Oh... Actually, there was something I forgot earlier. I guess it could wait, but I wanted to do it before the day ends...
[ He bounces one arm up and down. The handle of a colorful bag is hanging off of it, and there's a rattling sound as the contents shift about.
That said, if Odasaku doesn't stop him, Dazai is going to invite himself into his room since he is a truly shameless person. If that doesn't work, then he'll remove on extracting him from it.
Either way, the idea should be obvious. He has a birthday gift. ]
[It is obvious. Oda lets Dazai into his room, though it feels a bit awkward to do so - not something they normally do, but things like that have been happening more and more. He's not expecting the gift, for example. When's the last time someone got him a birthday gift? Usually, the day passes more or less without incident.
[Oda takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He's not sure what to say. 'You shouldn't have' would sound trite, but really...]
I'm surprised.
[He'll accept the gift if Dazai hands it over, though he won't open it right away. Should he be?]
I could never think of what to give you. It seemed like there was nothing you wanted. But I thought of something this year.
[ Though Dazai was the first to complain when the other two didn't get him presents for Christmas. That's just how it was. If anything, Ango would have been the more thoughtful one on that front. Still, one or the other covering his tab had to suffice.
He will hand over the gift to him without complaint, making a little go on motion. When he does, he'll find a pair of boxes inside. They're small and lightweight, the contents hidden beneath decorative wrapping paper and tied up with a red ribbon. He's put thought into this. He's had plenty of time to think about it, really, all while knowing that twenty-three was the oldest that his best friend would ever be. ]
[Things like covering a tab, buying a meal, taking a photo - things like that are the gifts Oda is used to, and he's never minded that. He...doesn't mind this either, though. He carefully sifts through the bag until he finds the boxes, pulling them out with the subtlest tilt of his head.
[He doesn't so much hesitate, but he does stop to look at Dazai for a moment before opening them next. He has no idea what might be inside.]
[ The first one is tucked away in a box. It's the bigger of the two, a little heavier, and opening it will reveal a wood toolbox. It's relatively small, and opening it up would reveal that it's been filled with stationary items and a handful of packs of genkoyoshi paper. It's not too fancy, a gaudy set wouldn't suit him, but practical; items of good quality that he no doubt spent time picking out.
The second is a blank notebook with a familiar pattern. It's hardly an even match, but it's close enough that Dazai found it to be satisfactory. Once the latter is opened he'll reach out, letting his fingertips brush against the cover.
His smile is slight, uncertain, but there's an intensity to the way that he looks at him - some complex mix of emotions that can't quite make their way into his expression. It matches the soft voice that he speaks in, something that doesn't settle into something calm and kind until halfway through. ]
You know, Odasaku... I've had more than one person tell me that you're not qualified to be a good person if you've killed. You can't be a good person, you can't be a writer... That's ridiculous. People who have seen death up close are the only ones who can say that they've lived. People who have suffered, people who have hurt, who loved as much as they hated, who can save people and kill them, without ever forgetting how to be kind...
[ He taps his fingers against the cover before taking his hand back. ]
You understand the human heart better than anyone, Odasaku. There's no one more qualified to write about them than you.
[ Then, plopping down on the bed next to him and glancing away briefly, ]
I really wanted to read it. The novel that you were going to write.
[Seems a pretty simple gift, doesn't it? Oda's told a few people here that he'd like to write. It's not something that has to be so much of a secret anymore - though, what has he written? Nothing.
[So, any one of those people that he told might have figured out it was his birthday and gotten him something like this, but they wouldn't have said what Dazai said.
[They don't know Odasaku. They don't understand what drives him, nor what binds him. Dazai knows. He knows what handing Odasaku something like this means. Maybe what he doesn't know is that it feels like permission. Why should he need Dazai's?
[His hand is resting on the notebook, and he's quiet. He's been quiet too long, maybe. His emotions feel like a wave, building into something catastrophic - he thinks maybe he shouldn't still be standing the way he is.
[He looks at Dazai. His jaw is tight. He nods his head. Clears his throat. Looks down at the notebook again.]
I've, uh...been thinking about something, and it's kind of an odd feeling.
Everyone says that crystal in town will give you anything you wish for. I found myself wondering...if I asked for that novel that I never could read the ending to from that crystal, then...it would probably give me the finished work, right?
[He's emotional. Why is he emotional? He has to pause, chew on nothing for a second.
[He doesn't finish his thought; says:]
I wanted that too.
[Can he still?
[After losing them, throwing away his life - the way he wounded his only friend, and how he's been forced to face that now. He's not a perfect person. He knows that what he did was selfish.
[And now he's here. It's temporary. He knows that.
[Is he, of all people, deserving of a second chance like that?
[The truth is he doesn't know which way is up. He'd like to write it all down. He'd like to write something amazing.]
I don't know...if wanting is still something I'm meant to do.
[ The answer is immediate. It's decisive, leaving no room for argument, because he's already considered and countered every single one, or perhaps he simply refuses to hear them.
His throat feels tight, the air that he swallows down not seeming to reach his lungs, and it seems as though his chest is constricting. It would surely be less painful to gouge his eyes out and rupture his eardrums, to put a knife through his heart, than to see that look and hear such words.
It's been four years, but Dazai never learned to mourn; he never learned how to do more yearn for bygone days.
Oda doesn't want the ending to that story, not really. People never really know what they want. They never say what it is that they want, but what they find to be within their reach. ]
You don't need to see the ending to that story. It's yours now. It's a story that only you can write. If you can't, then no one can.
[ If he doesn't have the full context, Dazai can fill in the blanks well enough. He scoots a little closer, his fingertip running along the spine. There's something to be said about what it means to be a writer. It's to write about a person, how one should live and one should die, and it's something a bit more than that too.
There's something more to it, too, something that he can't pin down, something that can never quite breach the surface, no matter how close it gets, some odd feeling that there's a deeper meaning to it all - that he might find something hidden in those words, some secret that's been hidden from him.
He settles for, ]
The way that you see the world is different. The way that you've lived is different.
[ He leans forward and folds his arms on his knees, for the first time averting his gaze. It falls down to the floor and there's a light frown. ]
You live the way that people should.
[ It's a life filled with pain and regrets, with hardship and broken dreams; some meaningless tragedy, as all lives are, and yet despite that he's never forgotten how to be kind. He never forgot how to want to live, how to think on what life would bring; rather, that desire was choked out, it was buried - there was no one who prevented it, and there was no one who reignited it.
He stares down for a time before he raises is eyes back up and repeats, ]
I still want to see it.. The novel that you would have written - that you'll one day write.
[Oda's talked about being common - the merits of an ordinary life. His day-to-day became rather boring, at a point, and he liked it that way. His life wasn't spectacular. It was rotten, then quiet, then rotten again - rotten the whole time, maybe...
[He thinks he knows what Dazai means though. Because he's come to realize what he means to Dazai. He recalls his dying moments often. He recalls that last piece of advice.
[Dazai looks up to him. He's his truest friend. They're here together, despite all impossibility. Odasaku's dream could barely take root before he tossed it away, right along with his life - no story left to write.
[He's here now, with his best friend beside him. There is a "one day" to look ahead to. He may not be the most deserving, but it's been given to him, and so have these empty books. What an insult it would be not to fill them...
[He raps his knuckles a couple of times on the cover of the notebook in his hand, mouth jerking to the side in some facsimile of a smile as he chokes back some emotion. He nods.]
I made a wish...
To write in a room with a view of the sea.
[One can, indeed, sea the ocean from his window. Even now, one can hear waves crashing in the distance.
[He looks at his friend. He thinks to himself that there's no one he cherishes more. It's overwhelming. He was such a lonely person once.
[He holds up the book. Starts to talk - clears his throat.]
[ Dazai places a hand on Odasaku's arm and allows it to rest there.
It's too much. He's drowning. There's nothing painful about his answer, but it feels like sinking, like he can see bubbles floating up, popping long before they can escape the sea.
It's too much. It's like trying to pour an ocean of water into a coffee cup. His heart is too small and too fragile to withstand this much.
Living is, he thinks once more, an inherently painful thing.
Even so, pain can be something dear as much as anything else.
Dazai closes his eyes and smiles. He squeezes Odasaku's arm lightly and nods. ]
Good. It will be worth the wait... It's fine for your wishes to be granted every once in awhile.
[ A room with a view of the sea to write in, a place where the past can't touch him, where there are people who care, where he can have all those things that a person should... Yes, it's fine for a world like that to exist.
A gentle chuckle. The ebbing, flowing, foaming rolling waves in his heart gradually settle and still. When he opens his eyes once more, there's an unfamiliar sentiment in them. His smile is soft, satisfied, and contented in an equally unfamiliar manner.
When's the last time that he had something to look forward to...? ]
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HEHEHE
[ He bounces one arm up and down. The handle of a colorful bag is hanging off of it, and there's a rattling sound as the contents shift about.
That said, if Odasaku doesn't stop him, Dazai is going to invite himself into his room since he is a truly shameless person. If that doesn't work, then he'll remove on extracting him from it.
Either way, the idea should be obvious. He has a birthday gift. ]
no subject
[Oda takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He's not sure what to say. 'You shouldn't have' would sound trite, but really...]
I'm surprised.
[He'll accept the gift if Dazai hands it over, though he won't open it right away. Should he be?]
no subject
[ Though Dazai was the first to complain when the other two didn't get him presents for Christmas. That's just how it was. If anything, Ango would have been the more thoughtful one on that front. Still, one or the other covering his tab had to suffice.
He will hand over the gift to him without complaint, making a little go on motion. When he does, he'll find a pair of boxes inside. They're small and lightweight, the contents hidden beneath decorative wrapping paper and tied up with a red ribbon. He's put thought into this. He's had plenty of time to think about it, really, all while knowing that twenty-three was the oldest that his best friend would ever be. ]
omg wedding rings
[He doesn't so much hesitate, but he does stop to look at Dazai for a moment before opening them next. He has no idea what might be inside.]
he's proposing rn
The second is a blank notebook with a familiar pattern. It's hardly an even match, but it's close enough that Dazai found it to be satisfactory. Once the latter is opened he'll reach out, letting his fingertips brush against the cover.
His smile is slight, uncertain, but there's an intensity to the way that he looks at him - some complex mix of emotions that can't quite make their way into his expression. It matches the soft voice that he speaks in, something that doesn't settle into something calm and kind until halfway through. ]
You know, Odasaku... I've had more than one person tell me that you're not qualified to be a good person if you've killed. You can't be a good person, you can't be a writer... That's ridiculous. People who have seen death up close are the only ones who can say that they've lived. People who have suffered, people who have hurt, who loved as much as they hated, who can save people and kill them, without ever forgetting how to be kind...
[ He taps his fingers against the cover before taking his hand back. ]
You understand the human heart better than anyone, Odasaku. There's no one more qualified to write about them than you.
[ Then, plopping down on the bed next to him and glancing away briefly, ]
I really wanted to read it. The novel that you were going to write.
no subject
[Seems a pretty simple gift, doesn't it? Oda's told a few people here that he'd like to write. It's not something that has to be so much of a secret anymore - though, what has he written? Nothing.
[So, any one of those people that he told might have figured out it was his birthday and gotten him something like this, but they wouldn't have said what Dazai said.
[They don't know Odasaku. They don't understand what drives him, nor what binds him. Dazai knows. He knows what handing Odasaku something like this means. Maybe what he doesn't know is that it feels like permission. Why should he need Dazai's?
[His hand is resting on the notebook, and he's quiet. He's been quiet too long, maybe. His emotions feel like a wave, building into something catastrophic - he thinks maybe he shouldn't still be standing the way he is.
[He looks at Dazai. His jaw is tight. He nods his head. Clears his throat. Looks down at the notebook again.]
I've, uh...been thinking about something, and it's kind of an odd feeling.
Everyone says that crystal in town will give you anything you wish for. I found myself wondering...if I asked for that novel that I never could read the ending to from that crystal, then...it would probably give me the finished work, right?
[He's emotional. Why is he emotional? He has to pause, chew on nothing for a second.
[He doesn't finish his thought; says:]
I wanted that too.
[Can he still?
[After losing them, throwing away his life - the way he wounded his only friend, and how he's been forced to face that now. He's not a perfect person. He knows that what he did was selfish.
[And now he's here. It's temporary. He knows that.
[Is he, of all people, deserving of a second chance like that?
[The truth is he doesn't know which way is up. He'd like to write it all down. He'd like to write something amazing.]
I don't know...if wanting is still something I'm meant to do.
no subject
[ The answer is immediate. It's decisive, leaving no room for argument, because he's already considered and countered every single one, or perhaps he simply refuses to hear them.
His throat feels tight, the air that he swallows down not seeming to reach his lungs, and it seems as though his chest is constricting. It would surely be less painful to gouge his eyes out and rupture his eardrums, to put a knife through his heart, than to see that look and hear such words.
It's been four years, but Dazai never learned to mourn; he never learned how to do more yearn for bygone days.
Oda doesn't want the ending to that story, not really. People never really know what they want. They never say what it is that they want, but what they find to be within their reach. ]
You don't need to see the ending to that story. It's yours now. It's a story that only you can write. If you can't, then no one can.
[ If he doesn't have the full context, Dazai can fill in the blanks well enough. He scoots a little closer, his fingertip running along the spine. There's something to be said about what it means to be a writer. It's to write about a person, how one should live and one should die, and it's something a bit more than that too.
There's something more to it, too, something that he can't pin down, something that can never quite breach the surface, no matter how close it gets, some odd feeling that there's a deeper meaning to it all - that he might find something hidden in those words, some secret that's been hidden from him.
He settles for, ]
The way that you see the world is different. The way that you've lived is different.
[ He leans forward and folds his arms on his knees, for the first time averting his gaze. It falls down to the floor and there's a light frown. ]
You live the way that people should.
[ It's a life filled with pain and regrets, with hardship and broken dreams; some meaningless tragedy, as all lives are, and yet despite that he's never forgotten how to be kind. He never forgot how to want to live, how to think on what life would bring; rather, that desire was choked out, it was buried - there was no one who prevented it, and there was no one who reignited it.
He stares down for a time before he raises is eyes back up and repeats, ]
I still want to see it.. The novel that you would have written - that you'll one day write.
icon war ICON WAR
[He thinks he knows what Dazai means though. Because he's come to realize what he means to Dazai. He recalls his dying moments often. He recalls that last piece of advice.
[Dazai looks up to him. He's his truest friend. They're here together, despite all impossibility. Odasaku's dream could barely take root before he tossed it away, right along with his life - no story left to write.
[He's here now, with his best friend beside him. There is a "one day" to look ahead to. He may not be the most deserving, but it's been given to him, and so have these empty books. What an insult it would be not to fill them...
[He raps his knuckles a couple of times on the cover of the notebook in his hand, mouth jerking to the side in some facsimile of a smile as he chokes back some emotion. He nods.]
I made a wish...
To write in a room with a view of the sea.
[One can, indeed, sea the ocean from his window. Even now, one can hear waves crashing in the distance.
[He looks at his friend. He thinks to himself that there's no one he cherishes more. It's overwhelming. He was such a lonely person once.
[He holds up the book. Starts to talk - clears his throat.]
I will. So you can read it one day.
I'll start right away. Dazai.
no subject
It's too much. He's drowning. There's nothing painful about his answer, but it feels like sinking, like he can see bubbles floating up, popping long before they can escape the sea.
It's too much. It's like trying to pour an ocean of water into a coffee cup. His heart is too small and too fragile to withstand this much.
Living is, he thinks once more, an inherently painful thing.
Even so, pain can be something dear as much as anything else.
Dazai closes his eyes and smiles. He squeezes Odasaku's arm lightly and nods. ]
Good. It will be worth the wait... It's fine for your wishes to be granted every once in awhile.
[ A room with a view of the sea to write in, a place where the past can't touch him, where there are people who care, where he can have all those things that a person should... Yes, it's fine for a world like that to exist.
A gentle chuckle. The ebbing, flowing, foaming rolling waves in his heart gradually settle and still. When he opens his eyes once more, there's an unfamiliar sentiment in them. His smile is soft, satisfied, and contented in an equally unfamiliar manner.
When's the last time that he had something to look forward to...? ]
Happy Birthday, Odasaku.