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“But I do have one regret: I’ll never be able to read that novel you complete one day. That’s the one last thing I wish I could do.”
These words weren’t spoken to Oda. He wasn’t present when they left Dazai’s mouth for the first and last time, an ode to the sky above him, where crimson and golden collided and reflected into the blood-splattered pavement soon after.
His final farewell, after being broken to bits by an aspiring writer.
He’s heard this story from Akutagawa long ago, when the boy came back to him covered in blood and bruises and, for the first time, let it all spill out of his weightended heart. They haven’t spoken about it again since.
“Even if this world is but a fleeting shadow…”
There are a lot of things Oda doesn’t comprehend, and perhaps he never will. He tried to come to terms with this fact for as long as he can remember, and yet, each time… it all keeps coming back to him in waves. Everywhere he turns, he’s reminded of the day he let the Port Mafia boss get away.
The day he saw the tears glowing in his exhausted eyes and paved his way to the rooftop.
He shouldn’t keep on bearing the burden of Dazai’s own decision. Kunikida always nags him for his overthinking habit, after all. He recalls Ranpo’s sympathetic smile, warning him that, one day, he will end up eating himself alive from the inside, drowning in his own rotting thoughts and regrets. Of course, Ranpo was right — he always is.
The war is over now. The most dreaded leader of the underworld is gone, and even though many considered it a fortunate turn of events, the investigation didn’t stop so easily. One trivial thing that remained stuck into his mind during the Armed Detective Agency’s research was a date:
June 19th.
Even now, as he holds his manuscript in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other while making his way towards a place in Yokohama he rarely ever visits, the words of his friends still echo through his mind. If only they could get louder than Dazai’s last goodbye.
He never had a reason to stop by the Yokohama graveyard. There are some names he recalls from his days as an assassin, sure — but he never had any right to even let them pass through his mind, let alone show himself at their resting place. To Oda’s belief, the past can never be turned back or molded into a different shape, thus it must be left to rest in silence.
As he kneels down to lay the bouquet of white roses, a flash of a thought tells him that, maybe, there are some things that cannot be forgotten. Some things that are forever meant to haunt his heart in such a morbidly sweet way, taking the shape of a feeling close to arriving at a home that was never meant to be from the start.
“Happy birthday.”
The wind blows softly, the papers of his manuscripts ruffling against each other with a pleasant sound. The grave remains cold and unmoved, no soul creeping out to greet him with another happy, child-like smile.
“You wanted to read my novel, right?” Oda hesitantly whispers, eyes almost burning the name engraved on the stone. “It’s not finished yet, nor is it as good as you probably hoped it would be. But I figured it will do for now.” He pauses, not quite sure of how to word his speech towards a lifeless stone. “You’re the first one to hear it. It’s your birthday gift.”
He feels he should do at least this much for him; that way, he can finally liberate himself, too.
One of Oda’s fatal traits, as Ranpo would sometimes call it, is his lack of bravery and self confidence. To be humble is one thing, but to strive for perfection to the point of overlooking the beauty of walking a much awaited path… is much different.
“If you can’t write it, then nobody in this world can. I guarantee it. You’re much better than you think.”
Dazai was the first person to ever confess that to him.
Back then, it wasn’t difficult to pass it off as a manipulation method. Which, in introspection, must make him look like a fool, because there’s no other place he would rather be at right now, no other soul he would rather confide in with his tremendous work.
Despicable of a man he was… Dazai Osamu was still a human being. One like no other.
Perhaps what Oda truly longed for wasn’t just to overcome all the obstacles in his path by sealing his feelings shut, but to have someone who understands.
He sits down on the grass, leaning with his back against the stone. The familiar, salty smell of the ocean tickles his nose trills when he opens his papers, not even taking notice that his fingers have started to tremble.
He nervously clears his throat.
“The title is The State of the Times. ”
Hesitantly, he starts reading. Hearing the words he wrote with his own hand coming out of his throat for the very first time makes his voice shake, a composure he loses and regains soon enough through his stutters. He reads it the same way he would if a living being listened to him, careful about changing his tone each time a new character speaks and sometimes stopping to add a few personal remarks.
It’s a story about a ruthless child assassin and his deepest feelings, exposed raw through ink on paper.
Indeed, his manuscript is not finished yet. Even though two hours pass by and the sun approaches the sea line, some parts of his manuscript are still missing or scribbled over. His voice gets calmer and calmer the more he advances, only for a faint tremble to creep through it again when approaching the last pages.
At last, the assassin explains why he decided to stop killing.
As everyone else, Oda grew to believe he was allowed to mourn and regret, but never dwell on those feelings, as self pity was always bound to lead to a nightmare-like existence.
Dazai was not quite like everyone who died at his hands before. He was not a stranger. The aching hole he left behind isn’t one that can be filled with any existent shape, feeling or redeeming action, either. It’s almost as if he ripped out a part of Oda himself when he put an end to his own existence, taking it with him to an unearthly realm, never to be returned.
In truth, this isn’t the very end of his novel. The assassin experiences a change of heart and finally decides to try redeeming himself and doing good, but his path is far from over. He still has so much to learn, so much to see; and years later, a man manages to reawaken his long gone killing instinct, urging him to take out his gun and point it against his forehead.
The same man who is nothing but half of his soul.
Oda lets a suppressed breath out after reading the last words. “This is all I have. The ending isn’t done yet, but I will come back to read it for you.”
Did you like it? He almost instinctively asks, then, once more, he remembers he won’t ever receive an answer in return. Though he usually takes comfort in such a knowledge, he now feels a pang of regret, too.
The sun finally meets the sea, colors dancing on the calm waves with the same grace they did when the Mafia boss departed this world, leaving a torrent of questions and unspoken feelings behind. Fury slowly turned into confusion, confusion into frustration.
Right now, it might not be as unbearable anymore.
From up there, Dazai might have heard every single word of his loud and clear. He might be spending the much hated day of his birth in an eternal realm, where the concept of time is inexistent, resting in the adoring hands of an Odasaku who was once robbed of his life and dreams. Awoken by a pair of gentle lips each morning, loving and being loved back.
Maybe that was always their fate. Only at the end of his own days will Oda finally learn the truth.
At last, he doesn’t even try to stop the sad smile that creeps up his lips. He reaches out into his pocket, taking out a small photo stained with dried blood into the corner. It’s a photo of himself that he carefully kept ever since that day, though he knew it never truly belonged to him.
“I’ll leave this here,” he gently says as he gets up, placing the photo next to the flowers. “It’s yours, after all.”
He stays rooted in place for a little more, closing his eyes. He never got to truly know Dazai, but he never thought of him as the type to enjoy celebrating his birthday — or anything that would shift the focus towards him, for that matter. For the whole time they were together, Dazai only seemed to have eyes for Oda, thoroughly avoiding his own feelings until being cornered at gunpoint.
Right now, Oda idly wonders if his subordinates ever cared enough to wish him a happy birthday.
Though he treated him with nothing but malice in the little time they spent together… He silently hopes that this sincerity can reach him, wherever he might be right now. Ever so slightly.
“See you later, Dazai,” he says and walks away, his body feeling much lighter, much more at peace than ever before.
Dazai must be at peace too, right? After all, the sunset sky above Oda is incredibly beautiful.