Archive of Our Own

Be on the side that saves people.

Not without you. Not if I have to leave you behind.

Save the weak, protect the orphaned.

How should I keep your dream alive, when my only dream is you?

Dazai Osamu, the youngest underboss and demonic prodigy of the Port Mafia, lacks humanity in every sense of the word.

It’s not because of his crimes and all the blood that spilled at his command; not even because of his damned schemes that horrified the enemies of the mafia. “Life” was never quite something he valued, whether it belonged to others or it was his own. He is a shell of a human being, longing for the warmth of an emotion, yet running away from it in terror. Humans are foolish beings — their lives inevitably lead to death, and their wishes don’t exist in order to be granted. 

Once, there was one human Dazai deemed worthy of saving. The very first one.

Oda Sakunosuke was the biggest fool he ever knew — and that incredible fool loved him. Odasaku loved the demonic prodigy enough to save his life, he loved him enough to be selfish and leave him behind. Because such a story could’ve only ended in death.

Part of being human is embracing the natural course of life. Odasaku died satisfied. Gide and his men died satisfied. Dazai’s path led to the Armed Detective Agency, where he would honor Odasaku’s wish, save people and find a reason to live. Above everything, he wished Odasaku had found peace, the same way his own path in the light along with his newly found family brought him satisfaction.

Even when his heart was being pierced open as he had to live on without him, cutting his insides in little pieces and letting blood spill. Even at the thought of how cruel the world was to take him away before he even got to grasp his dream. 

Yes, Dazai could do good. But he could never write the ending to the young assassin’s story, who decided to put his gun down and be on the side that saves people.

Right now, with the Book in his hands and trembling fingers, he writes the words that will go against the Universe itself. He defies the laws of nature, he laughs in the face of death. He has finally become No longer human.

In the end, nothing can pierce through a thousand lifetimes deeper than love itself.

Singularities work in strange ways.

For some abilities, they complete each other, creating a powerful tool against an enemy — such as the boys Dazai mentored, Atsushi and Akutagawa. In other cases, they’re complete opposites, becoming powerless before each other as a result — such as Dazai and the Book.

In the case of Oda and Gide, their abilities are identical. No more, no less. Therefore, a singularity occurring between such abilities not only render each other null, but also everything that surrounds them. 

Dazai is No longer human. He’s an empty hole of an ability. And so, he runs past all the corpses, certain that this time, he will make it to Odasaku in time. Without Mori or the mafia to stop him.

Odasaku won’t take Gide’s bullet. This is what Dazai wrote in the Book. But simply writing it isn’t enough.

A scream echoes in the ballroom.

“Odasaku!” 

Two gunshots. The singularity breaks apart.

Singularities are still an enigma, even to ability users. The way they interact with each other can never be predicted in full, and interfering with them could cause incredible disasters. In this fight, Oda alone can deal the final blow to Gide. 

However, what Oda’s bullet reaches isn't Gide.

A bandaged hand wraps around Gide’s wrist with inhumane force, rendering his ability null. Fresh blood drips on Dazai’s shoes. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Wonderful…” Gide whispers, looking down at the fatally wounded man who stands still as a stone. “This is how far you’d go for your subordinate… I almost envy him.”

Another gunshot echoes. Gide’s long awaited end comes at last, but the bullet that pierces right through his skull isn’t fired to finally grant his wish by someone who understands his grief, like the lifetime to come before. The bullet Oda Sakunosuke fires is one of madness and hatred.

“Dazai!” the name comes out like a cry rather than a scream as he rushes to his wounded friend’s side. He runs by Gide without sparing a glance, getting down on his knees to check Dazai’s wound. It is undoubtedly fatal, and he knows that — after all, he fired it with the intention to kill. “Why are you here?” Oda’s soft voice breaks while trying to stop the blood flow, begging Dazai for an answer.

“Odasaku,” Dazai gasps. “You need to leave. Run away from here. You have to live… Odasaku—”

The deafening silence in his mind tells him… The orphans weren’t enough of a sacrifice. He has finally lost everything. Dazai was his only dying regret; and Oda managed to kill him with his own hands, too. He stares down at the blood on his palm — his own handiwork — and his vision blurs. 

And so, Oda does the only thing he still knows how to do. He smiles. “Run?” he mindlessly whispers. “Run where? To who…? ” He reaches out, painting Dazai’s cheek with his own blood as he caresses it with piercing affection and grief. 

A faint muffling sound comes from the pile of corpses. Even with Flawless being rendered null by No longer human, they both know what’s coming. With his remaining strength, Dazai calls out to his friend. But would anything be any different if Oda dodged the last attack from a barely breathing soldier? It wouldn’t, they both know it wouldn’t.

Because Oda is already dead.

This world wasn’t the right one from the start.

“No…. No, no, no…” Dazai sobs.

A gunshot. The redhead’s eyes are lost like those of a ghost as he falls to the floor. He grunts in pain, crawling closer to his friend. He needs him. He can’t let him go alone.

“Why didn’t you—” Dazai chokes on the blood pooling in the back of his throat before he gets to finish the sentence. His vision starts to dim due to the blood loss. He doesn’t have much left.

How romantic, though, that Dazai’s fantasy of comiting a double suicide has become reality, with the last person in the world he wished to do it with.

Oda doesn’t know what is eating away at his very soul more as he keeps moving — his bleeding wound, or the sight of the dying Dazai. Something he thought he would only see in his worst nightmares. He doesn’t have the strength to respond, so he hopes that wrapping his arm around Dazai’s body and hearing their hearts lose their beat together will be enough of an answer.

I’m sorry.

Try again.

Stay where you are, Dazai types on his phone. Trust me.

The children have been hidden away from Gide in a safe location, known only by Dazai and Oda. This time, he won’t repeat the old mistake of trusting his boss.

He can’t ever let Oda face Gide again.

He doesn’t want to leave the six of them out of his sight, but a long period of absence will raise suspicions. More so when Mori Ougai decided to summon Dazai to the headquarters. He half anticipates how their conversation in this time of crisis will go, but his priority isn’t helping the mafia in the fight against Mimic. 

He walks down the long and empty hallway, lightly bowing when entering the mafia boss’ office.

“Boss.”

“Ah, Dazai-kun,” Mori smiles. “I’ve been expecting you. What have you been up to these days?”

“Looking into the intel we have on Mimic.” He pauses, sparing a glance towards the scribble Elise is coloring on the floor. “Not much different from you, I assume. Is there a reason you summoned me?”

“Is that so?” Mori brightly answers, crossing his legs. “Why, of course there is! We are facing hard times, so it’s only natural for the leader of an organization to require a report, hm?”

“If that’s the case, then I will disappoint you,” Dazai shrugs and turns his back, looking out of the large windows. “There aren’t any significant news.”

“Do you know anything about Mimic’s leader?” Mori carefully asks, sipping from his nearly empty cup of coffee.

“Nothing more than what we have already managed to get out of the Mimic soldiers,” he says. “He’s a man in his thirties. Last seen yesterday, when he single-handedly defeated the squad led by Akutagawa. War veteran. Seeking death in his suicidal crusade. If it wasn’t for his methods, I might’ve sympathized with him.”

Mori nods in agreement, though Dazai doesn’t get to see it. “What do you know about his ability?” his tone slightly drops.

Dazai’s brows furrow. He doesn't answer right away.

“Rintarou, cut this war talk and bring me another paper! Because of your big mouth, I colored it wrong!” a young girl’s voice complains.

“Why, Elise-chan, please forgive me…” Rintarou answers in a falsely apologetic tone. “How about you leave me and Dazai-kun alone for a few minutes? I promise I’ll make it up to you later! We can even go out and I’ll buy you brand new crayons!”

“You say that every time!” the girl accuses as she gets up, storming out of the room. 

Mori laughs and comforts the child as he opens the door for her, and Dazai feels a sudden urge to vomit.

“It’s an ability that helps him see the near future,” Dazai finally answers as he hears the door close again and footsteps echo. “I believe I wrote it down in a previous report.”

“My, my, Elise-chan is so adorable when she sulks… The leader’s ability, hm? I remember that report,” Mori ponders, sitting back down at his desk. “That's why I called you here. You see, Dazai-kun… If there’s one person I trust to understand my judgment, that’s you. You know that, don’t you?”

Dazai pauses before responding. “So you want me to help you in dealing the final blow.”

“That’s right,” Mori says, but his voice doesn’t sound all bright anymore. “That ability of his is so tedious, not even you have the possibility to cancel it… Unless you help me find someone who will match his level.”

“Chuuya?”

“Chuuya’s ability is a powerful one,” Mori agrees, “but it’s also self-destructive. A defense-focused one can overcome it, with enough patience. I believe we have someone who resembles this nauseating ability… An acquaintance of yours, is that right?”

“Odasaku won’t fight against them,” Dazai looks up at the ceiling. “You know this much, too.”

Mori nods. “The mafia member who doesn’t kill. I’m perfectly aware of that. As a leader, I have come to learn something over the years: the most simple men are the strongest tools one could ever use. Do you know what it takes to break a simple man?” Silence settles in. Not because Dazai doesn’t know the answer, but because he doesn’t want to answer. “Taking away their core ideal.”

Dazai closes his eyes. “I fail to see how you plan on achieving that.”

“You’re aware that the mafia keeps track of every detail of a member’s life. Oda Sakunosuke’s weakness lies in his dedication towards human life — those he loves and wants to protect. How unfortunate that almost all of them disappeared without a trace now, of all times… Only a genius could’ve orchestrated that.”

Ignoring the last comment, Dazai flatly asks: “Almost?”

As soon as he says that word, he hears a gun safety being released.

It takes all of Dazai’s willpower to not start laughing. “Am I your solution, then? Will you kill me?” he mocks.

“Turn around, Dazai-kun.”

He turns his head, and as he looks next to Mori’s desk, his heart nearly stops. Odasaku, handcuffed and with his mouth and limbs tied, struggles in vain, not managing to escape. Next to him, with a cloak covering his body and eyes full of fire, stands Andre Gide.

“No,” Dazai unconsciously mouths.

“Part of being a leader is making sacrifices for a greater good, for the sake of all the people in the organization you swore to protect.” He looks into Dazai’s eyes, and to Dazai’s horror, he recognises something almost fatherly in Mori’s gaze. “You’re one of the most valuable members the mafia ever had, both in ability and intellect. But that alone cannot guarantee the safety of the Port Mafia in the future. I’m sure you understand that.”

“Let him go!” Dazai shouts, but as soon as he takes one step, the grunts immobilize him.

He looks into Oda’s eyes. The desperation and terror inside of them finally make Dazai realize — he failed again. As soon as he dies, everything will unfold just like before. 

Dazai, his only friend and perhaps his unspoken lover, is one of the people Oda swore to protect and write about in his novel, too. 

“I will ask you again. Where did you take the orphans?” Mori asks for the final time, but Dazai doesn’t even hear him any longer.

Whether he gives him an answer, whether he lets the grunt under his command pull the trigger… it won’t make a difference.

Mori takes one more look at the young man he has taken in ever since he was fourteen, then turns his head. Before the gunshot echoes, Dazai and Oda can only look at each other.

Try again.

When are we meeting next?

The question Dazai once asked to the man he was utterly fascinated with, not wanting for their story to come to end before even starting. The question that changed the future and decided its fate.

The question that eventually led to Oda’s death.

This is why he can’t ever invite him to the Port Mafia again.

“If those organizations end up seeking you again… You won’t have to deal with them alone anymore, you know,” Dazai offers. “It’s not a common occurrence for me to offer this to someone, so think carefully before you answer!~” he teases.

“Are you saying…?” Oda asks in disbelief. Letting the Port Mafia intervene in such a conflict can only result in more troubles and headaches, he thinks.

“Hey. It can be our little secret,” he grins mischievously. “I have no reason to lie to you or put you in danger. We both know that.”

“I suppose that’s right…” Oda shrugs. The jazz of the Lupin bar echoes, making them both feel like home. “Tomorrow, same time?” the redhead finally gains the courage to ask.

Dazai blinks. “Deal,” he nods enthusiastically. 

Nights spent together at the bar pass one by one. On some of them, Dazai comes with ruffled hair and dirty clothes, mumbling something about a certain “Mori-san”, “Chuuya” and “missions”. Oda always listens to all the stories Dazai has in store curiously. Somehow, the young man never ceases to surprise him with his shenanigans.

On other nights, it’s Oda who looks… more beaten up than usual. Although he keeps insisting that the crazy things happening during his job as a postman must be boring compared to the job of a mafioso, Dazai always demands to hear more, watching him with sparkles in his eyes.

And then, there are also moments when there are no words between them at all. There’s a calm and warm kind of silence, and each time they glance at each other, they understand. Slowly, something akin to a friendship starts to form. 

One day, though, the inevitable happens. Dazai gets a message.

Odasaku: Dazai. I need your help.

Dazai: Ahhh, anything for Odasaku ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ What is it?

Odasaku: 48.

That is enough to make Dazai understand.

Those guys won’t give up easily. Dazai has always been aware of that. Luckily now, though, he has an obedient dog by the name of Akutagawa Ryuunosuke. His ability is a devastating one and his loyalty is fierce — he won’t spill a single world to his superiors, much less to Mori. 

One night. That’s all it takes for Akutagawa to wipe the organization out without lifting a finger. And with their deaths, the secret regarding Oda and the painting is buried as well. With 48 gone, it’s only a game of waiting until he has to worry about Oda’s safety again.

They continue to meet up and spend their days together as usual, drinking and talking about the most mundane and ridiculous things in their lives just to pass the time. Whether it’s at the bar or at Oda’s house, they never cease to enjoy each other’s company. Dazai’s antics become more grandiose with each day to pass — yet, lately, he’s been smiling a lot more mischievously whenever the topic switched to the dishes the two of them liked to cook.

“What is this about?” Oda tilts his head. “You always share your recipes with me.”

“Yeah, but this one is different!” Dazai smiles brightly. “It’s not like anything you’ve tried before! It’s not fun when a surprise is spoiled, right?”

“ Surprise…? What for?”

“That’s also a secret,” Dazai laughs.

Oda knows that Dazai can find anything with a bit of digging. But he never thought he would care enough to search for his date of birth, much less prepare a surprise for him.

On October 26th, Dazai excitedly heads towards Oda’s house, holding a package in his hands. He had tried to perfect his hard tofu recipe lifetimes ago, and yet, he never got the chance to let Oda taste it. His opportunity is finally here, he happily thinks while overlooking the fact that the neighborhood is unusually quiet today.

He knocks on the door. No answer. He knocks a few more times, sighing in exasperation.

“Odasakuuuu…” He calls out. “It’s me! Will you open the door alrea—“

He presses the handle, utterly surprised to find the door open. This is definitely out of character for Oda. He reluctantly walks inside and places the tofu on the table in the kitchen. It’s so quiet that he can hear his own breaths. A feeling of uneasiness takes over him as he advances through the house. Still empty.

There’s one more place he hasn’t checked yet: the bedroom. He extends his hand, suddenly hesitating; deep inside, he knows something has happened, and he isn’t ready to face it yet. Or maybe he’s just overthinking — the invisible scars all the lifetimes to come before left on him. He tried to shake these thoughts away as he finally presses the handle. 

The bedroom he’s met with doesn’t look like a bedroom anymore. It looks like a massacre. The furniture is all shredded to pieces. Books, frames and plastic lays on the floor. There’s dust everywhere. It’s easy to conclude that the attackers took what they were looking for and then fled the scene.

A trail of fresh blood starts from the remains of the bed.

Shaking from head to toe, Dazai takes a step forward. He sees a temari in the way — poison. And then… a hand peeking from behind the demolished bookshelf.

Odasaku.

He was too late.

He falls to his knees. He stares at the floor with injected eyes, not daring to check the dead body. He miscalculated. He couldn’t save him. Did the Port Mafia’s intervention have anything to do with this? He assumes so.

It must’ve been his fault.

He shakily grabs Oda’s cold hand and gently squeezes. He closes his eyes, his bottom lip lightly trembling.

Try again. Try again. Try again.

Why won’t it work? Why, why, why?

Curled up in the bathtub, skin pink from the hotness of the water, Dazai looks forward, his focus dissipating in the steam. The open wounds on his body ache terribly in the hot water, but he feels as if he had gone numb to every kind of bodily pain. Fresh blood drips, and when Dazai spares a glance, watching it draw red shapes before dissipating in the bathtub, he can only think it looks beautiful.

This bathroom is not his. Nonetheless, it’s a place he’s unmistakably familiar with — because, in the very same tub, he used to sit with a dear person, smiling and enjoying quiet moments that were all theirs, away from the darkness and death of the world that surrounded them.

That person isn’t with him anymore.

Putting a towel over his shoulders and letting the water drain, Dazai steps out, not even bothering to turn the lights on before falling on the bed. He closes his eyes; he’s too afraid to keep them open. He takes in a small breath. Then a stronger one. Then two. He hugs the pillow closer, inhaling the faint smell of cigarette smoke, coffee and cologne. 

It’s already starting to fade away.

It’s cold. It’s so terribly cold and empty.

And yet, Dazai is too stubborn to let go. He won’t stop before he finds the right world — the perfect world Odasaku deserves. 

The pillow becomes wet with his tears and he shivers from the cold. There’s no peace in his heart and there’s no peace in the storm outside. He could scream aloud, but who will be there to hear him? Who will hold him close and caress him gently? There was only one man who was a home to Dazai, and right now, Dazai’s own blood is staining the sheets that used to belong to him.

The time they used to sit together on this bed, laughing and playing poker, now feels lifetimes away, leaving Dazai to wonder if he can ever grasp it again. 

Attempt 61. He has to keep trying.

The club goes down. Odasaku groans. Blood spills. The cop doesn’t flinch. And there are only two words in Dazai’s mind, loud and piercing and making him lose all ration.

Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

The club stops swinging. 

In the darkness of the underground, the shadow can move untouched. It can wrap its hands swiftly around someone’s neck and squeeze until they’re on the brink of death; it can break their skull against a wall until brain matter spills on their shoes.

The cop groans in pain as he’s thrown against the wall with such force, he almost hears his own bones crack. He doesn’t have his gun on him. His eyesight moves violently, trying to locate the attacker… and then, another blow comes. The inside of his mouth fills with blood. He hits back, and the groan he hears is followed by a metallic sound.

“Dazai… leave him…” A muffled voice can be heard somewhere in the room.

His eyesight regains his focus, and that’s when he sees him: a demon. He has the stature of a young man and his face is all covered up in bandages, only leaving his eyes open. There’s nothing human inside those eyes — nothing he would ever dare to fight against, for these are the eyes of someone with his hands stained by the blood of hundreds.

“W-who… are you?” the cop mutters out.

A shiver runs down his spine when he thinks he might be seeing a smile on the demon’s face.

“Take a guess.”

The cop’s blood runs cold as he has a first clear thought. He reaches out violently. The pocket knife is pointed in the young man’s direction. Not a second passes, and blood spills.

“Dazai!” Oda grunts.

Fresh, hot blood runs in between Dazai’s fingers, staining the clear blade and dripping on the floor. His arm is shaking and sweat runs down his forehead, but his eyes are unmoved — empty, dark and unforgiving. He doesn’t let out a single scream as he grips the blade of the knife harder, his piercing gaze injected with the desire to kill.

“What do you want with Odasaku?” Dazai whispers so lowly, the cop wouldn’t have heard him if it wasn’t for their proximity.

Dazai is kicked on the floor. Bones crack.

In a flash of a thought, the cop realizes Dazai must be no usual criminal. Most criminals kill people for a greater good they made up in their minds — a way to clear their own conscience. For a mission, for money, for family. This young man’s eyes are far from that. They’re, simply put, the eyes of a man who genuinely wants to drag others with him to Hell.

The safety click of Dazai’s gun echoes in the room.

“My bad,” Dazai says. He slowly gets up and approaches the cop, who gives up trying to run and raises his hands in defeat. “This type of negotiation doesn’t work on your kind. But what if I told you,” he whispers when he’s close enough, “that I’m a Port Mafia executive?”

The cop freezes. To an outsider, the thought of some teenager being a powerful underboss would be laughable. 

“I— I’m not… who you’re looking for…” He stutters. “I’ve only been tasked to—“

The logical part of Dazai’s brain tells him that he should let go. He already messed up. Severely. He can’t get the information out of him this way. He was too weak to resist watching Odasaku’s torture without interfering.

He wordlessly pulls the trigger and the cop falls down unconscious. He won’t die. The wound isn’t a lethal one, but it’s enough for his revenge; enough to let out everything that’s been bottling up inside of him at the sight of Odasaku’s pain.

And he hates every second of it.

Dazai slowly turns his eyes towards Oda. Those eyes don’t look human — they look as if they belong to a beast. They look mad with rage and sorrow, and yet, by the time they meet Oda, something inside of them flickers.

The emptiness of a murderer dissipates, melting into a rare softness, as if gazing upon the light. He lets go of the unconscious body. He rushes in his direction, and if Oda wasn’t such a skilled ex-assassin, he would’ve flinched.

“Odasaku… Are you alright?” Dazai gets down on his knees, checking the wounds on Oda’s back. His voice is astonishingly gentle and sick with worry, looking around the room. “I must find some bandages to—“

Oda grabs Dazai’s wrist in a rough motion, stopping his train of thought. “I’m fine. We have to get out of here. Do you hear me?”

Dazai shakes his head almost desperately. “We can’t. We can’t. Odasaku, listen to me. That painting… What do you know about it?”

His eyes are almost begging, looking into Oda’s as if his very life depends on the answer. And yet, not even that seems to be enough.

“Odasaku… What’s that?” Oda asks after a long moment of silence.

Under different circumstances, Dazai would’ve laughed. A small smile forms on his face, but his racing heartbeat can’t quite catch up to it.

“Is it that strange?” Dazai tilts his head with a weak scoff.

“I didn’t say that,” the redhead argues. “No one had called me that before. But it does have a ring to it.” He stops for a few seconds, looking away. “As for the painting… I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Look at me,” he whispers. “Odasaku… look at me.”

Oda does. 

“You do have a hint about it, don’t you?” he carefully asks, as if they haven’t just met a few days before, a stranger taking care of another stranger who collapsed on his doorstep. As if they are friends who must trust each other. 

“Even if I do, it’s of no relevance,” Oda responds. “Right now, we have to leave.”

“Please.” Dazai begs. “Please, Odasaku. You have to trust me.” Footsteps echo outside the room. Dazai grabs Oda’s shoulders, the blood on his palm and fingers staining Oda’s bare skin — a kind of intimate touch that makes both of them shudder. “I will never do anything to hurt you. Do you understand? I’m trying to help you. If I don’t… If I don’t—“

If I don’t, I will lose you again.

The redhead slowly shakes his head, and Dazai’s insides shatter when he senses a hint of fear on Oda’s face. “The painting is in a safe place, and these guys won’t get their hands on it. This is all that matters.” His voice is firm. The footsteps get closer. “They’re coming,” Oda hushes, standing up. 

I don't want to go through this again.

Dazai doesn’t move. He remains frozen in place, looking up at Oda as if staring at a ghost.

“Get up, Dazai,” he mouths.

If I ask, Dazai, will you come with me?

Dazai twitches.

“If we don’t move now, we’ll die.”

If you die here, I will build a tomb for you. And your tombstone will read, “Here lies Dazai, the man who never beats Oda Sakunosuke at poker.”

A faint gust of wind rushes from under the door inside the bunker.

“I can’t leave you here behind.”

I’ll take you with me even if I have to put a rope on your neck.

Dazai’s vision blacks out.

Attempt 99.

The pen moves on another white page.

Dark ink becomes sucked into the paper, leaving a black and damp trail behind. He draws a shape that Dazai himself doesn’t recognise, letting it travel to the wooden desk. Eventually, it reaches his palm, and then goes up and up.

The Book is an ability above all others. Its master has control over all universes and lifetimes, ruling over the very laws of nature. Its only ruler doesn’t ask for much — he only wants to save one person, no matter the cost. Again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

His descent into insanity, his grandiose failure.

Am I finally losing my mind? he mouths, quietly laughing at the absurdity of his own thoughts. His fingers push the tip of the pen harder as it climbs up his wrist. He doesn’t quite know if what he’s feeling is grief, desperation or frustration. He knows, however, that it all stops hurting just a little bit as his skin is cut open. He clicks his tongue, burning his own wound with his gaze. He presses harder, his fingers trembling on the pen. Ink and blood mingle together and drip on the empty page. How poetic.

He flips the page. One of the last ones. The Book is about to reach an end, and he’s still stuck in the labyrinth of all the lifetimes he shares with Odasaku, with no way to get out. 

Is this really the end? Should he accept that he can’t possibly save his beloved?

No. That can’t be true.

Does the man who’s been searching for death for so long finally wish to live, side by side with the one person who understands his heart? 

Perhaps. It’s a dangerous thing to think insinuate.

He tried everything. And for something to fail so many times even after being altered by the Book itself… It must be mockery. Or truly attainable. Dazai doesn’t know which one.

For Odasaku, he’d do anything. He’d gouge his very heart out and offer it on a silver platter, if he had to. But that can’t be right. It can’t be the   perfect world he’s searching for. The blood and ink travel down his forearm and he doesn’t even bother to get up and bandage his self-inflicted wound. It’s the latest of many, and he’s used to the ache by now. Instead, he starts scribbling.

There’s one more thing he hasn’t tried yet.

In the midst of loneliness and agony, he knows he can turn to no one — not even Odasaku himself, who always understood him without a word. He’s all alone, a weeping beast standing before the world, yielding a power he never asked for. 

All alone, trying to save the one he loves the most.

Odasaku’s biggest crime was to give Dazai hope. Hope that their story isn’t destined to be buried, forever to be forgotten. 

If they can’t make it… Who in this world ever will?

Don’t go, Odasaku!

His hand reaches Oda’s jacket, grabbing onto it and refusing to let go. For the first time, Dazai dares to clash against the unshakeable will of a man consumed by grief.

This is his last attempt.

“Dazai,” he says. Nothing more, nothing less.

“If you expect me to just watch you willingly walk to your death, then I won’t do it! I won’t let you go!” Oda’s back is still turned, and although he doesn’t show it, the determination in Dazai’s voice astonishes him.

“My life is not your responsibility.”

“You’re wrong,” he shakes his head, feeling small drops of rain on his face from the approaching storm. “Odasaku… Listen to me. You said there’s nothing left for you, right? But…” He speaks fast, stumbling over his own words. “If you need something… someone to rely on, you can rely on me.”

“Stop it, Dazai,” Oda says after a moment of silence, trying to keep himself in check. He moves his hand, forcefully trying to escape Dazai’s hold.

This isn’t fair. None of this is fair.

“Odasaku—“ He cries out, holding onto his arm as if his life depends on it. “I love you.”

Silence. Rain falls, occupying the space between them, and suddenly, they don’t know if the reason why they’re shaking is the cold. After what feels like an eternity, Oda turns his head back, and his expression isn’t the empty one Dazai expected to see — it’s torment. His eyes are wide, and when he attempts to open his mouth and answer, it closes again.

“Come with me,” Dazai almost whispers. “Please. I can’t let you die. Not you.”

Oda’s bottom lip trembles, and for a split second, it occurs to Dazai that he’s never seen him this vulnerable before, this close to break. Anguish and conflict wash over his body, and Dazai knows, he knows that he’s asking Oda to make an impossible choice. He knows he’s being unfair. He knows he’s condemning him to suffering. 

Having craved death for so long, Dazai knows this better than anyone.

And yet, this is the only remaining way for the two of them to stay alive. Together. 

“Why have you waited so long to tell me?” he bitterly asks.

“I’m an idiot,” Dazai attempts to smile. “I’m not brave enough. I know. But, Odasaku—“ His words get sucked into thin air as Oda hesitantly reaches out with his free hand, cupping Dazai’s cheek. Rain pours and soaks their hair and clothes, but neither of them seems to mind it any longer.

It’s not the mere confession that shakes Oda to the core; it’s the fierceness in Dazai’s eyes, the desperation of a suicidal man who’s trying to convince him to stay. That life might be worth living, even after trying to go so many times.

“You damn fool.”

That night, they share their first kiss. Changed in dry clothes, they sit on a bed in a small house Dazai bought, far away from the Port Mafia and Mimic, where no one will find them again. The storm clashes against the window, and their lips don’t separate for even a few seconds before they fall into each other’s arms.

They’ve never seen each other cry before. For the first time, the two of them quit trying to hide. A pathetic attempt to let out the grief that has been weighing on both of their souls, for reasons they don’t share.

They cry, and with every piercing sob, they bring each other closer and closer. Bandaged fingers comb through red hair and strong hands grab Dazai’s shirt in a fist. They hold and love each other in the only way they know, struggling to glue together something that’s already broken.

For the first few weeks, Dazai barely leaves Oda out of his sight. He does the majority of the housework and cooks Oda’s favorite meals with diligence. Both the mafia and the government are enemies to them right now, so they have to lay low — at least until Mimic is taken care of.

Odasaku? He’s more of an empty shell than a living human being. His eyes are emotionless. He doesn’t talk much. He doesn’t complain. He forgets to take care of himself. He doesn’t even cry, and it’s like a punch to the gut for Dazai to think about how much he understands. 

Each time he looks at Odasaku, he sees a haunting shadow of his past.

“Do you wish I let you die that day?” Dazai asks one night with no emotion in his voice, about a month after the incident. It comes out of nowhere. He lays next to Oda on the bed, knowing well the redhead isn’t asleep yet.

No response comes — not in words, at least. After a few seconds, Oda moves. He looks into Dazai’s eyes through the dim moonlight, and then he reaches closer, burying his head in the crook of a bandaged neck. That scent and warmth is enough to break him apart at last, and he cries. He cries and cries, trusting Dazai to hold him close and leaving his bandages damp.

“I’m sorry, Odasaku,” Dazai whispers after a while, when the lump in his throat finally lets him speak and Oda’s tears stop falling. He reaches out to place a lingering kiss on Oda’s forehead. “I’m selfish. I just never—“

“I know,” Oda shushes him, his voice coming out hoarse. “It’s not your fault. I will never blame you for any of this.” He melts under Dazai’s gaze, and for a split second, he thinks he might be able to spend the rest of his life just looking into his eyes. After years of knowing each other… it finally occurs to him just how beautiful Dazai is. “I love you too.”

This is the first time he says it back.

Their lips brush. A small peck turns into a more passionate one. The kisses keep lingering lower and lower, and eventually they turn into messy sheets and bare bodies holding each other close, reaching for more and more and more.

For something to make them feel as if they’re alive.

After that night, something changes. It’s not a big change by any means, but now, Oda’s eyes don’t look as empty and drowning in anguish as before. He leaves his room more often and helps Dazai with cooking. Each time Dazai sees him like this, something warm inside his heart blooms. 

That, until he finds a piece of paper a couple of weeks later.

It’s not in an obvious place. It’s safe to assume that Oda didn’t intend for Dazai to find it. He sits down on the floor and reads the small excerpt in Oda’s handwriting, something a happier version of himself might’ve not written. It’s not a hopeful piece by any means; but it’s beautiful. It’s a piece of art in its own right.

It’s a letter about the path of an aimless man who had his lifelong dream cruelly taken away from him. About hatred, tears, grief and everything in between; and near the end, it becomes a letter about love. The man who wrote it lived long enough to experience the three things that set one’s soul on fire: hope, sorrow and love, from a friend with strikingly dark eyes who will adore even the ugliest version of him. 

Inevitably, everything ends in death.

Dazai’s vision blurs, but he quickly wipes his eyes. He won’t cry. He doesn’t have the right to, for these are not his feelings. These feelings are Oda’s and his alone, everything that’s been rotting him from the inside each morning he woke up, his own body feeling as filthy as that of a corpse.

Oda wanted to become a writer. This is what he confessed when a path of death was paved in front of him. A grand dream of someone so simple, so fragile. No matter what the future might have in store for them… Dazai will make sure to see this dream become reality. And when that day comes, he will cheer for him louder than anyone else.

On some days they go together for a walk on the seashore. Dazai caught wind of the war that ensued between the Port Mafia and Mimic, but none of that mattered any longer. As he holds Oda’s hand and cracks ridiculous jokes to get the slightest smile out of him, he knows his whole world lies right here. With him.

Two months after the incident, Oda disappears from their house for the first time. When the door cracks open again, Dazai jolts. He opens his mouth to say something to him, but the words vanish into thin air.

Oda faces him with an almost calm look on his face and a glimpse of light in his eyes, which terrifies Dazai.

“You went to visit their graves.” This is all he can muster, not breaking Oda’s gaze.

The redhead slowly nods, taking a seat next to Dazai. “They’ve been unattended to. I brought them some flowers. They probably missed me, so I talked to them a little. I think they enjoy the sea view, too. Katsumi always urged me to bring them all to the beach.”

Not having it in him to interrupt, the younger man lets Oda tell him everything. About the stories he told the cold graves, the small things the children loved, the pleasant smell of the sea breeze. When he finally stops talking, the silence that settles becomes suffocating. Gently, Dazai reaches out, cupping his friend’s cheek. There’s a cracked look on his face, as if he’s holding back tears. He tries an encouraging smile. 

“Let’s visit them together next time, alright?”

Oda doesn’t respond. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans forward, resting his forehead against Dazai’s in silence. They stay together like that for a while.

Things will never go back to how they were, and they both know it. After all, this is one of the countless worlds Dazai tried to build with trembling fingers. He never expected things to be easy. Even if everything will change, maybe the next day, the rare smile on Oda’s face will be a little bit brighter. This is all he wishes for.

And, indeed, Dazai feels as if things slowly start to improve. Oda’s eyes aren’t so pitch empty anymore. He goes out more. He tells Dazai things he never could before. They make love and they look into each other’s eyes adoringly, as if nothing will ever matter more than their feelings for each other. They take baths together — they wash each other’s hair and whisper sweet nothings before they go to sleep. 

The suicidal Dazai gives his whole heart just for a small smile from Oda, and even though the redhead could never find the courage to say it out loud, he’s always been eternally grateful.

They find themselves drinking and playing poker one night, just like the old times. Oda laughs and his smile looks so lively, Dazai melts under his gaze. When they eventually make it to the bed, tipsy and giddy, their sex feels different than before; it’s not rough by any means, but it’s fast and passionate, both of them hungry for each other’s touch. Lips kiss every inch of exposed skin and sweat covers their bodies. Oda falls asleep in Dazai’s embrace, as if holding onto a lifeline.

“Oh! Odasaku~” the younger man sing-songs the next day while staring intensely at the curry spices in the supermarket. “I forgot which spice was the one you liked. Is it the one with—“

He’s reduced to silence when he hears a muffled sound from the other line, and then a hiccup. “It doesn’t matter… Any of them is fine, Dazai.”

“Odasaku,” Dazai says the name, frozen in place. “Have you been drinking?”

“Drinking…?” Oda chuckles, and the carelessness of it makes the younger man shiver. “I guess I have been, yeah. Been a while, right?”

“How much did you drink?” Dazai quickly collects his thoughts, picking the first spice he sees on the shelf without questioning any longer.

“Really… It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters,” the answer comes, and it’s so firm and filled with worry that the voice on the other end stops entirely. “Ah… I’m coming back soon, alright? I found a potential job today, too. Try to get some sleep in the meantime.”

What a hypocrite you are, a fleeting thought whispers to Dazai. How does a man who nearly drank himself to death repeatedly while in the mafia have the right to preach about such a thing to someone who’s going through a pain he knows so well? 

He heads to the cashier, and that’s when he hears it. A sob. Odasaku’s sob.

“I’m sorry…” Odasaku tries to whisper before his voice breaks. “I’m sorry, Dazai. I’m sorry…”

A horrible feeling overtakes Dazai’s chest. “What is it? Odasaku? Talk to me, please.”

“Ugh…” Oda’s uncontrollable sobs pierce right through Dazai’s heart as they lose power. “My head hurts… My whole body hurts… It’s all so… I’m…”

Dazai drops the groceries on the ground and runs. 

“I thought… taking some painkillers will make this go away… I found some in the bathroom…” He whimpers. “There was a full bottle… It’s empty now, but they still weren’t enough. It still hurts. Dazai…”

“Stay with me, Odasaku!” Dazai cries, running until his legs hurt.

It’s a Friday evening, so taking a cab won’t help with anything. He has to run. Run to save his life. Again. Again. Again.

“Dazai…” Oda whispers into the phone, his voice growing a lot quieter and calmer. He hiccups again. “I love you… You know that, right?”

“Of course I know!” Dazai’s voice breaks through heavy huffs. “Keep your eyes open, you hear me? Get up, go to the bathroom and—“

A small laugh can be heard on the other end. A weak, but genuine cry of a man who has given up. “I’m a selfish man, you see… Idiotic, weak, ungrateful… I know. But each time I saw you smile at me and you kissed and held me… I felt happy. I never faked any of that. I want you to remember that I love you more than anything. That will never change.”

Tears fall from Dazai’s eyes like a river, but he doesn’t stop running. A sob escapes his throat, but he doesn't stop. He can’t stop. He won’t ever stop.

“Thank you… And I hope you can find it in you to forgive me one day,” Oda says after a moment of silence. “You’re a much stronger man than I am. Even if you choose not to… That’s fine… I will love you regardless…”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Dazai bursts out, so out of air that he’s about to collapse. “Stop with this nonsense, Odasaku! I love you… Like hell I’m letting you leave me behind! Do you hear me? Odasaku… Odasaku, answer me!”

He calls out to him again. And again. And again. No answer comes anymore, not even a slight breath.

“Odasaku!” Dazai sobs like a madman while running, his vision getting blurrier and blurrier. “Answer me, idiot! Please, say something… Anything… Odasaku, please… Odasaku!”

Some time passes. Maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours. Dazai doesn’t know. All he knows is that the sun is setting and he finds himself back in their small home. Odasaku laying on the bed. Not breathing. An empty bottle of pills and some empty whiskey bottles on the floor.

Dazai screams. He screams with a desperation and sincerity more piercing than that of a small child. It’s the scream he’s been holding in for lifetimes, for each time he lost Odasaku and had to see the invisible red strings between them snap in two, cruelly separated by death.

For someone as empty as himself, he let himself hope far too much this time. So much that it blinded him from the truth that has been in front of him all long.

So much that he failed the very person he had been trying to save so desperately.

He now finally realizes. He put Oda through the Hell of being alive with no place to go, a Hell that Dazai himself knew the corners of better than anyone, only because of his selfish desires. He wiped away the satisfied and far too peaceful smile Oda wore while drawing his last breaths in a pool of blood, an image that would show up in all of his nightmares. 

He was a fool to believe that he, alone, would ever be enough to make Odasaku stay.

In the original universe, he is Dazai’s reason to live. That’s just how things are supposed to be. 

Never the other way around.

And still, Oda loved him regardless. He loved him so much, and he tried so hard every day. For him.

But is it really salvation if it’s being forced on you?

“I hope you can forgive me, Odasaku,” he whispers, and he doesn’t even believe these words coming out of his mouth while pressing the cold barrel of the gun against his own temple.

We will meet on the other side, he wants to say. But that’s a lie. They won’t, and Dazai knows it now. After all, this is no ending: everything is just beginning again, except the future boss of the Port Mafia might not feel so aimless anymore.

He doesn’t take his eyes off his unbreathing friend even as the safety clicks. This time, he finally knows where the problem always lies. He finally knows how to save him and witness the light in his eyes, without cursing him with his presence.

And so, he smiles. 

“Let’s try again, my love.”

With the rays of the sunset playing around the room, it’s almost hard to distinguish the bedsheets that now lay bathed in red. To an outsider, it might simply look like two lovers resting in each other’s far too cold embrace.