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When Oda woke up, the first thing his sleep-fogged mind registered was a mess of soft curls tickling his chin. A glance toward the window told him that the sun would not rise for another hour, and that meant Dazai would not rise for another several hours. Dazai, whose legs were tangled with his and whose hand loosely gripped the front of his shirt, was by no means an early riser. With no meetings to attend and no jobs to be done, Dazai insisted (ordered) that Oda also have a day off.
The room was still dark, only slightly illuminated by the early morning light. He was warm and comfortable with Dazai resting on his chest. Sleep was a lost cause from the moment he decided to open his eyes, but leaving bed was also a lost cause.
Dazai's chest rose and fell with his own. One eye was still hidden behind his signature bandages, but his expression was otherwise unguarded, framed by curls that seemingly stuck out in every direction. Saliva trailed from the corner of his mouth and pooled on Oda's shirt.
Oda thought he was beautiful.
The Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia rarely let his guard down. Weakness meant death, and as much as Dazai craved the blissful nothingness that death ensured, he was a survivor. Oda had heard tales of the Boss' sadistic nature, had seen the faded marks on Dazai's skin. New bruises and cuts appeared regularly, some self-inflicted and others a result of Dazai pushing his partner too far. Oda was used to patching him up with gentle touches that left Dazai breathless.
In any case, the bundle of flesh and bone curled into his side was alive, his heartbeat a steady thump against Oda's chest. Dazai's actions conveyed a hundred unspoken words.
"I trust you."
"I care about you."
"Please don't leave me."
Oda can't begin to explain why Dazai chose him, a lowly member of the Mafia, to be his closest friend and confidant. Although friend did not quite describe the extent of their relationship. Nights spent drinking at Lupin had evolved into nights spent at small restaurants for late dinners, and eventually those had led to nights spent at each other's apartments.
Dazai's apartment was befitting of his position. Sleek and modern, with a woefully underused kitchen and large flat screen television connected to several gaming consoles. It was spacious and luxurious, but Dazai ended up surrounded by Oda's bookshelves in a shadier part of Yokohama most nights.
The first rays of sunlight started to peek through the curtains. Dazai whined as they assaulted his exposed eye, burying his face into Oda's chest.
"S'too bright."
"I can go close the curtains all the way," Oda offered.
The grip on his shirt tightened. "No. Stay."
"Alright."
A comfortable silence followed as light seeped into the small bedroom. Oda gently stroked Dazai's hair, brushing stray curls away from his face. Neither of them would find themselves in the embrace of sleep again, but they took comfort in each other.
When the clock showed six minutes past noon, Oda carefully extricated himself from the cocoon of blankets and Dazai's bandaged limbs. He made sure to tuck the brunet in before going to the kitchenette.
Dazai didn't make an appearance until Oda had taken his first cup of coffee. He was still clad in a too long shirt and loose boxers, lazily rubbing the sleep from his eye.
"Good morning, Dazai."
"Morning, Odasaku," he yawned, bandaged arms snaking around Oda's waist.
Oda took another sip of coffee, leaving the half empty mug on the counter he was leaning on to return Dazai's embrace.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Mmhm..." Dazai grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him down and pressing their lips together.
Oda complied when Dazai's tongue prodded the seam of his lips, darting inside to explore.
"You taste bitter," he breathed, their foreheads still pressed together.
"I take my coffee black."
Dazai smiled, reaching for Oda's mug. The milk and sugar Oda kept for him soon saturated the leftover coffee, leaving the bitter drink overwhelmingly sweet.
The two men settled on Oda's couch with a forgettable film playing on the television. Oda's attention was split between the novel he held in one hand and the sight of Dazai slowly sipping coffee.
Days off were rare.
Days off with Dazai were even rarer.
Oda waited for Dazai to finish his drink before lowering his book. His newly freed hand cupped the side of Dazai's face, turning his head to connect their lips in a tender kiss.
Dazai parted his lips, moaning softly when Oda's tongue moved against his own. His hands were fisted in auburn hair, body moving against Oda's as their lips parted.
"You taste sweet," Oda said.
The sound of Dazai's soft laughter filled the room. It's laced with amusement and affection, a stark contrast to Executive Dazai's sadistic and cruel laughter.
On their days off, they were no longer members of the Port Mafia. They were Oda Sakunosuke and Dazai Osamu. Good friends, drinking buddies, and perhaps something more that was yet unlabeled.
In the wake of a comfortable silence broken only by soft exhales and low moans, words remained unspoken but understood.
"I trust you."
"I love you."