#and little tiny 15 year old odasaku!!!

[bsdwherearethedogs]

happy bsd season 4 day

[suchagreatimetobealive]

𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐜𝐚𝐭 ~°•*'▪︎

Odasaku and Dazai.

- Tw¡! Odasaku and his heart-shattering internal monologues about Dazai, kinda angsty(?).

❞𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖

𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖

𝑻𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒕

𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰'𝒎 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐

𝑯𝒂𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖

𝑶𝒉, 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒕❝

"Odasaku" a tiny breathy whisper of a name that seems too far away to reach.

Though, the person is right in front of him, eating some curry.

"Yes?" putting the bowl on top of his lap, the redhead turns to glance at the brunette.

"Would you forget me, if I were to die?" the simple question is enough to provoke a shiver to run all over Odasaku's spine.

He doesn't have a proper answer, the question is unexpected. But what isn't about the kid in front of him?

"I.. don't know" he slowly start to circle the curry inside the bowl, as if he's deep in thought. He is deep in thoughts.

"You don't know?" the boy smiles, a boyish smile that every 15 years old guy usually wears.

It doesn't fit him at all; Dazai is like an adult trapped in a child's body, a body too tight and little for him, a brain too big for such head, he has been through too many things in such less time, and now he finds himself trapped inside something that he will never call his.

A body that doesn't belong to his owner.

A beating heart that shouldn't be there.

A breathing point that should get stopped.

Odasaku is not sure if he should answer, if the question was rhetorical. Looks like, even if he was supposed to answer, he took too much to do so.

"That's okay. What are you thinking about so hard?" he asks instead; the innocent voice of a curious brunette who is now closer to his face, as if staring right in his pupils might help him read his mind.

"Nothing important"

To think about it more carefully, Odasaku thinks he probably wouldn't forget Dazai; such kid really opened a side he didn't even know to have. He tried to understand him so hard, and in his own way, he even helped him.

The kid clings to him and treat him like a father, Odasaku realised this a while ago, while he was making some soup for him.

He ran behind him, hugged him from the side, and happily started sharing some random personal fact about his routine, proudly bragging about how happy he was at the daily achievements.

It was just an event that kinda hit him with certain thoughts that lend to the rational conclusion.

"Will you ever share your thoughts with me? You know how much I love to hear about you!" the boy, now head down on his lap as the bowl as been held by Odasaku's hands, complains.

"I know, but really, you shouldn't ask such questions. Most importantly, why don't you eat?" changing the subject in the most better way he can, his eyes point at the bowl forgotten on the floor, still full of curry, probably cold.

"I'm not hungry"

"You said that already, yesterday. And the day before. And again, and again. Don't make me throw it away like you always do" Odasaku is not the best person to show concern, but Dazai can see it; how his eyes close softly, his eyebrows get down, a glance that seem to suppress whatever he is feeling.

Letting his focused expression fall, Dazai plop on his side, his cheek hit the pants below him. He kinda rub on it slightly.

A cat. Like a cat.

Sometimes, Odasaku feels like he is taking care of a talking black cat. Most of the time, to be honest.

And like a cat, Dazai is unpredictable, strangely more calm than expected since their first meeting, and very, very wise.

So, an old black cat. That's simply what he is.

He's even dangerous like that.

Odasaku has a particular view of him.

But he started actually thinking about him when he sees stray cats on the street, so maybe, if Dazai were to die.. he really would keep the memory of him alive.

With cats.

With black cats all around the street.

"Then don't cook when I don't tell you to!" he roll his eyes, as if Odasaku is wrong, the older man actually think the kid is right (like he often is); Dazai never asks him to cook him food, he just automatically does.

Another person lives with him. Is he supposed to act differently? He look down at the cat.

No.

He isn't supposed to.

"I will force you to eat the next time. Don't make me do that" at that, Dazai stops his breath for a few seconds, as if the words took him by surprise.

He slowly turns to look up, at the stormy blue eyes who are already glancing back at him.

"...really?"

"You know the answer"

A frown "dang"

[rokutouxei]

in a way that would make you proud

bungou stray dogs dazai osamu (& oda sakunosuke) | T | 2913 | [ao3]

warnings: post-canon, alcohol, dazai-typical suicide references, implied/referenced self-harm, oda is still dead, also everything is in lowercase. spoilers for dark era / 黒の時代.

notes: this was supposed to be for dazai’s birthday, but i started it way too late. i didn’t want to rush it, so i took a week to write it and now it’s just a long angsty love letter from me to him (in a way.) + first bsd fic so i wanted to make a good impression LOL

summary:

dazai didn’t think he’d live up to the age of 23. hell, he didn’t think he’d make it to 18. he was sure, at 10, that he would be dead by 15. everyday he would wake up wondering (hoping? believing?) that he’d be dead the next day. he never really does. alternatively: june 19th, every year, just feels like a long, long night.

-

(midnight.)

dazai doesn’t celebrate his birthdays, at least in his head. it’s just another likely-humid day in the country’s short rainy season. every birthday is just another reminder, no, a testament to a year of failed attempts to take his own life. it’s miserable at the worst. today, it’s just numb. he doesn’t even wake up feeling any different.

but he doesn’t let that train of thought stop everyone around him for celebrating for him.

dazai considers, for the first few minutes after waking up, skipping work altogether. it’s not going to be surprising, or anything new from him, really. and an earful from kunikida is just going to be cheap fun for the next day. but as dawn slowly gave way to the sun, he figured dealing with the pleasantries (as in, the “surprise” party that had stopped being a surprise a week ago) and sitting in his office chair would make him feel a little more put-together, at least more than just lying in his futon with his new roommate, a growing stack of empty cans of ready-to-eat crab.

dazai sighs, shuffles out of his bed, hearing the imaginary shackles that bind him there clink around.

(one o’clock am)

besides, the members of the armed detective agency think of themselves a small family at best, and for families, birthdays are special. (dazai hums this to himself on his way to work, like it’s a fact he’s learned, not a lived experience.) he’s spent the past two years carving himself a spot in this mismatched little group, and even if his space feels just as impermanent as anything he’s ever wanted, it’s still a place. he isn’t going to lose all that hard work over a random day.

budget is tight this quarter, but when he gets to the office, he’s welcomed with, salad, karaage… and even crab! there’s no alcohol because kunikida is too strait-laced for that and he insists there’s still work to be done. dazai whines and makes complaints, as everyone expects him to.

most of his colleagues have small gifts for him, like an orange from kenji, a candy from ranpo (quickly taken back), his favorite bandages from yosano… nothing really spectacular. kunikida gets him nothing, but the wordless glance they share with each other says otherwise.

atsushi feels indebted to his mentor, so he splurges to get him something nice: a scarf. which is hilarious, to say the least, considering it’s basically summer, but since scarves are off-season they are cheaper, and that’s the only way atsushi can afford something as stunning and high-quality as this—a nice thick cotton one in a deep blue shade. he passes the credit to kyouka for choosing which to get and for wrapping it nicely.

dazai’s eyes flicker with something for a moment before it’s gone. he thanks them with as much heart as he can muster, then does his usual dramatics. asks if the scarf is sturdy enough to hang himself with.

atsushi begs him please don’t and dazai feels something squeeze in his heart.

after the feast, the rest of the day goes as it usually does: dazai smiles and makes jokes and laughs and drives kunikida batshit insane. it’s just a normal day at the armed detective agency office.

just not for dazai.

(two o’clock am)

a work day is still a work day, though, and there’s no getting away from kunikida even on “personal holidays.” there are reports to be written and things to be followed up. dazai isn’t being efficient about it, but he still does his share—at least enough so that it’s even a bit fair for his begrudging partner, who is always gentler to him on this particular day.

an extra serving of patience—that’s what kunikida always gives him on his birthday. and even on this year, dazai’s quick to claim it; two hours before the work day officially ends, he’s already packing up to leave.

not that kunikida’s screaming will really stop him, but it feels a little better when dazai can afford to leave a little early with permission.

atsushi’s a little surprised no one stops dazai from leaving, but he asks no more questions when kyouka shushes him. kunikida only tsks when dazai is out of the building.

(three o’clock am)

out of the office and back into the rush of the city, dazai’s feet bring him to a beeline to that place, like on autopilot. he’s humming all the way there but his brain’s only echoing a sort of static. that is, until the imagery of sitting next to empty seats begins to burrow into the haze of his mind—and it hurts. numbness is okay, but pain? it hurts the same way squeezing into old shoes that no longer fit you does.

and dazai hates it.

so he steels himself, says, no one’s there anymore, insists, there is nothing to come back to.

even if he knows he will find himself there again one day. he always, inevitably does.

but not today. that’s not where he feels safe enough to break.

this time, dazai’s a little more purposeful, a little more awake.

he drops by a liquor store to get whiskey. just goes up the aisle and picks up the first one he finds. it’s not like he’ll remember what it tastes, anyway. the cashier doesn’t make small talk. dazai smiles at them anyway.

he contemplates buying flowers, but he feels a pang of pain at gifting something that’ll die before he does.

and so he begins the long, slow walk to the seaside.

(yesterday, today, and tomorrow)

yokohama is too familiar to him now. he’s lived here too long.

every street bears his secrets. every crosswalk has a memory.

every inch of the city has a weight.

when he was still learning to maneuver the ins and outs of the city, a little boy barely filling in the hollow of his new uniform, there was darkness everywhere. everywhere he entered, everywhere he left. dazai was sure the darkness would quickly consume him.

dazai didn’t think he’d live up to the age of 22.

hell, he didn’t think he’d make it to 18. he was sure, at 10, that he would be dead by 15.

every day he wakes up wondering (hoping? believing?) if he’d be dead the next day.

today, he’s 23.

odasaku died at 23.

dazai should have died at 15.

or better yet, it should have been him who died at the hands of mimic.

he’s sure.

(four o’clock am)

even if odasaku had acted of his own accord, he was still given a mafia’s burial. the details, of course, were hushed: it didn’t matter that mori had orchestrated the entire deal with gide. what mattered is that odasaku’s death had led to the granting of their prized business permit.

a piece of paper in a stupid black envelope.

in the months between the port mafia and the armed detective agency, dazai struggled to find a way to put into words what the experience left in him. it was like it was him who was shot clean through the chest. he was walking down the path the end of odasaku’s life had pointed him towards, but then what? at what cost? to what end?

his friend’s death left no trace of him, his private files burnt, the ones still useful to the mafia kept in confidential locations. (dazai knows where everything is.) to the outside world, all that was left of the man named oda sakunosuke was a headstone, on a rather beautiful gravesite on a fancy cemetery overlooking the sea.

it was dazai who overlooked all these tiny details, even while on the run, in hiding.

honor the dead, they said.

he figured it was the least he could do.

dazai always felt like he could offer too little to the only man who ever really knew him.

so now he offers it all, stumbling along the unfinished path of a dead man, even if he didn’t know where was he going with it.

“ya, odasaku.”

(ten minutes past four)

not much of anyone comes to visit this grave, really. ango, maybe, dazai bitterly thinks, but he’s gladly never had the chance to see the man here. (he hopes he never gets to.)

because this is the only place dazai truly feels quiet.

he doesn’t really stop thinking. he doesn’t know how to. there’s always too many things to consider, so much going on, and even when his brain lets go of the tangible, of the here and now, there are other things for thoughts to latch on to, like old wounds that suddenly seem fresh if dazai closes his eyes hard enough, or the phantom sensation of a noose, or the sudden realization that he’s drowning, just not in water.

dazai’s long mastered the art of keeping his forever-rushing thoughts in neat compartments. he doesn’t usually lose track of his spirals, except when he’s here.

here he counts down, 18, goodbye, 17, 16, 15, hello, he is young again, he isn’t wounded in the places that hurt when he’s alone, he is meeting odasaku for the first time. (he’s walking down the port mafia headquarters and he sees him, and something deep within him, six years away from the future, shouts: don’t! spare him! meeting you is a death sentence!)

and then he is meeting him for the last time.

like freshly pumped from a weakened heart, stuttering, begging to live, the spurting red blood is still warm. it sends those in dazai’s veins boiling. there is no rationalizing here—no amount of reason brings the dead back.

he knows that.

but dazai breathes easier when the lines are less muddled, and he can point the criminal to the judge and sentence them to death.

it was mori ougai, sir.

it was gide, sir.

it was me, sir.

it was him—it was oda sakunosuke’s fault, sir.

(it was him who pulled me out of the dark, sir. who forced me to deal with the mess we made, sir. who told me i belonged here, sir.

i don’t want to be here, sir.)

it is only here where dazai’s mask really breaks.

shatters cleanly in half, then falls down with a thump on sacred ground.

(twenty minutes past four)

dazai rests his back against the headstone, staring out at the ocean, the sunset dyeing yokohama bay a lovely vermillion. the tendrils of loneliness cling to his limbs like they’ve sprouted out of the ground, when really it’s from deep inside his heart.

only here does dazai really feel seen: his transparency only to a man buried six feet under.

dazai’s given up on it, now. it doesn’t matter that people don’t “get” him, as long as he’s able to do what he has to do. this is a luxury is long past him, now that he’s slipped into someone else’s unfulfilled dream. he’s trying to be what odasaku would have wanted himself to be.

if there’s one thing, one thing he would ask for, it’s faith: and with his subordinates’ faith comes success—and that’s all he needs.

just bargaining chips he’s collecting under his pillow as he says, “look, odasaku, i’m doing good, look, cruel god, this duty’s given my life meaning, forgive me, forgive him.”

meaning?

no, there is no meaning here, no metaphor, no hope.

just a gaping void.

(four thirty am)

the sun slips under the bay and the sky is a beautiful lavender-violet; the sea breeze makes him chill. rainclouds have begun to crawl over the horizon, hiding the moon.

dazai feels old. too old. he feels too old for someone in a body that’s only twenty-three. he never expected this body to last as long as it has. he was ready to retire at ages much younger than this. his hands crave death with the same vigor his mind races to write strategies for situations where he survives. now, he lives in a world he never expected or planned to be a part of.

he wonders if odasaku felt this exhausted when he was at this age.

all dazai does here is think. until the thoughts stop.

the cap of the whiskey bottle is screwed on tight but when it opens, the smell takes him back to bar lupin so fast that his head spins. dazai takes a swig of the whiskey straight from the bottle.

and he was right. he can’t taste it.

only blood. the blood in his hands, the way it stained his bandages, odasaku’s dead weight, the red pooling on the floor. dazai only tastes blood in his mouth.

blood’s always been the only thing that’s filled him.

and he hated it. felt it thrumming underneath his wrist, his jugular, blood that said try as you might, you insolent mortal, you can’t die, that so many times he’s tried to wring himself dry of it.

he never does.

because if he loses his blood what else would be left in him?

odasaku once told him that the emptiness inside of him will never be filled, not by anything that he’ll ever find in this world. and odasaku was right—dazai knew. dazai knew long before he was told. no amount of money, no amount of power, no amount of whatever will get him out of the edge of the cliff he was dangling on.

for a moment, dazai wonders if odasaku knew and was so sure of it because odasaku was aware he was taking it away with him.

whatever “it” was.

(the sun begins to paint the sky violet)

dazai remembers an afternoon a million years ago when the hollow in his heart didn’t have the shape of oda sakunosuke’s hands. ozaki kouyou was teaching two jittery fifteen-year-olds about literature.

well, just one, but dazai’s really only there because he wanted to mess with chuuya, and kouyou spotted him first.

with not a single year of formal education on chuuya’s back, kouyou’s work with him was nearly tenfold. she was tasked not only to refine his abilities (he’s good, but he can be better, a touch of elegance will not hurt), but also teach him other valuable skills.

being part of the organization, after all, was not just about violence and murder.

dazai knew that. chuuya was yet to learn it.

arithmetic and history and science—the redhead had tutors for that. but literature, kouyou had taken into her hands.

it’s not the text itself, or the language and vocabulary, she said, what we’re honing here is critical thinking, and the bits of philosophical thought to be picked up that’ll shape you into a brilliant mafioso in the future. pretty words, dazai thought. she sipped tea while chuuya read. she tapped his back with a fan when his posture broke and he began to slouch.

chuuya read the books religiously, without complaint (at least not in front of kouyou). dazai never really understood all this. he let his mind wander. why didn’t she just let the boy read war strategy books—the kind mori made him devour? oh, but chuuya wasn’t really a strategist, and well, he’s obedient, that’s why he’s a dog—

the silence of the afternoon was broken by chuuya getting up to ask about a phrase he didn’t understand. kouyou smiled in a way that left dazai unsettled. and somehow, that afternoon was burned into dazai’s memory like it was something he mustn’t forget.

the phrase was 無我夢中.

to be totally absorbed in something, you lose yourself in it.

that is, dazai’s long known what he’s doing, he just doesn’t want to admit it.

(the sky is a weak light blue, giving way to an inevitable morning)

the whiskey bottle is empty now. dazai shifts to stuff it into his little paper bag of gifts when his fingers graze the soft cotton of his new scarf, deep blue.

save the weak, protect the orphans, he was told.

he pulls the scarf out and clutches it in his hands.

feels its weight. imagines rope.

please don’t, atsushi said earlier.

and dazai is trying, and trying, and trying, and—

is it enough?

is he enough?

will he be enough?

“odasaku,” dazai says, hums it under his breath like the wind will take it, bring it where he needs it to go, “would i have made you proud?”

(dawn)

fat droplets begin to pour out of the dark clouds. there are no stars out. yokohama glimmers under the thin sheen of rain.

nearby, a child hurriedly grasps his father’s free hand as he digs into his bag for an umbrella, and the little boy goes, “papa, the sky is crying!”

and maybe the sky is. maybe the man sitting behind the gravestone is.

but there are two sure things about rain:

one, that it washes away any and all things if you let it.

two, that it will always, somehow, at some point, stop.

(morning’s just beginning)

dazai gets up on his feet, with just a little sway from all the alcohol. but the night’s still young, and there are better stuff to drink than whiskey out of a bottle. he looks back at the grave with eyes promising he’ll be back soon, a little better, a little wiser than he is, and then off he goes, into the city he far-too-well knows.

maybe he can bother someone into treating him to some good, expensive, old-fashioned wine.

[livesoffcoco]

My ramblings on Dark Era screenshots. Frame by frame edition.

So I found a site that had screenshots/ frame by frame of the Dark Era and I would just like to share a few. Beware, sadness ahead.

First of all, have a soundtrack for the Dark Era.

Let’s start with Gide because he was a dramatic Gay™ who was in love with Odasaku. 

Like there is no other explanation for that look. 

Or this one.

or this one.

And I had to add this one as well.

Sorry you can’t convince me otherwise.

Now onto some of my favorites of Odasaku (MY KING).

Sweet little baby Odasaku (15-16 years old presumably).

And then we get the terror he feels when he sees Dazai in danger which morphs into “I have to save the beu”

Of course we have to get Dazai and Odasaku getting Odasaku’s cat dad’s blessing.

But let us not forget the sadness Odasaku expresses when Dazai says incredibly fucking depressing shit.

No comment on this picture because i’ll just start crying

Now the last set will have Odasaku in it, but it focuses on Dazai. Like this one.

and this one

both looking at Odasaku expressing about 42,000 different emotions, all so strong Dazai doesn’t know what the fuck to do with them.

LIKE THESE TWO FRAMES THAT WILL NEVER NOT FUCKING KILL ME. LOOK AT THAT SOFT EXPRESSION. LOOK AT THE SADNESS IN HIS EYES BECAUSE EVEN IN THAT MOMENT, THROUGH HIS CHILDISH WISHING, HE KNOWS ODASAKU WON’T MAKE IT OUT ALIVE AGAINST HIS FIGHT WITH GIDE.

and it begins. How much you want to bet Dazai still sees Odasaku’s blood staining his hands?

Please examine the fucking terror and fear in his eyes, knowing that Odasaku is bleeding out in his arms and he can’t do anything about it.

And ‘Dazai curls in closer; like if he does, Odasaku might grow warmer, might not bleed out so much and his body might not be so cold.

And he is feeling this horrible acceptance to the fact that Odasaku won’t let go of him so they can get him help, that Odasaku is as suicidal as Dazai has always been and wished for himself.

And it really hits home frame by frame. It’s so obvious that Odasaku is having trouble even keeping his eyes open.

This frame I found very interesting. It’s this tiny smile that last literally just this frame and that frame alone. And it’s so obvious that even though Odasaku’s dying, he gave Dazai hope. He put that spark of light in his chest.

Then a frame later it’s gone and Dazai is in that state of horrible depressive acceptance that Odasaku really isn’t going to make it out of here alive. That he really is growing colder in his arms and there is not going to be a “next time” with him.

And then perhaps the three saddest frames in Bungou Stray Dogs, Odasaku dies in Dazai’s arms in the warm afternoon light. He is smiling, the only time we ever see him truly smile in all of the Dark Era episodes/LN. This is a smile that only Dazai has seen and it’s going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

Though I wanted to add this last frame. It’s the first time we see Dazai completely free. He is free of his shackles that Mori put on him. Odasaku released him to see the world with two eyes, to take in new things and run as far as he can. 

I think we can all appreciate what the love for someone can do.