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Ango was just looking for socks—not this. He couldn't even remember when he had put it in his drawer, let alone why.
He reached a hand out and drew back, as if physically stalled. It took him a few tries to get over it, shaky fingers gripping the picture's edge. Even with it in his hands, he hesitated, refused to look at it—holding it was overwhelming enough. But he eventually plucked up the courage—only to regret it with Dazai's foolish grin.
It took a minute getting used to those damned bandages again, but once he did, his eyes began to linger. His breathing hitched.
Oda was never much of a photogenic person. This thought pervaded his head, distracting, cushioning, as he looked at his half-smile, vaguely confused but content and kind. Kinder than he deserved.
It took an eternity to stop remembering them, to stop counting the days since he'd last gone to Lupin. But it came back.
His eyes burned as he pushed the drawer shut. Instead of dropping the picture, distancing himself from it, he pressed it to his chest with one hand, using his other hand to drag his glasses off his face, letting them fall onto the bureau. He slowly crumpled to the floor, withdrawing into himself, all while trying to maintain complete silence.
No one was there to hear him—he wasn't worried about that. He didn't want to hear himself.