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“How will you be greeting the new year, Odasaku?”
Oda takes a slow sip of his whiskey, savoring the rich, peaty flavor on his tongue. “I haven’t really thought about it,” he replies. “I’ll spend time with the kids, I suppose. Make soba, watch the fireworks at midnight. Nothing too wild.”
Dazai hums. "How warm," he murmurs pensively into his glass.
What an odd way to put it, Oda thinks. He tilts his head towards Dazai. "What about you?"
Hunched over his drink, Dazai sighs and pokes idly at the large ball of ice in the center of his glass. “I don't know. I’ve read that death by carbon monoxide is nice—like taking a very pleasant nap."
Oda takes another sip of his drink. He’s never sure what to say when in these moments, always torn between the intense desire to convince Dazai to consider living and the suffocating reality that he doesn’t think he can.
"Is that so?" he finally replies, tucking his unease under what he hopes is an even expression.
If Dazai notices, he doesn’t show it; instead, he perks up in his seat as if struck by lightning. "I know—I'll steal Chuuya's car!” His uncovered eye brightens in the dim glow of the bar. “I’ll park it where I can see the fireworks over the bay and stuff up the muffler with Chuuya’s ugliest coat. Surely that will be a beautiful death! The only thing I'll miss is Chuuya's look of utter outrage when the police impound his car in the morning—"
"You’ll have to go all the way to Chiba to get it,” Ango voice interrupts curtly, his voice echoing from the narrow stairwell that serves as Lupin’s entrance. "We're negotiating a narcotics deal. We'll likely be there through the New Year, unless something goes sour early."
Dazai spins his chair to meet Ango just as he ascends the last step. “Ango! What perfect timing!~” he sings.
Ango grunts and orders a whiskey on the rocks. He doesn’t respond until he’s settled in the seat beside Dazai, drink in hand. “I don’t understand your definition of good timing,” he huffs, and takes a sip of his drink. “This sounds like terrible timing.”
“Au contraire,” Dazai rebuts in over-exaggerated French, holding his finger up for dramatic effect. “You’ve given me the most important information of the night—you know where Chuuya’s car will be.”
“Perhaps,” Ango counters. “But I’m not going to tell you.”
Dazai leans into Ango’s face, prompting Ango to lean away, his expression dissolving into one of mild distress. The image is comical despite the subject at hand, reminding Oda of a cornered cat leaning away from an overly-excited child. He chuckles into his glass and does his best to ignore the flash of betrayal in Ango’s eyes.
“You don’t even need to tell me!” Dazai chirps. “Chiba is only eighty kilometers away and you’re already going there—all I need is a ride!”
Ango blanches violently in his seat, nearly spilling his drink. “I’m not—I’m not going to help you do this! Never mind that you’re my friend—helping an underboss commit suicide could get me killed!” Ango sputters. He ducks around Dazai and turns entreatingly to Oda. “Odasaku-san please—tell him that this is a terrible idea!”
“This is a terrible idea,” Oda repeats sincerely.
Dazai slumps into his seat like a deflated balloon. “You too, Odasaku?”
Oda takes a long sip of his whiskey and frowns. Though Dazai’s tone remains light, the sharp curve of his sly smile lingering as if he’s already moved on, Oda doesn’t miss the way the glimmer in his eye fades. Nor does he miss the inward turn of his shoulders, the bow of his head, the way his messy brown curls hang forlornly over his face.
It’s a side of him rarely shown—a side likely saved for his moments alone. And while a small part of Oda feels privileged that Dazai trusts them enough let his mask slip even a little bit, his heart tightens at the thought of him like this by himself.
Vulnerable, with only the darkness of his thoughts as the year ends.
“Celebrate with me,” Oda blurts out. He sets his glass down with a muted clink and clears his throat. “With us. With me and the kids.”
Dazai tips his head and regards Oda curiously. “With you?” he echoes. “Do you mean that?”
Oda’s heart pounds in his chest, though he is at a loss to explain why that is. “Yes."
Dazai is silent, his gaze shifting far away, somewhere just beyond Oda's shoulder. His brow furrows over his uncovered eye, and though Oda has never been able to fully guess what Dazai is thinking, he has some idea because he'd felt it himself: With a life like mine—soaked in blood and pain and death—do I have the right to be around children? Do I have the right to celebrate anything?
"Just… just think about it," Oda says softly. "The invitation is open."
Dazai's gaze returns to Oda's. "Okay." His smile is a little distant, as if he hasn't quite returned from wherever his ever-whirring mind had drifted off to. "I'll think about it."
-
New Years Eve arrives with a clear sky and a crisp breeze. It tosses Oda's hair wildly about his face as he walks to the Western curry restaurant, hitching his grocery bag higher onto his hip and fishing for his phone in his coat pocket. Upon finding it, he flips it open, hope lurking like a tickle in the back of his throat.
Still nothing from Dazai.
In the three days since they had last been in at the bar, work had picked up considerably. And while that wasn't particularly abnormal—the looming new year always brought about an excess of menial tasks befitting the lowest-ranking member of the Port Mafia—Oda had been hoping to see Dazai again before New Years Eve.
His thumb hovers over the keys as he walks. Should he text him? Call him? It has always been easy to lose themselves in the smoky intimacy of Bar Lupin—but out here the waning December sun casts an irrefutable light over the reality of their respective positions in the mafia. Would it be inappropriate to contact him now? Even as a friend?
He shuts his phone with a sigh and slips it back into his pocket.
“You alright?” the curry restaurant owner asks when Oda finally steps through the door. “You look like you’ve been eating lemons on the way over here.”
“Long week,” Oda replies brusquely. “Are the kids upstairs?”
The restaurant owner nods. “Been hearing noises all afternoon—it sounds like they’ve been wrestling gorillas up there."
As if on cue, a loud thump echoes from somewhere just past the doors to the restaurant kitchen.
Oda rubs his forehead in exasperation. “I hope they haven’t been causing you or your patrons too much trouble.”
“Oh, none at all,” the restaurant owner assures him with a chuckle. “I just want to know who’s winning. My money's on Yu, he’s a squirrely little thing.”
“I’ll make sure to let you know,” Oda says wryly. With a wave, he leaves the restaurant and heads for the stairs leading to the living quarters above the restaurant.
The restaurant owner, as it turns out, isn’t too far off. After setting the bag of groceries onto the counter in the kitchen, Oda opens the door to the bedroom at the end of the hallway to find Kousuke and Yu locked in an intense arm-wrestling match in the middle of the floor. Katsumi, Shinji, and Sakura watch from the top rail of the bunk bed, nestled together like sardines like sardines beneath a mountain of blankets as they root them on.
“Ah, so this is the racket that has been scaring away all of Oji-san's customers,” Oda announces.
He puts on his best stern face—but the kids, as usual, aren’t fooled, and he is met with a chorus of “Odasaku!” as Kousuke and Yu abandon their match and rush him. Each boy grabs one of Oda's arms.
"Arm-wrestle us!" Kousuke demands, eyes glittering.
Oda laughs and shakes his head. "I don't think so. Neither of you are a match for me and I need to get dinner started—"
"No," Yu interrupts, tugging Oda's arm down for emphasis. "Arm-wrestle both of us!"
"Oh?" Oda squats down to their level and eyes them dubiously. "An interesting proposal. What's in it for me?"
Yu squints at him suspiciously. "Well… what do you want?" he asks. Above them, Sakura giggles into her teddy bear.
Oda takes a moment to consider before responding. "How about this: if you two lose, you have to help me cook dinner."
"And if we win?" Kousuke chimes in.
"If you win," Oda replies gravely, "you get the satisfaction of defeating a member of the Port Mafia in combat."
Kousuke and Yu turn to each other, mumbling something to the other before nodding and turning back to Oda. They each grab one of his hands and shake vigorously. "We accept your terms," Kousuke agrees in a very serious tone.
"Alright," Oda says, and lets them lead him to the thick pile of pillows they'd been using as a table.
Their effort is valiant, and Oda lets them believe they have a chance, screwing up his face in mock-strain as the boys heave and groan and pull at his arm with every ounce of strength they can muster. But it's getting late and Oda hasn't eaten since breakfast, so after several minutes of fierce battle, he ends the match, careful not to overextend their thin, bony arms as he presses their hands into the pillow.
The boys fall to the floor in defeat, howling.
"Rematch!" Yu shouts, rolling onto his knees. "I demand a rematch!"
"Later." The boys whine in protest, but Oda shakes his head, unmoved. "Nope—you made a promise and we honor our promises," he says.
"Okayyyy," both boys groan.
Oda stands up and holds out both hands. "C'mon, it won't even take that long." The boys accept, and Oda hauls them up onto their feet. "I'll let you roll out the dough for the soba noodles. It'll make your arms stronger and then maybe you'll be able to defeat me," he adds as he shoos them out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen.
-
"Who are you texting, Odasaku?"
Oda sets his phone down, a bit more embarrassed than he'd like to admit. "No one," he replies evenly as he reaches to stir the dashi stock simmering on the stove.
From his perch at the table, Kousuke tilts his head. "Then why do you keep looking at your phone?"
"I'm…" Oda pauses, frowning. "I'm waiting to hear from someone."
"Oh," Kousuke says. His face is thoughtful as he presses into the soba noodle dough. “A friend from work?”
Oda doesn’t respond right away. He thinks about Ango back at the bar a few nights ago. Never mind that you’re my friend, Ango had said to Dazai so casually, for all that he is reserved, always so careful with his words.
“Yes—a friend,” he says. The word feels good in his mouth. “A friend from work.”
On the opposite side of the table, Yu’s face lights up. “From work… you mean from the Maf—”
He’s cut off by a knock at the door.
Oda’s heart leaps into his throat. Could that be—
Katsumi races past the kitchen door before he has the chance to complete the thought. “I’ll get it!” he shouts.
“Wait, Katsumi!” Oda calls out, panic seizing his chest. He may be a low-ranking member of the Mafia, but he’s still from the Mafia and there are dangerous people out there. “Let me answer—!”
He abandons the stove and leaps out of the kitchen, but before he can stop him, Katsumi is already at the front door, opening it to reveal—
“...Dazai,” Oda says in disbelief.
Dazai stands in the entryway, dressed more casually than Oda thinks he has ever seen him—dark jeans and a thick, charcoal-grey peacoat over a loose-fitting but fashionable black knit sweater. In addition to the usual bandages over his right eye, he sports a thick wad of gauze on his jaw, secured beneath his left ear with an abundance of medical tape. Oda frowns. He doesn’t remember that when they had last been at Bar Lupin together.
“Well hello there, tiny person,” Dazai greets Katsumi cheerfully. He looks past him and, upon seeing Oda standing dumbfounded in the hallway, waves with his free hand. “Hi Odasaku!”
It takes Oda a moment to recover his ability to speak. “Hey,” he finally says. Relief floods within him like a tidal wave, and he steps forward. “I’m glad you made it. Please—please come in.”
Katsumi steps aside to let Dazai in, eyeing the bandages on his face curiously as he shuts the door behind him.
“Thank you very much for holding the door for me,” Dazai says to Katsumi as he slides easily out of his shoes. “So polite! Odasaku must be so proud—oh look, more faces!” he adds, peering behind Oda.
Oda follows his gaze to a smattering of inquisitive heads peeking into the hallway.
Right. Introductions. Don’t be rude.
“Ah, forgive me—this is Katsumi. Behind me are Kousuke and Yu in the kitchen, and behind them at the end of the hall are Shinji and Sakura. Everyone,” Oda gestures to Dazai, “this is my friend, Dazai.”
Dazai greets them with a flourish of his hand and a grin that's all teeth.
The silence that follows is awkward. Now that Dazai is here, Oda realizes that he hadn’t really planned out what happens next.
Invite him to sit? The restaurant owner has no living room up here—he had turned it into the kids' bedroom when he agreed to take them in for Oda.
Invite him into the kitchen? Would that be rude? The kitchen is small, and between himself, Kousuke, and Yu, there is little space for Dazai to sit.
Dazai smiles at him expectantly, and Oda flits through his mind for ideas with increasing desperation.
“Odasaku,” Kousuke pipes up helpfully, “the dashi is starting to boil over.”
Crap—the dashi!
“Sorry, sorry—we’re just finishing up with preparing dinner—it won't be too much longer, I promise." Oda smiles apologetically at Dazai before turning to Katsumi. “Katsumi, can you please help Dazai find a home for his jacket?”
Katsumi nods and smiles shyly at Dazai as Oda ducks back into the kitchen. The dashi is indeed boiling over, bubbling over the lip of the pot and dripping with a discordant hiss into the electric stovetop. Muttering a curse under his breath, he turns down the burner.
Come to think of it, he doesn't remember the burner being turned up that high to begin with.
He turns to Kousuke and Yu, who have returned to rolling the soba dough flat with faces too innocent to be genuine.
Oda eyes them suspiciously. "Did one of you—"
"Soba from scratch—so traditional, Odasaku," Dazai croons from the doorway. He sniffs delicately into the room and sinks into the doorjamb with a satisfied sigh. "Ohhh it smells so good."
Oda shrugs and gives the dashi an experimental stir. Thankfully, it appears to have survived boiling over. "It's a special occasion," he says simply.
Dazai's head tilts to the side. "Yes," he muses. His lips curl into a maudlin smile. "I supposed it is."
-
As promised, dinner is served shortly after Dazai’s arrival. Oda grunts as he approaches the kids’ bedroom, clutching the handles of the large, steaming pot of dashi tightly and trying his best to keep it from splashing onto his hands.
“Coming through!” he calls from the hallway. “Is the kotatsu ready?”
“Yes sir!” Dazai hoots from just beyond the door. Oda shuffles in to find him already sitting beneath the kotatsu that they’d had moved to the center of the bedroom, brandishing the soup ladle as if it is a weapon. To his left, Shinji and Yu laugh as they distribute chopsticks and bowls around the table.
Oda sets the pot carefully beside the soba noodles. “Ah yes, I see you’re working very hard.”
Dazai huffs indignantly at the sarcasm in Oda’s tone. He turns to Sakura, on his right side, and puffs out a melodramatic sigh. “Can you believe him, Sakura-chan? After all I’ve done to defend this kotatsu!” he wails.
Sakura pats Dazai’s arm sympathetically. “Dazai-san fought many monsters,” she insists through a mouthful of giggles.
“See, Odasaku? She even patched me up afterwards!”
Oda settles into the kotatsu between Kousuke and Katsumi before looking up at Dazai to find him pointing emphatically to his jaw.
There—affixed clumsily over the thick gauze beneath his left ear—are two bright pink Hello Kitty band-aids, crossing over each other in a crooked X.
Dazai grins at Oda emphatically. “It is a badge of honor. I will never take it off.”
And to his credit, he true to his word—throughout the entire meal, Dazai leaves the band-aids on, flaunting them with pride as he regales them with wild (and sometimes, to Oda’s chagrin, mildly inappropriate) stories. The kids hang onto his every word, watching Dazai spin tales with rapidly growing admiration.
Oda watches from across the kotatsu, marvelling at the vibrancy of Dazai’s movements. Though the mafia executive is often prone to sudden bursts of energy, they have always been brief, girded by stretches of deep depression.
But in the warm glow of the bedroom, Dazai appears positively radiant. It’s such a stark contrast to the drawn-in husk of himself that Oda had last seen in Bar Lupin.
And Oda can’t help but feel warm at the thought that it’s because he’s here, with the kids. With him.
“Odasaku—that was so delicious,” Dazai sighs contently at the end of the meal. He pats his belly and falls back into the pillows scattered around the kotatsu. “Best soba I’ve ever had.”
“It wasn’t just me,” Oda remarks. “Kousuke and Yu made the noodles.”
Dazai shoots back upright. “Ah, you’re right! How terribly rude of me!” He turns to Kousuke and Yu and puts his hands together. “Kousuke and Yu, please forgive me! The noodles were perfect—long and so very delicious! Surely I will have a lucky year!”
Kousuke and Yu grin, puffing up their chests with pride.
“So what’s next?” Dazai asks as he leans back into the pillows. “What are the New Year's Eve traditions of the family of Odasaku?”
“Watch Kouhaku. Try to stay awake til midnight. From the window we usually get a good view of the fireworks over the bay." Oda shrugs. "We keep it simple.”
The smile that breaks out onto Dazai’s face is the most genuine that Oda thinks he’s ever seen. “Simple,” Dazai echoes, his voice soft. “Simple sounds just fine.”
-
The kids try their best to stay awake until midnight, but their efforts are in vain, and by 11:30, they’re fast asleep, curled into each other beneath the warmth of the kotatsu, snoring softly into the pillows. Oda smiles fondly at them as turns the lights off in the room and sets two steaming cups of tea onto the table and slides in beside Dazai.
"Thank you, Odasaku," Dazai murmurs. He sits up and blows on the tea before taking an experimental sip.
"Of course," Oda replies in a low voice. He pauses for a moment, before adding, "I'm… really glad you came."
Dazai tips his head, lips curling into a small smile. "Thank you for inviting me." He turns to the sleeping kids scattered around them. "They really are great kids."
Oda can't help but flush a little with pride at that. "Thank you," he says. "I think after tonight they might like you a little more than they like me."
"I doubt that," Dazai chuckles. He takes another sip of tea and melts into the kotatsu. Dazai closes his uncovered eye, the small smile still lingering on his lips like a summer breeze.
Oda remains upright, nursing his tea in his hands and watching how the flickering light from the TV reflects off the smooth skin of Dazai's unbandaged cheek. He looks so peaceful like this—beautiful, even, light and shadow accentuating the sharp likes of his jaw, the delicate slope of his neck.
The plump smoothness of his lips, parted slightly.
Dazai opens his eye and looks at him—and, for the second time this week, Oda's heart pounds in his chest.
Though the cozy warmth of the bedroom is nothing like the smoky intimacy of Bar Lupin, Oda finds it just as easy—even easier, maybe— to lose himself. He leans forward and, without any further thought, presses a kiss against Dazai's lips.
It takes a moment for Dazai to kiss back, but when he does it's gentle, almost shy. He lifts his hand to grasp Oda's cheek, his thumb tracing his cheekbone in time with the movements of his mouth against Oda's mouth.
They keep kissing until Oda forgets about everything that isn't the feeling of Dazai—Dazai's lips, soft against his own; Dazai's tongue, wet and warm and a little hesitant in his mouth; Dazai's hand, sliding slowly past his neck and shoulder, reaching for the hem of Oda's shirt—
A sudden bang jolts them back to reality. Oda jerks around toward the sound to see fireworks bursting from beyond the window, blooming in the night sky.
Beside him, Dazai giggles. "Happy New Year, Odasaku."
Oda turns back to Dazai. Dazai smiles as Oda tucks a strand of hair behind Dazai's ear.
"Happy New Year," Oda replies. He lays down beside Dazai and smiles back.
How warm, he thinks to himself as he pulls Dazai against his chest and lets his eyes drift shut.