[Dazai knows the lecture. Arguably, he understands it better now than he did when he was fifteen, when he was at Mori's right hand, commanding his own men. And perhaps the comparison he draws is not quite fair, given that the Sheep were never part of the Port Mafia, but it's one that was necessary all the same; Chuuya's question in response suggests to him he's grasped something of the weight of that lost connection, the man who was lost because Dazai hadn't been able to protect him.
He understands the parallel Chuuya is making, in asking it. To Mori, the Port Mafia was everything. To ensure its survival, the furtherance of its goals and standing, he would plunge his hands deep into the muck and viscera and filth. He would embody the night itself, even if it meant blocking out every last ray of the sun from ever reaching him again. The problem has never been in understanding why Mori did what he did. It is that in making that sacrifice, Mori had cut into the one thin thread that tied even someone like Dazai to humanity, the single artery from which blood flowed into his heart. If he hadn't cauterized the wound immediately, he would've bled dry, and then what would've become of him? He lives so close to death as it is, but he thinks he would become an even more unrecognizable creature that way, something not living nor dead, no longer capable of seeking either.]
I'm not.
[He shakes his head. For all that he works to be on the side that saves people now, he's well aware that he's not a good person. He chooses goodness when he can, when it serves the outcomes he wants, but sometimes he still knowingly puts even those he cares about through pain for the sake of those outcomes. His blood will always be mafia black. And that's why he can't forgive Ougai Mori.
And so he admits, very simply:]
If it meant Odasaku would be able to live, there is nothing and nobody I wouldn't sacrifice. Even if it meant he hated me for the rest of his life, any cost would be worth it. Mori-san feels the same about the Port Mafia. Don't assume I don't realize, Chuuya. I have always known.
[He closes his eyes, that smile from before on his lips again, weighted down with grief that goes beyond his ability to speak words to it.]
If I were a better man, I could say, I understand, I would've done the same thing in your position. I can only be the man I am, though.
[His eyes open again, and he stares down that very last latch. Somehow, now, it's easier than he thought it might be to say what will open it.]
You want to know a real secret, Chuuya? I don't know who I would be if I felt differently. It's why I'm actually ... a little afraid to die here. I don't cooperate for any other reason, than not wanting to forget.
no subject
He understands the parallel Chuuya is making, in asking it. To Mori, the Port Mafia was everything. To ensure its survival, the furtherance of its goals and standing, he would plunge his hands deep into the muck and viscera and filth. He would embody the night itself, even if it meant blocking out every last ray of the sun from ever reaching him again. The problem has never been in understanding why Mori did what he did. It is that in making that sacrifice, Mori had cut into the one thin thread that tied even someone like Dazai to humanity, the single artery from which blood flowed into his heart. If he hadn't cauterized the wound immediately, he would've bled dry, and then what would've become of him? He lives so close to death as it is, but he thinks he would become an even more unrecognizable creature that way, something not living nor dead, no longer capable of seeking either.]
I'm not.
[He shakes his head. For all that he works to be on the side that saves people now, he's well aware that he's not a good person. He chooses goodness when he can, when it serves the outcomes he wants, but sometimes he still knowingly puts even those he cares about through pain for the sake of those outcomes. His blood will always be mafia black. And that's why he can't forgive Ougai Mori.
And so he admits, very simply:]
If it meant Odasaku would be able to live, there is nothing and nobody I wouldn't sacrifice. Even if it meant he hated me for the rest of his life, any cost would be worth it. Mori-san feels the same about the Port Mafia. Don't assume I don't realize, Chuuya. I have always known.
[He closes his eyes, that smile from before on his lips again, weighted down with grief that goes beyond his ability to speak words to it.]
If I were a better man, I could say, I understand, I would've done the same thing in your position. I can only be the man I am, though.
[His eyes open again, and he stares down that very last latch. Somehow, now, it's easier than he thought it might be to say what will open it.]
You want to know a real secret, Chuuya? I don't know who I would be if I felt differently. It's why I'm actually ... a little afraid to die here. I don't cooperate for any other reason, than not wanting to forget.
[Click.]