forward. “Ah, you remembered. As expected of Ango, the information broker. It was an invitation you know.”
“Dazai-kun.”
The air between them is still and Ango can smell the alcohol on Dazai despite the distance that separates them from this distance.
“If you would please.”
Ango strides forward, gripping his suitcase against his body. The top cover of his suitcase is bulletproof. He’s ready to turn it into a shield if he needs, as he walks past this man in the narrow Bar Lupin alleyway.
“So you haven’t gone yet," Dazai says.
Dazai doesn’t even turn to face him.
“Go see him.”
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At a cemetery, overlooking the sea, a solitary grave stands among many others. The sunset had burned more brightly than usual that day, heating the land and the sea, illuminating the weathered photograph attached to the single grave. But, as midnight settled into the sky, the moon’s reflection casts over the photo instead, and a wind that travels from the sea cools the earth.
Ango Sakaguchi stands before the grave. He crouches down, inspecting the photo and the bouquet of white lilies laid before it as if verifying their authenticity.
He stands clears his throat.
“It’s been some time, Odasaku-san. I'm sorry I have come so late. I was held up doing paperwork at the office.”
He places a bouquet of white lilies at the grave beside the other.
“I see Dazai-kun already visited...”
He looks at the photo as he speaks. He, Odasaku, and Dazai from four years ago look back at him. Ango opens his mouth to speak, and the words come out so quickly.
“Well, I have known you were resting here the last few years. After all, Dazai was sighted at this location, right before his disappearance from the mafia.”
His gaze is focused on Odasaku’s, but for a moment, he glances at Dazai’s half-bandaged face.
Ango loosens his tie. “Dazai-kun and I, we both failed, after all. If I had not been captured that time… Well, if you did not come to my rescue… The fact is, I have thought about--”
He grasps his voice, evening it.
“Where are my manners? Happy birthday, Odasaku-san.”
He decides to sit, sets down his briefcase, unbuttons his coat.
“This is our first opportunity to finally talk after everything… I was not sure where to start.”
The night air is cool, and a light breeze picks up the salty scent of the ocean, pricking Ango’s nose.
The salt stings.
“Dazai invited me, actually… This might be difficult for you to believe, but Dazai-kun gave me the address. He left it on a napkin at the usual place.” There’s a hitch in his breath. “I’m not deluded enough to entertain that he has forgiven me. I do not expect you to, either.”
Ango’s voice is dry, as if he were sitting back at Bar Lupin, topping off his words with whiskey that burns his throat.
“Probably because he no longer has someone like you to spoil him…” Ango’s voice drifts off.
The wind picks up, rattling the white lilies resting on the grave.
“He has really grown up.”