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It’s not unusual for Dazai to show up at Oda’s door at odd hours. After a mission, or an attempt, or sometimes just to pester him. He doesn’t even bother with knocking anymore. After a dozen nights spent at his place, Oda had handed him a key of his own. Not that Dazai needs one.
This time is different. This time, there is a knock, frantic, even, and when Oda gets the door, it’s Nakahara he sees first. He’s soaked to the bone, rainwater dripping from the rim of his hat. Dazai slumps against him, head lolling. Nakahara glances between him and Oda, almost helplessly. It doesn’t suit him.
Oda opens the door wider. “Bring him inside.”
He ends up having to sling Dazai’s other arm over his own shoulder, and together they half-drag him into the flat.
“He’s on something,” Oda mutters as he lowers Dazai onto a futon. He blinks up at him, mumbling something Oda can’t make out before his eye slides shut again. Oda sits him against the wall in what he hopes is a comfortable position. “Do you know what?”
“Like he’d tell me,” Nakahara scoffs, but he looks more scared than angry. He stands with his arms crossed, eyes flicking to Dazai every few seconds. Oda doesn’t know much about him besides Dazai’s drunken rambles, but Dazai needs all the friends (however reluctant) he can get. And he brought him here. That counts for something.
Oda hums. “Did anyone see you?”
“Nah. Don’t think so.”
Good. Dazai has enemies, enemies who would leap at the chance to get to him when he’s drugged, vulnerable, and outside of Mori’s protection. Oda, and certainly Nakahara, could take care of anyone who came looking. But Dazai needs a different kind of help right now.
“Dazai.” Oda places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Kid, can you hear me?”
At the contact, Dazai twitches, but his eye stays firmly closed.
“No point,” Nakahara grumbles. “I’ve been trying to get him to talk, and he won’t. Nothing that makes sense, at least. Won’t shut up to save his life and then—” He cuts himself off, looking away as he slumps against the wall.
Oda nods. He shifts Dazai, trying to maneuver him out of that ridiculous oversized coat. It can’t be comfortable, waterlogged as it is. Oda tugs at the sleeve, and the collar pulls away from his neck, and—bare skin. No bandages.
The scars aren’t new to him. The first time Oda saw them was over a year after they’d met. It was one of the first times Dazai stayed the night, and Oda made some off-hand remark, something about how the bandages couldn’t be safe to sleep in, not around the neck, at least. He’d expected to be ignored. Or, most likely, met with a suicide joke.
He was surprised when Dazai actually listened.
The action was hesitant, cautious, but he’d brought his fingers to his neck and begun unwrapping with a practiced hand. It left the lattice of scars on full display. Once he finished, he refused to look Oda in the eye. Then Oda offered him a bowl of fresh curry, and they ate together in silence.
After that, he started leaving a spare roll of bandages under the sink.
The point is, the scars don’t bother him. At least, not in the way Dazai worries about. It’s the fresh bruises that give him pause. They’re not from a noose— he’s seen that before, too. In fact, if he had to guess…
“Nakahara,” he says carefully, sliding the collar back into place. “Go to the kitchen.”
“Huh?”
“You can cook, can’t you? Use whatever you can find. You know Dazai, I doubt he’s eaten. I’m going to get him into dry clothes.”
Nakahara gives him a strange look, but doesn’t protest. As soon as he’s out of the room, Oda lets out a breath. If he’s right, then Nakahara shouldn’t know. Not now.
He leaves Dazai just long enough to pick out a change of clothes from the dresser. When he comes back, Dazai’s eye is back to fluttering, dilated and unfocused. His breaths come shallow. Panic? Respiratory depression? It’s hard to say.
“Odasaku?” he slurs through clumsy lips.
“It’s me.” Oda kneels beside the futon. “You’re soaking wet. Let me—”
This time, when his hand nears Dazai’s shoulder, he flinches , so hard he topples over. One arm takes his weight, trembling. The other is raised protectively over his face.
Right then, Oda feels his heart break.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly.
One hazy eye settles on him. There’s recognition there, but god, there’s a lot of other things, too. He lowers his arm.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t touch you?” Oda tries to clarify.
“Don’t.”
“Alright then. I won’t.” Oda places his hands on his knees. “But I’d appreciate if you told me what you took.”
Dazai laughs, or at least tries to. It comes out more like a sob. “Fuck if I know.” He sinks into the futon, curled up on his side with his knees to his chest. “Ask him.”
“Him?” Oda’s heart is sinking faster by the minute.
The only response he gets is a vague hand-waving gesture that clears up absolutely nothing.
“This is important, Dazai,” he tries again.
“S’not gonna kill me. He doesn’t… that’d be bad. For him. Me, though…” Another broken laugh.
Creases form on Oda's brow. If life in the mafia doesn't give him early wrinkles, Dazai Osamu certainly will. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”
“He knows what he's doing,” is all Dazai says before his eye falls shut again.
Oda lets him rest.
When Nakahara comes back, he’s balancing three reusable plastic containers. Oda takes one and raises his eyebrows at it. It’s clearly just leftover takeout put through the microwave.
“I said you could use whatever you found.”
“And I found this,” Nakahara snaps, taking a seat with his own bowl. “It’s not my fault the mafia doesn’t teach life skills.”
Ah. He… hadn’t considered that.
Nakahara jerks his head toward Dazai. “What happened to drying him off?”
“I’ll deal with that later,” he answers, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s more important that he rests. I’ll make sure he eats, too.”
It isn’t completely a lie. Normally, Oda might have considered waking him up, or changing him himself. Right now, he can’t think of a worse idea than trying to undress Dazai in his sleep.
But Dazai isn’t the only kid having a rough night. Nakahara’s eyes still dart toward Dazai every few seconds, as if he might disappear at any second. And Oda notices the way he holds his bowl, hunched over it like someone might try to take it away. Some of his orphans are the same way.
This boy’s background is a mystery to him, but like Dazai, he’s just that— a boy. A tender childhood, a loving family— these have no place in the Port Mafia.
“Here.” Oda slides the bundle of clothes toward him. “You’re wet too. Go change.”
Nakahara stares at them a moment before shaking his head. “I have to head out soon,” he says. “S’posed to report to the boss about the mission yesterday.”
In the back of his mind, Oda wonders if he just doesn’t want to admit the clothes won’t fit him.
“Dunno why,” Nakahara continues. “Dazai was gonna do all that, I thought. Went to his office last night and everything.”
Oda grits his teeth. Mori, then. He wishes he were surprised.
It’s no secret the way the boss looks at Elise, but she’s an ability . Oda’s not even sure she’s sentient. Maybe he shouldn’t have turned a blind eye, should have asked questions. And now that it’s Dazai—
He doesn’t know what to do. Dazai needs him, and he doesn’t know what to do.
As disgusting as Mori Ougai is, he’s also one of the reasons Yokohama is still standing. If it came down to it, Oda would be willing to break his oath and kill him, if it weren’t for the thousands of orphans such an action would inevitably create.
Beyond that… this is the mafia. He knows he probably isn’t the first one to figure out what’s happening. He’s just the first to give a damn.
Dimly, he realizes Nakahara is still talking. “And then I show up at his stupid shitty dump thinking he’s really dead this time, and nope, he’s just high out of his fucking mind . I practically had to fight him just to get near — ”
Realization doesn’t so much as hit as it does sock him in the jaw with brass knuckles. He watches Nakahara’s face shift from suspicion, to horror, to denial. “No, that’s not — the boss wouldn’t — ”
Oda won’t correct him, but he will warn him. “You work under Kouyou, is that right?”
The change of subject catches Nakahara off guard, but he nods.
“Before you report to Mori, find her. Make sure she knows exactly where you’re going and how long it will take.”
Food forgotten, Nakahara pushes himself to his feet, dark-eyed and trembling. “I’ll kill him.”
Oda shakes his head. “Don’t do anything yet. Come back here tomorrow— the day after tomorrow,” he amends, glancing at Dazai’s general condition. “We’ll take it from there.” He sees the objection forming on his lips, and elaborates. “If you act rashly, it will only hurt more people. Including Dazai.”
That last part seems to seal the deal. Nakahara stalks toward the door, but stops with his hand on the doorknob. He glances over his shoulder, taking in Dazai’s sleeping form one last time.
“You’ll take care of him?”
“I will.” Oda follows his gaze to Dazai. “I always do.”
It’s both a statement and a promise, and when Nakahara nods, Oda knows he understands.
“Make sure he knows I’m coming back.”
“He does.” Oda chews his lip. “Nakahara.”
“Just call me Chuuya.”
“Chuuya,” he obliges. “You should stop by here sometime. I’ll teach you to cook.”
The kid blinks once, then twice, before a smirk forms on his lips. “Huh. Could be worth a shot.”
He closes the door behind him.
For a moment, Oda sits, listening to Dazai’s breathing. It’s begun to even out, with just a stutter here and there to betray him.
Oda rubs his eyes, then pulls out his phone. He thumbs through his contacts and shoots a text to Ango. It’s not unusual for one of them not to show up for drinks, but he’d rather warn Ango that they’ll both be missing instead of leaving him to worry.
Won’t be at Lupin
Dazai is with me
Ango reads it within minutes.
Understood. Will you need anything?
Oda considers, then texts back.
Just come by tomorrow. We should talk.
There’s no response for several minutes. When it comes, Oda's grip on his phone turns white-knuckled.
Mori?
His hand shakes as he types.
Did you know
Because yes, fine, he knows this is the mafia. Knows half of them— more, even— couldn’t care less what the boss does in his free time. But Ango is different. If he’d known what Mori was, known what could happen ( did happen) to their friend—
His phone pings.
No.
Another message follows a second later.
But I’m not surprised.
Oda sets down his phone, pinching the bridge of his nose. Fine, he’ll, he’ll take that. They’ll talk tomorrow, and they’ll figure this out like adults, and then he’ll finally know what to do.
One last text comes through, and he glances down at the notification. It’s just three words, enough to fit on the lock screen display.
I’ll bring crab.
He turns his phone off. It’s getting late, and despite the lingering adrenaline, he can feel sleep settle into his bones, weighing on his eyes. He doesn’t want to just leave Dazai, doesn’t want him to wake up scared and alone in a bed that isn’t his. But— and he hates that he has to consider this— it might be worse for him to sleep anywhere nearby.
“Odasaku.”
Oda’s gaze snaps toward Dazai, who stares blankly back at him. He shifts closer. Not too close.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I was, I think,” Dazai mumbles. “Had a…” He falls silent, then rolls onto his back, tilting his chin toward the ceiling. “Doesn't matter.”
“You can tell me if you want to,” Oda offers, but Dazai shakes his head. He tries another angle. “Since you’re awake, can you let me help you out of that coat?”
Dazai eyes him silently for a long time. Clearly, he still isn’t all there. “Slug?”
After knowing him this long, Oda can figure out what he’s asking. “He isn’t here. He will be later, but right now it's only me.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
A sigh. Then Dazai tries to push himself upright, and Oda moves to help before hesitating.
Dazai rolls his eye. It doesn’t have the same effect with just the one visible, but Oda is used to it by now. “Odasaku can do what he wants with me.”
Which isn’t quite what Oda had in mind, and what with everything else that’s happened, it makes him a little sick. For now, it’s going to have to do.
Raising five orphans has taught him how to be gentle, and he channels that as he curls an arm around Dazai’s back. Soft touches. Nothing threatening. Nothing too much or too close.
Sliding the coat off, he finds the bandages on Dazai’s arms are missing too. Underneath them is… well, it’s what he expected. All the more reason to be careful.
Once the coat is out of the way, he pauses. The rest of Dazai’s clothes— minus his tie, which is missing entirely— are damp, but not terrible. It looks like the coat took the brunt of the weather. Those fresh clothes are still on hand, but…
The small shake of Dazai’s head is answer enough. “I’m tired, Odasaku.” He stares up at the ceiling.
“Then you should sleep,” Oda says simply.
The eye slides toward him. “Will you stay?”
“Is that what you want?”
“I want to stop seeing it,” Dazai says quietly. “Seeing… him. But he, he’s scared of you, I think.” A slow, tired nod, like he’s confirming his own statement. “He’s scared of you, and I’m not.”
“Then I’ll be here,” Oda tells him. “Until you feel better.”
Dazai snorts as Oda helps lower him back to the futon. “Don’t hold your breath.”
But he shifts his head to lay in Oda’s lap, and when Oda drags his fingers through his hair, gentle, always gentle, he leans into the touch.
“Goodnight, Dazai,” Oda whispers.
The only answer is Dazai’s breathing, deeper and more even than before.
They’re going to be okay. Not now. Probably not even soon. But somehow, someday, Oda swears he’ll find a way to save this kid. Even if it’s the last thing he does.