To conduct the singing misfortune [Dazai and Reader]

Oil Drums Aren't Made For Suicide

The morning sunlight glared into my back from the grated window of our dorm, and the loud singing from the sink didn't help my sleepy state. "Double suicide hm hm hmmm...! Can't be done alone...!" I do not doubt that his toothbrush was being used as a microphone, but I couldn't bring myself to lift my head from the pillow to see. Osamu had gotten up before me with an unusual burst of life, decided to keep the partition between the tatami room and the tiny kitchenette wide open, and exploded into song.

I muffle into the pillow, resisting his out-of-nowhere early bird mood, "Osamu, shut up! I don't wanna wake up...!"

The pattering of socks makes a transition from the boards of the kitchen to the tatami mats, soon enough landing beside my head on the futon. With a frothy hum, he crouched beside me, where I covered my head more, "You're gonna ruin my good mood, you negative Nancy," He whines, toothbrush still in his mouth.

I grumble, "It's too early." Over the pillow, I peek to see him in his usual blue-on-white pinstripe shirt as a bolo tie loosely hung above me. "I'd be oh so miserable if little [Y/N] was to miss the show!" I slowly see a wiggling hand enter my vision, and I groan, too tired to deal with tickles.

"Okayyyyy... And I'm not little anymore." I complained, standing and stretching before my posture declined as I gradually stood before the sink, picking out my chewed toothbrush and the flavoured toothpaste. "Sure, sure."

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

The metal staircase makes a clanging noise under our shoes, getting to the bottom, where the uncut grass sits. It's yellow and dry, particularly along the edges and where the rusty abandoned car is. The oil drum had weeds climbing up it and was surrounded by small rocks. It was old, even a little burned along the edges.

Osamu eyes it before looking at me with an enthusiastic smile, then points to his guide, "Oil drums! What're your opinions?" The abrupt question makes me pause as I eat my apple, wiping the juice on my trousers, "They're pretty cool, I guess. Is there a way to kill yourself with one?" Osamu nods with a giddy clap of his hands, "Bingo! Right on! Ding ding ding!"

So this is how we're dragging Atsushi out of his dorm? It's an unusual way to say good morning, but I'm all for it. I drew the highest number, after all. I can sit back and do nothing today, and the best part? Kunikida can't say anything. This was his idea, after all.

I climb the rusty vehicle in the garden of our dorms, watching Osamu from the roof as he bounds over to the oil drum and climbs into it. I swing my legs back and forth as my brother struggles to push himself in. Slowly but surely, he slides downward, and the sweat on his forehead tells me that the pain in his spine is a bit more than he'd anticipated.

"You okay?" My question would do nothing in the long run, but Osamu laughs to himself with an ignorant grin, fingers fumbling to call up Atsushi, "Of course I am." By using 'of course', I suppose he means to imply there's never a moment where he's not.

Osamu can't kill himself, so it was synonymous with watching someone draw or write – A mindless hobby. I can't kill myself either. My ability to manipulate fortune and misfortune means the universe won't let me die, no matter the chances. It will defy even its laws to keep me alive. It's a curious situation for us both to be in, treating our lives carelessly yet being very aware of our immunity.

Osamu calls up Atsushi, amazingly sounding unstrained and comfortable, as he greets the young boy, "Good morning! Today's another fine day. How's the new dorm?"

Osamu receives a reply, to which he mischievously grins into the phone, eyes set on the dorm across from us. "That's good to hear. The change of clothes at your pillow is a gift from everyone at the Agency."