Generations of Rain || Dazai Osamu/Reader

16. grief.

It's late by the time you two retreat into the solace of the car. Night time rises from the ground like hot air, black skies resembling that of black smoke from a bonfire. The gates of the cemetery are closed by a nice old man.

"Ah, young lovers!" He says with confidence. You shake your head.

"No, just close friends," You say that, but even your voice sounded hollow. The two of you are holding hands, something that Dazai had yearned for since he saw you unscrewing the wine bottle; it was as if his soul was enveloping yours, holding your hand while regarding the ugliness of his own. Bony fingers wrapped around the back of your hand—he gives you a quick squeeze when you struggle to find words. "You got it all wrong."

"Ah, don't tell me I'm wrong," The old man stubbornly juts his chin out, as all old people do. "I can see lovers when there's one right before me."

You struggle to remain polite. "No, you got it all wrong, sir. We're simply—"

"We really ought to get going," Dazai cuts in with a smile, his voice jingling with laughter. "It's getting late, don't you think (first name)?"

You turn your head towards him curiously, and you're met with thirsty sepia eyes, as though he was drinking you in like wine. It is a familiar look that you have received from Odasaku, and you recognize it the second it appears on his face. It disappears like a candle in a gale. It unsettles you—but at the same time, it brings you back home. Home is no longer a place for you, not a country. It's a feeling, as universal as it is specific. If you talked about it, though, you were more than sure it would risk vanishing.

Dazai makes the mistake of looking down at you—he is immediately met with a look of recognition: That twinkle in your eyes, that uncertain twitch of your lips, the aversion of your irises before flickering back to him. Your body and haunted eyes tell him everything he has to know. He swallows and curses himself for tripping, for stumbling, when he knows he has to be a solid, unmoving figure for you. But you finally turn away.

"You're right," You dip your head towards the old man. "Goodbye, sir."

The two of you slam the car door shut. Dazai inserts the key and the engine rumbles, purring to life. You close your eyes and rest your head against the headrest.

"Long day," You sigh. You're still holding the half-empty wine bottle in your arms like a baby. "Aren't you tired?"

"Kind of," Dazai says. "You must be emotionally exhausted. Get some rest when we get home, yeah?"

"Yeah," You say. The ride home is tranquil, passing by familiar landmarks and locations before Dazai breaks the silence once more.

"Have you thought about going to a grief counsellor?" He asks, his words like the careful pattering of a cat on a wooden surface. You open your eyes at that, turning to stare at the passing landmarks through the window.

"Not really."

"Why not? I think it would do you some good."

Your cheek squishes against your knuckles. You're staring at his profile through the reflection of the window. "You think so?"

"Mhm," He hums. "Hope might do you some good."

"Hope in what?" You snort demeaningly. "Hope that Odasaku will come back?"

"No," His eyes turn to you from the road. "Hope that even in Hell, the world moves on with you."

The car stops at a red stoplight. It's night so there's no one crossing the street, the red beam of light illuminating your face into a bloody, gored mask.

"I don't know if it's even possible for me to move on," You say, tiredly, as if this was the only thing that you had been saying for years. "All I can do is love him."

"I know, (first name)," The light turns green. "But think about it."

A heavy pause.

"I will."

XX

You arrive home at around 11PM. You could hear the snoring of Atsushi through the thin walls of the dorms as you slipped your shoes off, collapsing onto the floor in an exhausted heap. You sigh at the familiar scent of wood, infused with Dazai and the laundry detergent he used.

They say cleanliness is closest to holiness. But both of you aren't clean. There's no escaping in what you were once affiliated with. There's no escaping that. Even by proxy were you involved with the Port Mafia; you were more than sure some subordinates knew of your existence.

As the wife of the oddball of the Port Mafia.

"Augh, I'm tired," Dazai stretches on his tip-toes, groaning when his bones cracked and muscles loosened. "We should really get to bed."

"Yeah," You shuffle into the bathroom and lock the door. Although Dazai had made you promise you wouldn't lock the door when things got rough, tonight felt different: You felt as if you were truly there, and not living life through a pair of eyes within the back of your spine. Tonight was closure. Tonight was reconciliation. Running away from his tombstone had only made the pain worse, you realised; you had made a cell of your dread and locked the door behind you.

You were living on emptiness.

You twist the faucet and let the water rush over you, pouring over your neck like a waterfall. You don't feel like taking a bath today because you're tired and don't want to risk falling asleep in the tub.

You think about Dazai's words. A grief counsellor. At first you thought of it in contempt; there is nothing to say about your tragedy. Your husband died. That was the end of the story.

But what if telling your story could lighten its grip instead of tightening it? What if silence and denial weren't the only choices to make in the wake of catastrophic loss? You've read accounts of other women whose husbands divorced them or had passed away on your news app: It felt as though a part of myself was amputated, and I felt a shadowy pain. They understood.

Your heart opens. You weep. It is Odasaku speaking to you from the dead, from the oppressive dark of the Mafia: Thank you for loving me.

You can't choose to vanish in the dark, but you can choose to kindle the light. The icy dark calls your name, the light only darkening them—but you can choose to not let darkness eat away when you're forced to believe you no longer have anyone else in the world. How hate obliterates your insides like a monster tornado gone wild, leaving nothing but death behind.

You come out of the bathroom, your skin still damp, and look at Dazai. He turns his gaze from the TV towards you, and is surprised to see a flash of determination in your eyes.

"Book me an appointment for the grief counsellor."

He lightens up, immediately turning the TV off. "You've given it a thought?"

You sit down opposite of him, the towel still resting on your shoulders. "I think it's time for me to heal. When I grieve, I don't just grieve over what happened. It's the things that didn't happen that hold onto me." You fiddle with the hem of the towel as you speak, avoiding eye contact in being vulnerable towards your closest friend. It was true—you housed a place of horror and pain within you. And you housed an empty, vacant place, filled with cracked memories with blood filling in the gaps. You held onto the trauma and the absence; you couldn't just let go of either piece of the truth, nor could you hold on either easily.

He smiles. And it is one of those rare smiles that Dazai keeps in the sleeve of his coat—one of those smiles that made you feel like you were the only person worthy of the smile, so radiant that it felt as though he was exposing his heart to you: Take my heart if you can bear it. It is both a frightening and holy thing to witness.

"I'll book one for you tomorrow. A private counsellor," He stretches his arms over his head. "But for now, let's head to bed."