Work Text:
In a small modest corner in Yokohama, there was a small bookstore nestled between a French cafe and a flower shop that always smelled of honeysuckle.
Dazai said it looked like something out of a bad novel. Oda simply called it home.
Years had passed since they left the Port Mafia, although ‘left’ was not the correct word, they had escaped, ran away one night and never looked back. Sometimes the past would tap at the window, but they didn’t open the door so easily anymore
Dazai, of course, got bored. Not always, but enough times to fake a dramatic fainting in the philosophy aisle every Thursday afternoon. Or to reorganize the books by color, just to see Oda’s eyebrows rise slowly but help him either way with that patience of his.
“If you’re going to fake your death, at least change the pose” Oda murmured as he carried a box of new arrivals and carefully sidestepped Dazai’s body. “You always end up with one hand on your forehead”
“Ah, Odasaku! You don’t understand my suffering!” Dazai exclaimed, he rolled on the ground, facing Oda as the redhead carefully sorted through the new arrivals and carefully added the books to the shelves.
“I’m trapped!” Dazai continued. “Trapped in this mortal existence, surrounded by… what’s that? Russian philosophy?” He squinted, trying to read the titles as Oda placed them in the shelves.
“And yet, all you read is that suicide manual you hide among the Greek tragedies”
Dazai grinned at Oda. “Oh, you know me so well, Odasaku” the brunette smiled.
Oda placed the empty box on the counter without responding. After a moment, he spoke, lifting his gaze to meet Dazai’s eyes.
“What about we go for a drink?” Oda proposes.
Dazai nods. “It’s a date!”