Work Text:
“You shitty bastard…” A familiar redhead growled at him, shoving his shoulder.
He could only respond in giggles, as he wiped his drenched hands on his coat. “You gotta admit that was funny…” he tries to contain his laughter.
“How about I splash you with water instead? You piece of shit…” the ginger scuffs under his breath, fluffing up his sweatshirt collar.
“Come on Chuuyaa! You always gotta be so boringg!” He smiles through his complaint, swiftly kicking himself up, attaching himself to a light pole. He sways his body in circles around the pole, the cold sensation from the metal meeting his wet hands.
“I hope you slip off that and crack your neck!” Chuuya barks, walking past Dazai as he flicks his hood up shielding himself from the light drizzle that had begun.
“Ugh whateverr…” Dazai surrenders. He jumps off the light pole, hurriedly getting back to Chuuya’s side. He runs his fingers across the brick wall beside him, the feeling of the rough, moist cement tearing at his skin.
They walk side by side in silence as Dazai slowly skips down the sidewalk, enjoying the light drizzle that begins to pile up on his brunette hair. His arms shiver, entertained by the coldness the rain brings. He kicks his feet through puddles, purposely splashing his shoes to his left to annoy his partner.
“Quit doin’ that!” Chuuya snaps pushing his voice into Dazai’s direction. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.
“What! I’m bored!” Dazai smiles, his eyes practically closed. He hums, as he breaths in and out, able to see his breath in cold darkness ahead of them. He brings himself closer to Chuuya, almost shoulder to shoulder. His intrusiveness gets the best of him as he leans over the gingers back, swiftly grabbing his gun from his waist band.
“Why do you always have to be so annoying…” Chuuya continues to walk as Dazai ignores his question as he analyzes the boy's gun. “What model is this?” He asks excitedly spinning the gun around in his hands.
“I don’t know, just give it back!” Chuuya commands, his eyes squinted with annoyance.
“What, scared i’ll kill myself?” He laughs, jokingly bringing the gun to his temple, imitating the action of pulling the trigger. Chuuya squints his eyes even more. “I wouldn’t do such a thing tonight! It’s too beautiful out!” He waves the gun in the air, turning his head to the oncoming breeze from the Tsurumi River that could be seen from any point in Yokohama. He turns his attention back to the gun. “Ou! is it loaded!?” He asks, eagerly opening the magazine. 3 bullets.
3 bullets.
3 bullets sat in the magazine of the gun that lay in his hands. It felt cold to the touch. It felt exactly like that night he’d reminisce about in his teen years. It was a regular night of no importance. Just another time he’d terrorize Chuuya. This was the memory he chose to think about as he gripped the gun in his hands. It was a happy memory. But of course, nothing good ever stays in Osamu Dazai’s life. He smiled as he remembered splashing his partner with water from puddles that were scattered all along the sidewalk. But his smile quickly faded as he recalled that no good memory could come without a lie.
“I wouldn’t do such a thing tonight! It’s too beautiful out!”
His own words replayed in his mind. It was a beautiful night. The moon shined through the windows, leaving a sapphire aura filling the room. The opened windows let the chilled air blow in. But even a beautiful night can’t cease his urge. That night he had reassured Chuuya he wouldn’t kill himself. Hours later he’d find him with a rope tied around his neck. What a shame. Tonight, maybe something other than the beauty of nature will save him.
…
What a foolish thought. Nobody ever came to save him. It was always his own thoughts that talked him out of it. But it didn’t matter though. Because he never followed through. Why? Osamu Dazai had been a pussy about suicide since the beginning.
He truly wished to die. He could easily take the gun to his forehead and pull the trigger right now if he wanted to. But he knew it wouldn’t work. He already considered various ways to commit suicide. But each method came with its flaws. As in flaws, he wasn’t referring to the technique of suicide. His whole life is one massive flaw. Nothing will change that. No matter how many good deeds he does, the negative will always outweigh the positive. That’s just how things worked for him. Things never particularly go his way, but he always makes sure not to show it. He had covered up his whole life with lies.
Osamu Dazai was always a liar.
His body forbid him from ever revealing the truth. Lying was a trait he was born with. And one he was most likely to die with. It was just one among of dire traits he possessed. When he was with members of the Agency, stating he’d finish his work — he lied. When he was sitting at the bar, denying he was drunk — he lied. When he assured everyone, he was okay — he lied. He lied and lied and lied. He was a habitual liar as long as he could remember.
Dazai’s life was simple. It consisted of going to work, drinking at the bar, breaking down, and going to sleep. That was all. The only thing that kept it not-so-simple, was his cocky attitude. That was how he lied.
He’s always wondered what his life would be like if he didn’t have the responsibility of this drowning ability of his. If he looked at it, he was just cursed with a tiresome ability and a manipulative persona. But on a deeper level, he never asked for this life. Nor did he wish to keep it. ‘I ask for a life where I do not strive to commit suicide.’ A simple phrase that if read by a regular person, they’d respond in a nervous laughter. But if someone as deteriorated as Dazai had come across this phrase, he would rejoice, trying to make it his reality.
I do not wish to keep living.
The ink bleed onto the sheet of paper that sat before him on his desk. The very desk he put his feet up on during his first day of work.
“Get your feet off the desk, you idiot!”
The blonde man's word repeated in his mind. He found it funny. But only tears collected in his eyes. He quickly wiped them away with the back of his hand, attempting to hide his emotions even though he sat alone in the office. The sapphire aura from the moon shifted its view to the floor.
He thinks back to the blonde man, who would probably be scolding his actions as he sits quietly at his desk. Nobody ever took Osamu Dazai’s suicide fantasies seriously. They all overlooked it as another one of his weird obsessions. He wishes he could lend someone his ears or his eyes. Maybe his thoughts. Or possibly his wrists and arms. But no. Nobody would understand. The only person that understood him didn’t exist anymore. He didn’t have a voice to sooth his pain and thoughts. Maybe that voice would be persuading him to put the gun down. He didn’t have a body for his heart to beat and call his own. And it was his fault. What if he bought medics with him? Or if he had gotten there a moment earlier? Maybe he would be alive. He had protected him his whole life. Trying to shield him from the darkness the world bought him. It was his turn to protect him.
and he failed.
Why didn’t Mori let him save his only friend?
Sakunosuke Oda
‘It was Oda’s fault.’ ‘He did it to himself.’ ‘It was Mori’s fault.’ These thoughts had lingered inside his mind. But they didn’t seem right.
’It was my fault.’ Yes. That seemed about right.
“But I’m afraid Oda doesn’t wish for anyone’s help.”
Maybe Mori was right.
No.
No. No. No.
...
Sakunosuke Oda. The man who loved curry and cared for orphaned children. The man who wanted to become a novelist. He was the one chasing for death. Not Odasaku. He was the one to blame. Why did he have to accompany the enemy in death and not him?
His breath shakes as new tears appear on the paper, slowly soaking it. He drops the pen from his grip, laying his head in his palms. His eyes meet the gun that sat below his chin. The opportunity spits at him. He tightly closes his eyes, refusing the taunting the gun had bought to him. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was the man’s face. For once, he wished he could see the darkness again. He wanted the darkness to greet him with open arms like they did years ago. He throws opens his eyes, the image too unbearable.
And suddenly.
He was standing outside a door. A small red sign flickering above that read; Lupin Bar.
The breeze allowed a cooling sensation to rush through his veins. He opens the door without hesitation, immediately letting the warm air hit his body. The door shuts behind him as he’s greeted with an empty pub. He slowly weaves by tables and chairs. He takes a sit on a stool in front of the bar. The yellow lamps that hung above him emitted a nostalgic light that bought a reminiscing shimmer to his dry curls. He looks around. The shelves holding all sorts of liquor and vodka are still dusty, but looking as tempting like always. The 2 glasses of alcohol freshly cold and wet on the outside sitting before him. The walls still coated in red velvet floral wallpaper that slightly peels at the corners.
It feels good.
He doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want to break down or drink his pain away. The low jazz music covers his breath. A low bell ring sounds from behind him grabbing his attention. A tall, auburn-haired man enters the bar. “Odasaku!” he shouts, his smile going ear to ear.
Odasaku walks through the tables and chairs, taking a seat on a stool beside him. “Hey, Dazai.” Oda gives him a welcoming nod before turning his head to the wine rack behind the counter.
“So, what’s up! How’s everything?!” He asks excitedly. He places his hands on his chin, kicking his feet against the counter like a small child.
“Just work.” Oda responds, keeping his answer short.
He happily nods. “Got any missions comin’ up?” He asks, his eyes lit up.
”No.” Oda answers him, his voice regular.
“Somethin’ wrong?” He questions, still smiling.
“No.” Oda responds. His answers continue to be dry.
“Ah, suit yourself.” He coughs, leaning back and forth in his seat. “So, I was thinking about this curry place near the river, apparently, they have the best spicy curry. What do ya’ think?”
“Curry does sound good right now, doesn’t it.” Oda’s laugh is dry. He takes a sip out of his glass.
“Mhm!” he hums, shaking his head eagerly. “So? What do you say? We haven’t eaten out in a long time!”
Oda sighs “You know that won’t work, Dazai.” He swirls his glass around in his hands.
"What?" He asks, placing his elbow on the countertop.
"Dazai. You're hurting." Oda turns to him. His once blue eyes are now ashen and empty. They’re filled with some type of guilt.
"I-I don't follow." He stutters, continuing to force a smile.
"You need to find the light." Oda replies. The light jazz music is now gone. Leaving just the 2 of them in the dimly lit bar.
"I-I did! You showed me! I'm fine now!" He grins through confusion.
"Not quite." Oda places his glass on the table, letting it slip out of his hands.
"Then show me the light!" He asks desperately. A few tears drip down his cheek, but he quickly wipes them away with the back of his hand.
Oda sighs, "Dazai. The world needs you. Escape from the darkness."
"I-I did! I-I joined the agency and-" his words cut off as a warm hand places itself on his shoulder.
“Keep looking for the light. I promise it’s there. But people need you. They care about you. It’s not your time yet.” Oda says, his voice solemn as normal. Yet there’s something that makes his words feel of real.
Only his heartbeat can be heard over the buzzing of the golden light that shined above them. “It's always about other people! Why does it matter if I stay or not!" His voice cracks with frustration and rejection. His tears now engulfing his vision. "Even after you left, I still can't find a place in this shitty world!" He cries, pulling the man's hand away as he gets off the bar stool, shoving it back underneath the counter.
Oda's expression stays the same. "I'm sorry, Dazai." Is all the man responds with before he slowly gets up from his seat, gently pushing his stool in.
"Don't walk out on me again!" He shouts, coughing through his tears. They drip down his neck, soaking into his collar.
Oda doesn't say a word as he tosses down a few dollars from his pocket onto the bar top to pay for his drink. He walks around the tables, standing before the door.
He stands there, watching his best friend leave him
again.
"Don't go Odasaku. Please." He pleads, his voice low.
The man doesn't look back.
...
His eyes shoot open, feeling the familiar cold breeze from the open window nearby. The office was silent. Suddenly, he wasn’t untouchable. He wasn’t numb. He was broken. The only thing heard were his cries. He didn't try and hide his pain anymore. He knew nobody would come this time. It was like being stuck between heaven and hell. He wanted to go to heaven. Hoping to understand the light so he could see his friend - his only purpose for living - again. But at the same time, he deserved to rot in hell. His crimes accumulating too high, a punishment wouldn't even exist. Or maybe his punishment was this. Being stuck in this thing people called life.
His motions are quick, but he swiftly grips the half drunken bottle of alcohol, sending it across the room. It shatters to pieces, sending shards of glass to the floor as red liquor seeps into the cracks of the wooden boards. The room quickly goes back to silence. The alcohol drips down the walls, saturating the wooden panels. It pools beneath the radiator, covering the once lime-toned tiles.
It calls his name.
No.
...
It needs him.
He needs it.
Without hesitation, he pulls open the drawer in-front of him. He searches through his junk looking for something. Anything. His hands shake as he picks up a pair of scissors.
This will have to do.
He rolls up his sleeve to his elbow and quickly rips off his bandages in a foul swoop, completely exposing his scars. Some were red, and purple while others were white. Some were deep or shallow. It just reminded him how much of a mistake his life was. He felt so naked and vulnerable without them. Normally he’d unravel them so he was able to put them on once he was done. But he needed it right now. He craved it. He grips the scissors, separating them as far as possible. Although his hands shaky, he places his thumb in the middle and aggressively shoves one end into his skin, carving it into his wrists. He countlessly tears it across his skin.
one.. two.. three.. six.. ten..
God there was so much blood.
eleven.. fourteen.. shit.
His last incision immediately gushes a deep, abnormal red.
“Fuck!” He shouts, dropping the scissors in his lap. He grips his wrists as blood quickly squirted out his incision from his arm. It’s not that it hurt. No. it never did. But he’d hit a vein. He knew exactly from the color of the blood. Piercing a vein was probably one of the most infuriating things that could happen because it bleeds so much, that he’d probably pass out - which he knew from personal experience.
In his teen years, Mori had taught him how to successfully hurt himself without going too far. Which annoyed him but he knew if Mori showed him how to properly kill himself, he would’ve been dead a long time ago. This was perfect for Ougai Mori. He’d taught him the best ways to do it without killing himself so his best executive wouldn’t die due to his own pity. He hurt himself, let it heal into scars, and do it all over again. It was the perfect technique. But because of his shaking hands, he’d messed up.
Blood flowed down his arm, soaking his white sleeve. He quickly grasps his bleeding wounds, which continued to feel like nothing. So perhaps he was numb. He grabs his coat from the seat next to him, pressurizing the top of his profound cut.
Oh…
How pathetic he was.
He couldn’t even withstand one deep cut.
When he was younger, he was able to stand dozens at once. He still could, but his arms grew more delicate and frailer as years went on. There wasn’t much healed skin to slice on his arms anymore. He had considered starting on his legs since things didn’t seem to be getting any better. But he pushed that thought into consideration once there really wasn’t any skin left. He felt the need to entirely mutilate his body until he didn’t feel like himself. Until he didn’t look like himself.
He sighs in frustration, clutching his coat over his laceration. He leans back in his office chair, spinning it towards the open window that showcased the azure landscape of Yokohama. His hand grows moist, as his once beige coat, now a crimson red as it held all his blood that had already seeped through to the other side. The man’s words replayed in his mind.
“Keep looking for the light. I promise it’s there. But people need you. They care about you. It’s not your time yet.”
…
It’s always about other people. He’ll never live to satisfy himself. Just others. He’ll always be used as a pawn. Only there when someone needs him. He felt like everyone’s toy. In some way, he was like that one toy that you’d wind up and wait for the clown to pop out… In some way, he was the clown. He’d wait in his box until he’d pop out to subdue someone’s sadness before looming back into darkness just like before. He was simply someone’s toy. He was there to fulfill what people call: happiness. Which he didn’t understand.
The idea of suicide never came across as selfish to Osamu Dazai. He had the ideology that it wouldn’t be his fault. Rather it would be everyone else’s because they failed to notice his pain and suffering.
But at the same time, he blamed himself. He endured the pain, attempting to hide it from everyone. He didn’t want to hurt people anymore. That was the last thing he wanted to do. His past haunted him enough. Killing and torturing dozens of people a day. It was a life he wanted to forget. It was something he tried to discard from his memory. But somehow, it always found its way back into his mind. No matter how hard he tried…it always lingered in his daily life.
His train of thought slowly faded as his vision started to daze. His body shivered in his seat. His skin ran cold. But the blood that poured onto his body bought a disturbing warmth.
“Dammit…” is all he can manage to mutter. He looks down to his arm, alleviating his grip from his coat since his strength couldn’t keep the pace with his adrenaline. Tossing his coat to the side, his smaller cuts had almost stopped, but his laceration continued to bleed. His head grew light, signaling that he was going to lose consciousness sooner or later. He lets out a deep sigh, staring at his now blood-stained button up. His eyes grew watery again. Not out of anger…
but out of disappointment.
He’s disappointed by what tonight came to. Chuuya would be disappointed. It was a beautiful night. That was their rule. It was unspoken, but they knew what it meant. And of course he broke that rule like he broke everything else in his life.
Even himself.
His vision fades to black as final tears fall from his eyes. His head goes limp, letting itself rest above his lap. His arm falls to his side, letting blood drip to the floor beneath him.
Maybe some rest would be good. It’s always a good thing to sleep. Although Dazai barely ever slept, it was something he enjoyed. It was a coping mechanism which is why he didn’t do it often. He only found him doing it at his lowest. It was a never-ending cycle. No sleep, means going insane. So he slept the insanity away, just to cure his depression. Then he’d feel fine again, which meant back to his constant insomnia. This time, he was forced to rest.
…
It felt good.
It felt rewarding.
…
But filthy at the same time.
The filth of having to hurt himself just to perform a bodily function disgusted him. But it worked. Maybe he’d have to cut into his veins more often. Besides bleeding out, it wasn’t too bad. He finally got the sleep he wanted.
Dazai’s lifelong goal was to commit suicide. He was obsessed with the idea of ways to put himself out of his misery. Starvation, hanging, bullets, posion, malnutrition, drowning, overdose, you name it. Anything he’s already tried. It just never works. It pisses him off. He attempts to starve himself or let himself bleed, but in the end he just wouldn’t follow through. Because he was a pussy. It was as simple as that.
He should’ve just pulled the trigger when he had the chance. Knowing his luck, the magazine would have jammed. That’s just how it worked. Osamu Dazai: The man who longed for suicide was allergic to death. Hypothetically, it seemed like he always took his allergy medication. Which was a single dose of ‘im a pussy’. It was a shame he could never do it with his real medication. How ironic.
His empty mind thought back to his note.
I do not wish to keep living.
What a phrase.
…
But it was true. He was completely done with living. His past, his body, his urges were too much to bear. He didn’t want to hurt people with his death...but if it meant escaping this thing called life, he’d do anything. He wanted out so terribly. All he had to do was wake up and pull the trigger.
Sleep felt good, but it wasn’t enough to conceal his pain.
His eyelids gently rose. The office was engulfed in an orange aura, with the sun rising above the edge of the Tsurumi River. He was still left alone in the office. But the sun was with him. Oh how beautiful it was. Possibly a more gorgeous sight than the sapphire shadows that filled the office from what seemed to feel like minutes ago.
He lifted his arm, it felt particularly numb. It was coated in dried blood that stretched from his elbow to his fingertips. The burgundy fluid seemed to pair quite well with his pale skin. The sticky pool of blood had puddled to a great size underneath his seat, soaking into the wheels of his chair. The sun wanted to share its warmth, but yet his body continued to feel cold to the touch. He gently bought his hands in front of him. The cracks of his palms also coated in the crimson color. Ignoring his injures, he takes his hand, weakly picking up the pen.
He scribbles out his past words, writing something new.
I have lived a good life.
A lie.
He wrote, avoiding the dried tears that had fallen on the paper. His handwriting was shaky to some extent, but still readable.
I have been in pain for a while now.
The pen falls from his fingertips. He sighs, uneasily placing it back between his index, thumb, and pointer finger.
I cannot bear to live anymore-
His writing grows harder to read each time the ink grazes the paper.
I want to thank you all for bei-
The pen slips from his grip again. “Dammit…” he mumbles under his breath. He wants to shout again. He wished he'd bought more wine to smash into pieces to subdue his anger - only for the moment - Instead of anger, he only found that tears would form in his eyes. A conversation with a specific ginger’s replays in his head.
“I wouldn’t do such a thing tonight! It’s too beautiful out!”
…
Why does his words matter now? He isn’t even in his life anymore?
Chuuya Nakahara had always been an ass. According to Dazai, at least. That man would take up any opportunity to see him in any pain. Well...in most cases. On the outside, he was the type of guy that would torture you for fun. But when it came to Dazai...it seemed that he had a soft spot for him when they were partners. He was the one to always offer to stay at his apartment after a break down. He was the one to always sew up his cuts; rather it was from fighting or from himself. Sure, he'd berate him the first few minutes or the first few hours depending on the situation. But in the end, Chuuya was the one to look after him. He missed it. He missed it a whole fucking lot. But now, Chuuya Nakahara was just a name to him. A floating memory among all the others he had collected from when he was a teenager, up to now. They hadn't worked together in years. He hadn't said a word to him in countless months. If he could change one thing about his life...it would have been to take Chuuya Nakahara - the Manipulator of Gravity - with him. He would've helped him escape the darkness. But that didn't matter. Because he himself hadn't escaped the darkness either.
"Dazai. The world needs you. Escape from the darkness."
Something Sakunosuke Oda had told him to do before he left this world.
He wonders: What would Oda be doing right now, if he hadn't joined the Port Mafia? If he didn't invite him into this life of crime? He would probably be living a life of impunity, writing a new chapter of a book. He'd be sitting peacefully somewhere in a quiet, secluded beach house overlooking a gorgeous view of the ocean.
He wonders: What would Chuuya be doing right now, if he hadn't joined the Port Mafia? If he didn't blackmail him into this patronizing organization? He would probably be living a more relaxed, straightforward life with the Sheep. He wouldn't have to deal with his struggle against his corruption, since he would never have to use it.
He seemed to be a burden to all those around him. He dragged everyone he made contact with into darkness. Into the depths of hell created by his consciousness.
Chuuya.
Odasaku.
…
Akutawgawa.
…
Hell, even Kunikida and his prominent idealistic schedule he constantly ruined.
His tears flowed hard. It was hard to breath. He choked on sobs as his hands shook above the paper that was now almost completely unreadable. His body shivered aggressively, still awfully cold by the lack of blood. He guided his hands through his hazy vision. Rather it was because of his crying or his head spinning, he couldn't see much in front of him. His hands found the gun. The aluminum clanked against the table as he carefully bought it over in front him. He gripped the handle with his mutilated left arm and hovered over the trigger with his right. The cold steel bought another intense shiver through his arms, down his spine, all the way to his feet. He positioned the muzzle against his forehead - leaving no error for death. His fingers caressed the trigger and its guard. He could easily stop his suffering. He knew that 3 bullets remained in its magazine.
It was perfect.
He could finally rest with Oda.
That made him happy.
He felt at ease.
This was unavoidable.
…
Nothing could go wrong.
…
Nothing.
…
"I think you should put the gun down, Dazai."
It was almost as if time froze. The voice felt like a bullet to the chest. It petrified him. The feeling pushed against his bones which had unknowingly stopped his breathing. Although his body froze, only his hands stayed trembling. His complex immediately paled. Was he imagining this? ...this voice? No. The chilling sensation felt too real. The voice echoed through his brain. Someone came to save him. Did someone actually take him seriously? Or was this just a coincidence? There was no chance someone - anyone - wanted to save him. A burden. A monster. An inhumane liability for every mistakein this world. Someone…actually came? His body didn't move. He didn't want to look up. He couldn't. He can't.
…
What a foolish thought.
Nobody ever came to save him.
Out the corner of his eye he made out the numbers in his vision:
7:53 am.
…
The Agency opened at 8:00 am.
He knew it was merely luck. It only made him want to cry harder. The misfortune of someone finding him like this, just because they decided to show up to work a few minutes early. He understood that nobody cared. He understood that from the very beginning.
The only people that cared about him, he pushed away.
Odasaku…his best friend. Chuuya…his old partner. Akutagawa…his revere.
He had his people at the Agency. But they never understood him like they did. Rather it was his feelings, or his pain, or his techniques…nobody comprehended him for him.
"Dazai."
The voice was closer, and much clearer this time. Ranpo. It was Ranpo. It bought him back to his situation. His body jittered at the sudden change. His distorted sight peered past the muzzle.
7:55 am.
"Normally I don' deal with this type of stuff, but I know you won' pull the trigger."
Dazai froze as a hand slowly approached the gun. It gently pulled it away from his forehead. He didn't resist. Because he knew Ranpo was right.
…
He was afraid.
He feared death.
He tortured people in the past. He had killed families, siblings, lovers in front of each other. The sounds of devastation and torment filling their screams and pleads. It constantly flooded his dreams. If he were to kill himself, he would only be torturing the ones he centered himself around every day. He couldn't even imagine how someone would find his lifeless corpse. His head a pile of mush, only identifiable by his beige coat and bandaged body. It bought a wave of nausea to his stomach. What if were Chuuya to find him dead? What if it was Kunikida? Or even Atsushi? He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't. No. Each person's screams bounced off the inside of his head.
He heard a clank on the floor. The gun was out of his sight.
"Now, I suggest you let me give you a hand before the rest of the Agency decides to show up." Ranpo says, leaning on the desk holding a lollipop in one hand. His voice is uncomfortably normal. He was never one to show much emotion, unless it involved his own senses.
Dazai couldn’t break his gaze from his hands. He couldn’t face Ranpo after allowing him to see how pathetic he really was. But at the same time, he was relieved to hear Ranpo’s voice. Out of all people, he’d give him the easiest time since he wasn’t one to to sympathize. The two of them were never particularly close, but they were still coworkers. The other members would have probably tried to comfort him or tend to his injures…but no. Ranpo just wanted to make sure the others didn’t see his hideous self. He knew Ranpo could read him like a book. Rather if his eye bags showed he had been crying over Odasaku, or if his untucked bandages revealed he had slit his wrists the night before. He didn’t have to explain anything. The man just knew.
“Ya’ know I really don’t have time for this! My mochi is gonna get cold.” Ranpo whines sarcastically, but his remark is muffled by the lollipop stuck in his mouth.
Dazai gently shakes his head. His hands still lay in front of him, positioned where the gun had left his possession.
Ranpo lets out a long, trying to sound annoyed, exhale.
7:57 am.
He tried to silence his cries, but to no avail. His body quivered with each deep sob. His breath shook even though no words were being spoken. Sticky tears continued to pry themselves out of his eyes, as they rolled down his cheeks. He didn’t want to seem weak. Of course he didn’t. He was the ’Demon Prodigy’ demons are emotionless.
…
liar.
Complete lies.
He was no demon or some praised prodigy at all. He was a human. A human with emotions just like everyone else. That’s the one thing he had in common with society. He had feelings. He was raised to think he was deprived of any sense of weakness. The Port Mafia had tried to destroy any frailty that attempted crawl out of his skin. But no. He was simply a human.
He had enough. He couldn’t stop. He broke into wails. Bringing his unharmed hand to his eyes, he choked on his sobs, his cries filled the room. Hiding his tears wouldn’t do anything. He was already caught with a gun to his head and his arms completely naked exposing everything. The blood and alcohol that covered the floor, including the broken glass, didn't help him either.
In between in cries, he suddenly felt a warm sensation placed on his arm. He wanted to run away. His instincts triggered a scream that made him want to pull away. But instead, he slowly looked up from his palm. There, Ranpo sat. His hand over his cuts. His scars. His imperfections. A gentle hand decided to place itself on his mutilated, violated skin. He tore his eyes up to Ranpo's face. Even through blurry vision, he could still make out the man's expression. It wasn’t disgusted. Nor disturbed. But rather…
Accepting.
Despite the fact that Ranpo had never seen him without his bandages - let alone shirt - he wasn’t scared. He wasn’t scared of his body. He wasn’t scared of him. He simply saw him as Osamu Dazai.
He hated physical touch. He hated everything about it. It made him feel suffocated. But Ranpo’s hand felt oddly…soothing. A small wave of relaxation ran throughout his body. The sensation of touch didn’t taunt or terrify him this time. It felt rather nice.
“I want you to know.” Ranpo started. His voice was now slower and gentle. It's almost as if he quickly adapted to the severity of the situation. It was at a level where he could understand with all the thoughts rushing through his head.
“Sakunosuke was a good man.” He crouched down to Dazai’s level, allowing their eyes to meet. His gaze wasn’t disappointing or upsetting. It was soft. It felt safe. It made him want to trust his words.
“I met him once.” he paused for a moment, for once, trying to find the right words. “I can guarantee you; his intentions were good.” Ranpo’s eyes never once left his. It gave a subtle feeling of assurance that what he said was the truth.
…
“Keep looking for the light. I promise it’s there. But people need you. They care about you. It’s not your time yet.”
Was the light a way to break free from his self-hatred and inability to accept death?
But how was one like him supposed to do that?
…
“It’s not your time yet.”
Maybe this was what Mori was talking about. In reality, of course it wasn’t. But maybe he was right about one thing.
“But I’m afraid Oda doesn’t wish for anyone’s help.”
Although they’d never admit it, Oda and him were alike. Not by their preferred type of liquor they drank, or their favorite walking routes when they needed to relax. But maybe the way they wanted to escape this life. There reasonings were different. That’s how they differed. No wonder they had gotten along to easily.
The only way for Sakunosuke Oda to escape his miserable life…
…was to die.
And the only way for Osamu Dazai to escape his wretched life…
…was a calling.
He hadn’t taken life seriously, so it threw despair at him. Oda’s death...was just an exchange for his. His death of the life of crime in the Port Mafia. It allowed him a fresh start. A chance to turn his life around.
His shaking relaxed a bit. Although his emotions had subdued to an extent, it wasn’t of much use as he jittered from the alcohol he had drunk earlier. His skin was still pale. Almost comparable to paper - but some child went and scribbled all over it with red marker. He didn’t really notice how severe his injures were. He had cut himself fourteen times and once down to the vein. He broke his gaze from his body, knowing if he stared too long, it would make him throw up and spiral again.
Forgetting that Ranpo was still standing there, with his hand on his skin and a lollipop in between his lips. He stared at his hand for a moment before the detective sensed that he was done with his sense of comfort. Ranpo nodded slowly, receiving his wordless message. He gently slipped his hand off of his arm, making sure to not make any sudden movements. He leaned back on the edge of the desk.
8:00 am.
“Go to Dr. Yosano’s infirmary.” Ranpo told him. “I’ll take care of this.” he says, kicking his feet against the desk. The detective's voice was still kindly spoken, but his words had some power behind it. Although Ranpo wasn’t his superior, he listened.
he wanted to listen.
He slowly rolls back his office chair that slid through the chronic wet blood. He tried to pick himself up. But his body quickly feel back to his seat as he let out a small, painful grunt that he wished could've stayed concealed. His body continued to slightly jitter as if he wasn’t in control. His head felt light, reminding him how much blood he had lost and how much his body ached. He was tired - he had cried himself out completely.
Ranpo sighed deeply again. Seeing the sight of someone who was always full of energy, so utterly broken, so lost. Made his heart squeeze - and he wasn't one to show emotions. He knew of his past. His ultra deduction aided him with that. But he couldn't completely read him like a book. There were some things that would forever go unanswered because of the way Dazai functioned. He most likely blocked out the most traumatic memories of his Port Mafia days. But there was one he could never block out. Odasaku's death. It pushed him into such a dissociative state where nothing mattered anymore. He couldn't imagine what the 2 years were like while he was waiting for Sakaguchi Ango to erase his past.
He leaps off the desk with the lollipop still in his mouth. He heads for the door “Kunikida will be showing up any second now.” Ranpo reminds him before opening the door, closing it behind him.
Dazai can hear some muffled conversation behind the door. Man, Ranpo was always right. He can distinctively hear the blonde man's voice quietly arguing with Ranpo.
Shit. Kunikida is here. What if he sees him like this? Oh God please no. Ranpo was already enough.
He hears a scuff, and a well-known pattern of footsteps fade out as Ranpo walks back into the room with a case file in his hand. Dazai flinches at his entry, but realizes he'd come alone. Where had Kunikida gone?
"Relax. I exchanged a case today for him to pick me up some snacks." Ranpo gives a small, reassuring smile, as if he was already reading the brunette's mind. "Now, this should give us a decent amount of time, shouldn't it?" He carries on, sucking the almost dissolved lollipop.
For the first time tonight, Dazai smiles.
…
It's not quite noticeable.
…
But just enough for Ranpo to spot.