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The light that filters through the curtains is soft, weak, the kind of early morning glow that blurs edges and makes everything seem less real. Ango Sakaguchi sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes, blinking through the familiar haze of exhaustion.
His glasses rest crookedly on the nightstand beside a half-drunk cup of coffee that’s gone cold. The air smells faintly of tobacco and something warm—eggs, maybe. Toast. For a moment, he thinks he’s dreaming, because that smell is impossible.
He hasn’t cooked anything in weeks.
Then comes the voice. Low. Calm.
“You could stay for breakfast?”
Oda Sakunosuke stands by the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, spatula in hand. Steam curls around his face as he turns something in the pan.
Ango’s breath catches.
For a few seconds, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—just stares. His chest tightens painfully, the way it always does when he dreams like this.
“Oda…”
“Morning.” Oda smiles gently, his hair a little messy, like he’s been awake longer than Ango has. “You sleep in again. I figured I’d make something before you had to run off.”
Ango swallows, forcing himself to look away. He’s afraid that if he looks too long, Oda will fade, like smoke dissipating in the wind.
“I appreciate the offer,” Ango says quietly, trying to keep his voice steady, “but I have paperwork to do. I’ve been given an extra workload due to… some extenuating circumstances.”
He swings his legs off the bed, trying to make his movements purposeful, normal. But Oda steps in front of him, blocking his way to the door.
The light shifts then—Ango’s eyes flicker to the man before him, half-shadowed by the curtains, framed in the morning sun.
He shouldn’t be there. He can’t be there.
Oda’s tone is soft, but his gaze carries that quiet, unshakable concern Ango used to find unbearable.
“Ango, when was the last time you had a proper meal?”
Ango hesitates, fingers tightening on the edge of the blanket. “Yesterday morning,” he lies automatically.
The truth is uglier. The truth is coffee cups piled in the sink, half-eaten sandwiches that never made it past the first bite, nights spent hunched over his desk with the taste of ash in his mouth and the echo of gunfire in his head.
Oda looks unconvinced. “You always were a bad liar.”
Ango’s lips twitch faintly, a shadow of a smile threatening to appear and then disappearing again. He doesn’t meet Oda’s eyes.
“Some habits don’t die easily,” he murmurs.
Silence follows. The kind that hums in the air and makes the walls seem too close.
When he finally glances up again, Oda’s still there—leaning against the counter, arms crossed. The smell of toast lingers. The coffee pot whistles faintly.
And Ango’s heart breaks all over again.
Because it’s not real.
It can’t be.
He saw the body. He remembers the blood—his blood—staining the pavement. The way the light caught Oda’s hair when he fell. The way Dazai screamed his name.
The sound never left him.
Ango closes his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple. “You’re not here,” he whispers, voice shaking now. “You’re not here, Oda.”
The quiet stretches. Then—
“Maybe not,” Oda says softly. “But I’d still make you breakfast if I could.”
Ango opens his eyes.
The stove is empty. The counter bare. No plate, no food, no lingering scent of anything but dust and cold coffee.
The kitchen feels lifeless again.
Ango exhales shakily and sits back down on the bed, rubbing at his face until the pressure leaves white spots in his vision. His hands tremble as he reaches for the mug on the nightstand. The coffee is stone cold, but he drinks it anyway.
A hollow laugh escapes him. “You’d scold me for this,” he mutters, glancing toward the empty space near the stove. “You always did.”
There’s no answer, of course. Just the ticking of the clock on the wall.
He sets the cup down and leans back against the headboard. For a long moment, he just breathes. Then, faintly, so faintly he could almost believe it was real—
“I’m not gone, you know,” a voice whispers, somewhere deep in his memory.
Ango’s eyes close. He sees Oda again, smiling gently, standing over the stove with sunlight washing over him.
The smell of breakfast returns for a fleeting second—eggs, toast, and coffee.
And then it’s gone.
Later that morning, the reports on Ango’s desk are left untouched. Instead, a small plate sits beside them.
Two slices of toast.
One untouched.
One eaten halfway through.
The coffee beside it has gone cold again, but there’s something different about the air now—lighter, almost peaceful.
Ango stares at the empty chair across from him for a long time. His lips part, the words barely a whisper.
“Thank you, Oda.”
And somewhere—in that space between grief and imagination—he swears he hears:
“You’re welcome.”