Dazai Osamu x Chuuya Nakahara Fanfiction Book

Cease

If only he could just cease, maybe I could finally be at peace.

Dazai didn't know what was wrong with his life.

Something was missing, something was weird, something was wrong.

Something wasn't right.

Dust floated about the air, the smell of gunfire was left to rot in the atmosphere, and a corpse had laid in Dazai's hands.

"Be on the side that saves people. If both sides are the same, then choose to become a good person. Save the weak, protect the orphaned."

The words were replaying, replaying, and replaying through Dazai's head.

Through his entire life, his mind was always working one-way. Listen to command, and follow. Doesn't matter if it's good or bad, just follow the command and be done.

Especially if it brings you the upper hand in the end.

Right now was no different, he was thinking of Oda's death offer as more of a wish than a deal. Oda had wished Dazai for him to do something, yet if Dazai did do it he would get nothing in return.

It would be the first time in his life he would be doing a... a— what do you call it?

A "good deed"— if you will.

People have wished Dazai to do something for them and have offered nothing in return, and often in those times the situation would just end up with the brunette holding a shiny metal gun up to their head.

But this— this was different.

This was Oda, Odasaku.

His... his friend.

So, he laid his body on the floor. He closed the man's eyes, and walked out of the room.

He spent the next few years wondering the city of Yokohama, finding a place that the public calls "good", and hiding away from the Port Mafia. He was skilled enough so that Mori thought he had randomly ceased to exist, just disappeared from thin air.

Good.

He thought.

That was what had to happen.

He spent most of his time laying low. What most people would call "finding themselves", but in his case it was more of dwelling in his sorrows and the depressed depths of his heart.

He would lay with many woman, men, people, anything to bring him pleasure, he smoked many cigars that would destroy his lungs just for the sake of it, and he calculated that he has attempted around 242 times now, none of the attempts working— ofcourse.

Dazai was smart enough to kill himself, but he wasn't stupid enough to actually go through with it. He wouldn't attempt where he would actually go through with it, because that would mean that the 50 percent chance of Hell actually existing would be him jeopardizing his soul on the line and then putting himself like a hunted duck right in the line of eternal torment.

He hated himself, but he hated being hurt more.

Truly.

He found after a while of being out of the Port Mafia he had a longing for alcohol, specifically red wine. A deep, strong sense of want that almost made him not want it at all.

He had drank it almost everyday, and he didn't even like it. It was just the look of it, the feel of it, the smell of it, just the sense of it was what made him feel temporarily satisfied in small moments such as this.

He also found a longing for sketching, drawing, and writing. He owns a book, a small, nice little book full of blank pages that he loved to write in. He loves to write in them, making up stories, sort of like writing his own realities except he plucks them to fit his natural desires.