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The night was colder than usual, the rain whispering against the Lupin’s windows like an old ghost come to visit. The bar smelled of wet coats, cigarette smoke, and whisky that burned a little too sweetly on the tongue. It was a quiet night—until Dazai stumbled in.
He wasn’t drunk. That was the first strange thing.
The second was that he looked wrong—not his usual dramatic kind of wrong, but pale, trembling wrong. His scarf hung loosely around his neck, his coat was buttoned unevenly, and his hands shook as he tried to light a cigarette. The lighter fell twice before Oda, from his corner booth, stood up and crossed the room.
“Forget the cigarette,” Oda said quietly, plucking it from Dazai’s mouth before he could protest. “You’re burning up.”
Dazai blinked up at him, the fog in his eyes almost childlike. “You’re always so—” He paused, coughed, winced. “—bossy, Odasaku. It’s kind of cute.”
“Sit down,” Oda said, ignoring the remark. He guided him to the nearest booth, one arm steadying Dazai’s shoulder. “Ango,” he called across the room. “Can you get him some water?”
Ango didn’t move at first. He’d seen Dazai in bad shape before, but this—this was different. His face softened. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from his seat by the window and went behind the counter.
Dazai’s head lolled onto the table. “I didn’t come here for a medical checkup,” he muttered. His voice was hoarse, half-slurred, but the edges of his usual sarcasm still lingered. “Just needed… somewhere warm.”
“You should’ve gone home then,” Ango said flatly, setting the glass in front of him.
“Don’t have one.”
That silenced them both for a moment. Oda pulled out the bench opposite and sat down, resting his elbows on the table. He could feel the heat radiating off Dazai even from there. Fever. Maybe exhaustion too—his body looked like it had given up long before his mind had.
“You’ve been overworking yourself again,” Ango said, half-accusatory, half-genuine concern.
“Ah, but isn’t that what I’m best at?” Dazai smiled faintly, eyes flicking up before fluttering closed. His smile didn’t reach his eyes—it was a ghost of itself. “Besides, it’s nothing. Just a little fever.”
He said it like he wasn’t swaying in his seat.
Oda’s patience was worn thin. “You’re staying the night.”
Dazai cracked an eye open. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not walking anywhere like that. Ango and I will take you back.”
“Oh, lovely,” Dazai mumbled, “a road trip with my two favourite chaperones.”
Ango rubbed his temples. “We’re not arguing about this. Oda, help me get him up.”
Dazai didn’t move. His head had dropped against the wall, eyes now fully closed. Oda reached over and tapped his shoulder. “Hey.”
No response. Just a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.
“Great,” Ango muttered. “Now he’s half-asleep.”
Oda stood, surveying the situation with quiet efficiency. “Just carry him.”
Ango turned to him, incredulous. “Carry him? Are you serious?”
Oda gave him a look—the calm, patient one that somehow always managed to make Ango feel like he was missing the obvious. “He can barely stand, and it’s raining. Just carry him.”
Ango leaned against the car parked outside a few minutes later, running a hand through his hair as Oda opened the passenger door. The rain had gotten heavier. He could hear Dazai murmuring something incoherent inside the Lupin as Oda coaxed him up.
“Is this what being a parent feels like?” Ango muttered to himself. “Because I don’t think I like the stress.”
“You’re always stressed,” Oda said, stepping out with Dazai half-draped over his shoulder. “This shouldn’t make much difference.”
“Does he even like being carried?” Ango asked as Oda approached.
Oda shrugged, expression unreadable. “I’ve done it before. He didn’t mind.”
Ango blinked. “You what?”
But Oda was already shifting Dazai toward him. “Your turn.”
“Oh no. No, no, no—”
But Dazai slumped forward, dead weight against Ango’s chest. His head fell against Ango’s shoulder, his breath hot and uneven. The smell of rain and faint whiskey clung to him, mixed with something fragile, like the scent of sickness and sleepless nights.
“Christ,” Ango muttered. “He weighs more than he looks.”
“Because you don’t exercise,” Oda said dryly.
Ango shot him a glare. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe a little.”
They got him into the car eventually—Dazai stretched out across the back seat, a towel under his head and Ango’s jacket thrown over him. The car filled with quiet, broken only by the rhythmic sound of rain against the roof.
Oda drove. Ango sat beside him, occasionally glancing back. Dazai had one hand loosely curled near his face, lips parted slightly as he breathed. He looked peaceful in a way that unsettled Ango—like a man who hadn’t known peace in years.
“Where do we even take him?” Ango asked.
“My place,” Oda said simply. “He’s been there before.”
Of course he had.
When they arrived, Dazai barely stirred as Oda carried him inside this time. The small apartment was neat and warm, the faint smell of coffee and paper lingering in the air. Oda laid Dazai on the couch, tugged off his shoes, and draped a blanket over him.
Ango busied himself making tea. He didn’t like standing still—it made the worry worse.
By the time he came back, Oda was sitting on the floor beside the couch, watching Dazai breathe. “He’s still burning up,” he murmured.
Ango set the mug down. “We’ll stay, then.”
Oda looked up at him, surprised. “You sure? You’ve got work in the morning.”
“I’ll live,” Ango said, then, quieter, “He might not if we leave him alone.”
Oda gave a small nod. That was all.
Hours passed. The storm outside eased into a soft drizzle. Dazai woke briefly once, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Why’re you two… hovering?” he croaked.
“Because you’re sick,” Oda replied.
“Boring,” Dazai mumbled, then, after a pause: “You make terrible nurses.”
Ango snorted. “You’re lucky we care at all.”
A small, tired smile tugged at Dazai’s lips before he drifted off again.
Oda leaned back against the wall, watching the rise and fall of Dazai’s chest. “You ever wonder,” he said quietly, “how someone like him—someone so reckless—keeps surviving?”
Ango took a sip of his now-cold tea. “Because someone’s always there to pick him up.”
Oda hummed in agreement, eyes softening. “Just carry him,” he said again, more to himself this time.
And somehow, it felt like more than just advice—it was a promise.
That no matter how far Dazai fell, one of them would always be there to catch him.
Even if it meant carrying him, again and again, through the rain.