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Bar Lupin was quiet that night, empty as usual—just the hum of the jazz record skippping faintly on the player, and the faint clink of glasses as the bartender polished a row of tumblers. Smoke drifted thick in the yellow light. Oda had been seated at the bar long enough for the ice in his glass to melt, cigarette smoke curling lazily above him. Ango sat beside him with an empty seat between, papers tucked away for once, but his expression was already tight with the beginnings of a headache.
The bar was their haunt. Oda had always liked it for its stillness: the smell of stale alcohol soaked into the wood, the golden haze of low lamps, the quiet routine of it. Tonight, though, the stillness only made the absence louder. Dazai’s lateness hung between them like smoke.
“Late again,” Ango muttered, adjusting his glasses.
Oda just exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “He’ll come.”
He always did. Like a half-starved stray that couldn’t keep itself away from scraps of warmth. Oda had stopped expecting punctuality, but he knew better than to expect absence either.
He pictured the kid’s entrance before it happened: long coat sweeping in after him, some sly remark balanced on his tongue, a grin sharp enough to make people forget how young he was. Dazai played his roles well. But Oda had learned the difference between the act and the truth—the times when the mask slipped and he looked like the teenager he still was.
When the door creaked open, the cold air carried him in—Dazai, hair a mess, coat hanging off his thin frame, shoes dragging more than usual. The kid looked worse than he normally did. His silhouette looked less like the swaggering prodigy the Mafia whispered about and more like a shadow stumbling in from the cold. His smile was crooked but heavy-lidded, and Oda caught the first thing wrong in a glance: the flush of fever burning high in his cheeks. The second was the way his hands shook as he shoved them into his pockets. Before he hid them, Oda had seen the bandaged hands red with fresh blood seeping through the gauze, knuckles raw.
It wasn’t just the injuries. It was the air around him—the wrongness. Usually he entered like he owned the place, all drama and sharp humor, but tonight he looked dragged in by the wind itself, like the night had spit him onto their doorstep. Even his coat seemed too heavy for him.
“Evening, gentlemen,” Dazai announced, voice too bright for how hoarse it came out. He stumbled toward the bar, the long tails of his coat catching on a chair.
Oda’s eyes dropped to the kid's hands when he slumped into the seat between them, movements uneven, like a stray cat claiming warmth it hadn't earned. He dropped his hands onto the bartop with a theatrical sigh. The sound was too loud, too sharp against the hush of the room, as if to cover for the tremor that ran through him. The bandages were already undone, blood seeping through in angry patches around his knuckles. Oda caught the copper tang before he spoke.
“You’re hurt.”
“Mm.” Dazai lifted his hand as if he’d only just remembered. The bruises around his knuckles were purpling fast. “I’ve looked worse.”
The words were delivered with a grin, but his fingers twitched as though the movement pained him. Oda noted the disconnect—the kid always thought he could joke his way out of blood.
For a moment, Oda and Ango just looked at him. Ango’s eyes sharpened behind his glasses, narrowing as if to parse whether the color in Dazai’s face was swagger or something else. Oda leaned back, taking in the sheen at his temple, the uneven hitch in his shoulders. It wasn’t obvious at first—Dazai carried exhaustion the way he carried everything, folded into performance—but the longer Oda watched, the clearer it became. His grin sat wrong on his fever-bright skin.
“Dazai,” Ango said flatly, eyes narrowed, “you look like hell.”
Dazai only smirked, voice low and scratchy. “Why, thank you, Ango. I do try.”
The words caught on a rasp that didn’t belong there. Oda reached across before the kid could retreat further into theatrics, pressing the back of his hand briefly to Dazai’s brow. The heat that radiated off him startled even Oda—too much, too sharp, like standing too close to a fire.
Dazai jerked back, expression twisting, more affronted than before. His cheeks flushed darker, not just with the fever but with the indignity of being checked like a child. “Don’t,” he muttered, swatting weakly at Oda’s wrist.
It wasn’t much of a hit; the effort only made his breath catch. His pride bristled louder than his body could.
Ango’s voice snapped, sharper than glass. “What on earth were you doing? You’re running a fever, your hands are—” He cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You shouldn’t even be here.”
Oda saw the way Dazai’s lashes lowered at that, the faintest flicker of satisfaction breaking through the fever haze. Ango’s irritation fed him sometimes—proof that someone noticed. Proof that someone cared enough to snap.
Dazai leaned his chin on the table, eyes half-lidded but mocking. “And miss drinks with my favorite people? Ango, you wound me.”
Oda watched them quietly, smoke curling from the end of his cigarette. Up close, Dazai’s skin was clammy, his hair sticking to his temple. He was pretending, but the shiver in his shoulders gave him away. It wasn’t just exhaustion. The kid had that sick weight to him, the kind that draped over every movement and dulled the sharp edges. Oda could see him fighting against it, clinging to the act of nonchalance as though that alone could keep him upright.
He’d seen this before, too many times—bodies driven too hard, kids in the slums working themselves to bone because pausing meant thinking. Dazai wasn’t so different, no matter how polished the Mafia made him look. Fever or not, he carried himself like someone who didn’t expect to see tomorrow.
Oda let out a quiet sigh, watching Dazai slouch deeper. He clearly wasn't just banged up—he was sick.
“Don’t encourage him,” Ango said sharply when Oda didn’t immediately scold. “If you let him sit here and order whiskey, he’ll make himself worse.”
“One drink?” Oda said, mostly out of habit.
Ango turned his glare on him. “No. Tea. Water. He needs to sleep this off, not—” His words stopped when Dazai’s head lolled sideways, hitting Oda’s shoulder with the weight of someone too tired to hold it up.
Dazai blinked slowly, mouth curling faintly as if to prove he was still conscious. “See? Perfectly fine.”
Before Dazai could shrink away from it, Oda pressed a hand to his forehead again to double-check his temperature, and Dazai jerked away like the touch had scalded him, expression both offended and sullen, cheeks flushing darker with something unrelated to the fever.
Once more, he swatted Oda’s hand weakly, muttering, “I said don’t.” His pride bristled at the intrusion even as the heat in his skin betrayed him.
The reaction was sharp, almost panicked, more than the fever alone could explain. Dazai could stomach a blade at his throat, but not this—not someone noticing how fragile he really was. Oda withdrew without comment, but the warmth of that fever stayed on his palm long after.
“You’re burning up,” Oda said simply. He ground his cigarette into the ashtray, lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re coming with us.”
Dazai groaned, half-hearted, but didn’t push away when Oda’s steady hand closed around his arm. For all his sharp tongue, he let himself be steered like a stray cat scooped off the street. Ango’s sigh was pure exasperation, but Oda caught the flicker of worry in it too.
“You’re conspiring against me,” Dazai muttered, sulking even as he allowed himself to be dragged out of the bar and out to the street.
“Because you’re a wreck,” Ango said flatly, already standing. “And nobody else will tell you so. Too goddamn scared. And look at you—pathetic." And then, to Oda: "He’s staying at your place tonight. If we leave him alone, he’ll wander back into the street like this.”
Oda didn’t argue. He reached out, gently but firmly catching Dazai’s arm when the kid swayed trying to stand. Dazai muttered something about being fine, but the heat of his skin against Oda’s palm betrayed him. It startled him, that heat—fever, yes, but also the reminder that this was just a body under all the myth, breakable and too easily burned through.
He thought of the whispers that followed the boy in the Mafia: Black Wraith, demon prodigy, monster. None of them would recognize this sight—Dazai’s knees nearly giving way as Oda held him upright, the sweat dampening his fringe, the way he clung without realizing he did it. Oda wondered grimly if that wasn’t the point—that no one was ever supposed to see him like this.
Dazai stumbled when they stepped outside, the night air hitting him like a wall. He tugged at his coat halfheartedly, but the tremor in his fingers made the gesture clumsy.
“I can walk,” he said, voice thin as smoke. “I’m not some invalid.”
“You can barely stand,” Ango shot back, striding ahead of them with his coat collar turned up against the chill. His silhouette was all sharp angles under the streetlamps. “You think anyone else is going to carry you home? Or do you plan to collapse in a gutter for the cleanup crew?”
Dazai made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. He leaned heavier into Oda’s side anyway, the weight of him unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Oda kept his grip steady, matching his pace to the kid's uneven steps. There was no real choice in it—the kid sagged like he expected to be caught. And Oda caught him, because what else was there to do?
The cold made his fever more obvious. Oda could feel the heat radiating through the sleeve of his shirt where Dazai leaned, like carrying a coal tucked into rags. Each uneven breath came out in clouds, then hitched when he tried to laugh through his cough. Oda kept his eyes forward, but he adjusted his hold without thinking, steadying him.
“See?” Dazai murmured, tilting his head toward Oda with a smugness that didn’t quite reach his fever-glazed eyes. “Odasaku understands me. He’s kinder than you.”
“He’s indulgent,” Ango snapped without looking back. “Which is worse.”
Oda didn’t answer. The street was quiet at this hour, shops shuttered, neon signs buzzing faintly above their heads. Dazai’s shoes scuffed the pavement, his breath fogging unevenly in the cold. Every few steps his knees buckled just slightly, the coat dragging heavier as though it might pull him down for good. Oda kept a hand braced against his arm, steady pressure, pretending not to notice when Dazai leaned harder than he meant to.
If Oda acknowledged it, Dazai would have pulled away out of spite, even if it meant falling. Better to keep his silence and let the kid think he was hiding his weakness. That was the only way Dazai allowed himself to lean—if he could pretend it was his choice.
“Tell me,” Dazai drawled, though his voice wavered, “what kind of pitiful sight do I make? Pathetic enough for even you to pity me, Ango?”
Ango finally stopped at the corner, turning to look at him. His glasses caught the light, hiding his eyes. “You don’t need me to tell you how you look. You already know.”
For once, Dazai didn’t have a quick reply. His mouth twisted as though he wanted to laugh, but nothing came. Instead he swayed again, and Oda tightened his hold before the boy could pitch forward. The weight of him sagging so easily against Oda’s side was almost worse than his sharpest words; it meant he had no strength left to perform.
And that was the danger, Oda thought—the moment when the performance cracked, when the kid wasn’t a specter but just a sick boy with bloody hands. No one else was supposed to see him at that angle. Yet here he was, collapsing into Oda’s shoulder, and Oda alone had to decide what to do with the sight.
“Come on,” Oda said, quiet but firm. “Almost there.”
Dazai let his head tip against Oda’s shoulder with exaggerated drama, though the exhaustion behind it was real. “If you two insist on kidnapping me, at least make it worth my while. Wine, women, and song. Or cartoons, I suppose.”
“Cartoons,” Ango said flatly, already walking again. “And tea. Don’t push your luck.”
Oda felt the faintest huff of a laugh against his sleeve, warm despite the fever. He adjusted his grip, guiding Dazai along the darkened street like a stray cat stubbornly pretending it had chosen to be carried.
The walk stretched longer than it should have, because Dazai’s pace kept faltering. He would lurch forward like he had somewhere important to be, only to lose steam after a dozen steps and sag back against Oda’s side. Every time, Oda felt that flicker of surprise again: the great black specter of the Port Mafia, reduced to clinging like a child just trying not to fall. It was too easy to forget he was fifteen until moments like this pressed it into the bone.
The streets themselves felt hollow at that hour, echoing with the uneven rhythm of their footsteps. Neon signs sputtered in the distance, painting the puddles in garish pinks and greens. The cold pressed hard against them, the kind of sharp air that cleared lungs—except Dazai’s breath still rasped shallow, hitching every few steps like the night air burned on its way down. Each cough cracked through the quiet, too thin to be disguised as laughter.
Most days, the kid carried himself like someone three times his age, full of barbs and blood and nihilism. But now, fever-dazed, he looked closer to the boy he actually was.
Oda adjusted his grip when Dazai stumbled again, feeling the unnatural warmth radiating through the sleeve of his coat. The boy leaned more heavily than he probably realized, his head dipping toward Oda’s shoulder in slow increments until it brushed there again. Oda didn’t shrug him off. He only steadied his steps, letting the weight guide his stride. He remembered carrying comrades before—bleeding, dying—but this was different. Dazai wasn’t dying, not tonight. Just sick, just fragile in a way no one else was meant to see. The difference made Oda’s throat tighten unexpectedly.
Oda thought of the last time he’d seen the kid laugh freely—he couldn’t even place it. Most of Dazai’s smiles were knives. Tonight, slumped and sweating, he looked younger than usual. A prodigy, yes, but prodigy didn’t mean invulnerable. Prodigy only meant burning yourself out faster.
“Quit dragging your feet,” Ango called from ahead, though his voice lacked the usual bite.
“I’m wounded,” Dazai said in a low moan, dramatic enough to echo off the closed shopfronts. “My strength wanes… alas, Odasaku must carry me the rest of the way.”
His words slurred halfway through, bravado unraveling as quickly as it surfaced. He clung tighter when his shoe scraped against the curb, a graceless stumble that nearly pulled them both down. Oda tightened his arm without comment.
“Keep dreaming,” Oda murmured, adjusting his arm around Dazai’s shoulders anyway when the kid stumbled again.
Dazai peeked up at him, eyes half-hooded but bright in a way that didn’t match his words. “You’re too kind to me.”
The corners of his mouth twitched as though he meant it for a joke, but there was no strength left to sharpen it. Oda caught only the rawness beneath. Fever, yes—but something else too, something softer Dazai always buried under teeth.
Oda kept his face neutral, though the words sat heavier than they should have. It was just fever talking. Just a kid clinging where he found steadiness. Still, Oda knew enough to use it. “If I’m kind, you’ll drink the tea Ango makes you without complaint.”
Dazai blinked. His mouth opened, ready with a retort, but then he huffed a laugh instead. “Manipulative,” he muttered.
“Effective,” Ango corrected sharply, glancing over his shoulder. He must’ve caught the way Dazai leaned into Oda’s side without protest, because his eyes narrowed just slightly.
The truth was obvious to both of them: for all his dark, jaded posturing, Dazai had that telltale softness around Oda. The kind of puppy-crush affection a kid couldn’t hide if he tried. Oda didn’t encourage it—but he didn’t swat it away either. Sometimes it was the only lever he had to get the kid to eat or sleep, or to sit still long enough for his wounds to be cleaned or stitched up.
And Ango, for all his clipped irritation, never called Dazai out on it either. He just sighed through his nose, as though the entire situation was both infuriating and inevitable.
“You’ll humor him until he runs himself ragged,” Ango muttered under his breath when Dazai couldn’t hear. “And then you’ll be the one cleaning up the mess.”
“Maybe,” Oda said. He shifted Dazai’s weight a little higher against his shoulder. “But at least he’s alive long enough to make a mess.”
Ango didn’t answer, but Oda caught the way his jaw tightened before he turned forward again.
Beside him, Dazai had gone quiet, his head heavy against Oda’s sleeve. The kid was smiling faintly, a dopey, fever-born thing that Oda had never seen on him sober. It startled him enough that he almost missed a step. He had seen Dazai’s eyes gleam with cruelty, with that eerie void, but never with something this guileless. It was an expression that belonged to someone Oda wasn’t sure existed anymore. For all the knives Dazai carried in his voice, for all the darkness he cloaked himself in, sometimes he was just—
Well. Fifteen.
By the time they reached Oda’s place, Dazai was half-asleep on his feet. His shoes dragged on the steps, and when Oda paused to unlock the door, the kid leaned against his back like he might slide to the floor otherwise.
“You’re dead weight,” Oda said evenly, though his hand braced Dazai’s arm before he could slip.
“I’m dying,” Dazai corrected, voice muffled against Oda’s shoulder. “Subtle difference.”
Ango snorted, unimpressed, and pushed the door open once the lock clicked. “You’ll live. Unfortunately for us.”
Inside, Oda flicked on the light, the quiet warmth of the apartment spilling across the room. Sparse but clean, the smell of cigarettes clinging faintly to the curtains. The place was orderly in the way only Oda kept it: a stack of books tucked neatly by the low shelf, ashtrays emptied before they could pile up, blankets folded on the couch arm. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter—and from the way Dazai blinked around at it, even that seemed to disarm him anew each time, as though he'd never seen it before.
He squinted against the brightness and immediately tried to collapse onto the couch.
“Shoes,” Oda reminded, tone flat but gentle.
Dazai groaned into the cushion. “Slave driver.”
“Shoes, Dazai,” Ango snapped, crossing his arms. “You’re not grinding dirt into his carpet.”
With the exaggerated suffering of a condemned man, Dazai flailed one foot weakly until Oda crouched down and tugged his shoes off for him. He let it happen, grinning lazily through his fever, and Oda only sighed. The grin was too pleased, like he’d won something by forcing Oda into the role of caretaker. Oda folded the shoes away neatly anyway.
Even that tiny ritual—Oda tugging the shoes free, setting them aside in their place—felt like a concession of control. Dazai always liked to play at being untouchable, but when Oda handled him like this, he didn’t fight. Maybe because Oda didn’t make a show of it, didn’t scold, just quietly did what needed to be done. That power was subtle, but Dazai yielded to it without realizing.
“Pathetic,” Ango muttered, stalking toward the kitchenette. He already looked at home, shedding his coat and rolling his sleeves as he filled the kettle. “I’ll make tea. You,” he pointed the kettle spout at Oda, “find medicine. He’s not drinking.”
Dazai peeked an eye open. “I’ll drink whiskey.”
“You’ll drink whatever Odasaku puts in front of you,” Ango shot back.
The smile Dazai gave was softer than usual, less teeth, more warmth. It startled Oda again—the way the kid's sharp edges melted the moment he was told what to do. It wasn’t submission, not really, but… relief, maybe, at someone else holding the reins.
Oda thought, not for the first time, that it must be exhausting to always be the one tearing yourself apart; no wonder Dazai leaned so readily when someone else shouldered the smallest fraction of it.
“Cartoons,” Oda said finally, moving to the low shelf where the stack of tapes leaned.
Dazai’s whole face brightened, fever flush deepening in his cheeks. “You keep cartoons? For me?”
Oda didn’t answer, just slid one into the player and flicked on the TV. Static, then colorful static filled the screen. By the time he turned back, Dazai was already cocooning himself deeper into the couch blanket, eyes heavy but glued to the flickering shapes. Ango muttered something under his breath that might’ve been unbelievable, but it was too fond to bite very hard. Oda caught the look Dazai tried to hide: puppy-eyed, sullen gratitude, and Ango’s reluctant softening before he jerked his gaze away.
Then Dazai yawned, curled tighter into the blanket, and for once didn’t fight the care pressing in around him. The fever left his eyes glassy, his protests half-hearted. It was the protests that always convinced Oda most—when Dazai fell quiet, it meant he had no strength left at all.
The couch swallowed him whole. By the time Oda straightened, Dazai had sunk halfway down into the cushions with his coat still on, hair sticking every which way from fever sweat. The blanket was more tangled than draped, caught around one leg like a net.
“Take the coat off,” Oda said.
Dazai groaned. “It’s warm.”
“That’s the fever.”
The kid’s grin slanted lazy. “So I should keep it. Matches the theme.”
Oda didn’t dignify that with a reply. He simply reached down, fingers working at the sleeves, and between his steady tugging and Dazai’s half-hearted squirming, the coat came free. Oda folded it neatly over the chair arm. Even without the coat, Dazai looked swallowed by the blanket, too small under its bulk. The bravado in his voice felt thinner now, stretched tight over something brittle.
For a second, Oda almost expected him to bolt, to snatch the coat back like it was armor. But Dazai only sank deeper into the cushions, the fever making his limbs too heavy to guard his pride. That alone told Oda more than the heat under his skin had.
From the kitchenette, Ango’s voice carried sharp as ever. “Don’t humor him, Oda-san. He’ll twist anything into an excuse.”
“He’s letting me take the coat off,” Oda said mildly. “That’s a start.”
Ango made a noise halfway between agreement and annoyance. The kettle whistled, and he poured with brisk efficiency, the clink of porcelain against wood punctuating his movements.
Dazai craned his neck toward the sound, eyes shining faint with fever. “Tea, Ango? How motherly of you. You’ll read me a bedtime story next.”
“Not a chance.” Ango set the cup down harder than necessary on the table in front of him. “You’ll drink this, and you’ll keep it down.”
Dazai eyed the steam curling up from the cup. He made no move to reach for it. He tucked his hands under the blanket instead, like a sulky child hiding toys, refusing to admit how bad they looked.
The smell rose sharp—black tea steeped strong—and Oda saw Dazai’s throat work, betraying thirst he refused to name. He’d rather suffer than admit need. That was the game.
Oda lowered himself on the armchair across Dazai. “Drink, Dazai.”
“Mm.” Dazai flopped deeper into the blanket. “What if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll make you,” Ango said flatly.
Dazai’s smile widened, crooked. “Threats, Ango? How unprofessional.”
Oda leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was calm, almost bored. “If you drink it, I’ll put on cartoons.”
That made Dazai pause. His gaze slid from Oda’s face to the flickering TV, the static humming faintly in the background. His lips pursed, sulk warring with temptation. “Cartoons?”
“Cartoons,” Oda confirmed.
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint hiss of the player and the ticking kettle cooling on the stove. Dazai glared at the cup as if it had personally wronged him. Then, with exaggerated suffering, he wriggled a hand free of the blanket and reached.
Ango gave Oda a look that clearly said you’re encouraging this, but Oda didn’t flinch from it. He watched instead as Dazai sighed dramatically and lifted the cup like it weighed fifty pounds.
“Manipulative,” Dazai muttered, voice muffled against the rim. He sipped anyway.
Oda sat back, watching the line of his throat as he swallowed to ensure he did. A small victory. “Good,” he said simply. He reached for the remote, and color burst onto the screen as he switched from static to the opening credits of a cartoon.
Dazai blinked at it, mouth curling in a soft, fever-drunk smile. The kind Oda only ever saw when the sharp edges of the kid dulled. Too young, too unguarded. The sight made something tighten in his chest every time.
He’d seen this expression in passing—the way children looked when they caught sight of a treat they thought they’d been denied. That was what startled him most: Dazai watching cartoons like they were contraband, something fragile and undeserved. Oda kept his gaze steady, let the kid have his cover of indifference.
“You’re spoiling him,” Ango said, but his tone was quieter now. Less fight in it.
“Maybe,” Oda said. He rose, crossed to the shelf where he kept the first-aid kit tucked neatly behind books. “But he’s drinking the tea.”
The cartoon voices filled the room, tinny and violent against the hush of Oda’s apartment. Oda had learned by now that Dazai only ever settled for the strangest things. Cartoons, yes—but not the cheerful, saccharine ones meant for children. Those only made him restless, rolling his eyes and cracking jokes until Oda shut them off. The ones that soothed him were the violent reels: slapstick hammers, explosions, characters flattened and revived in endless cycles of destruction. Something in their exaggerated cruelty calmed him, the way pain was rendered harmless on screen.
Oda didn’t pretend to understand it. He only knew that when the anvil dropped and the dust cleared, Dazai’s shoulders eased, his eyes finally going soft at the edges.
Like now—he stared at the screen with the stubborn intensity of someone refusing to admit how badly he wanted the comfort. And his hand crept from under the blanket, resting palm-down on the cushion like he meant to push himself upright—but he never did. Instead he sagged further, lashes dipping low.
Oda set the first-aid kit on the table with a soft thud. Dazai eyed it with open suspicion, as if Oda had just drawn a gun.
“No needles, Odasaku. I’d rather die dramatically on your rug.”
“They’re only bandages,” Oda said, pulling out gauze and antiseptic. He gave Dazai’s hands a pointed look. “You’ll bleed on the couch otherwise.”
Dazai didn’t move. He kept his hands clamped under the blanket, shoulders tightening like a cornered animal. His eyes narrowed, sharp for the first time all evening.
Oda didn’t push, not immediately. He let the silence do the work, staring evenly across the small table. He knew Dazai well enough by now to recognize the stubborn set of his jaw—the refusal that always hid fear. If Oda reached first, Dazai would yank away. If he waited, the kid would hand them over eventually, shamed into it by Oda’s steady calm.
Dazai shifted, muttering something about not needing babysitting, but still didn’t obey. Oda let the silence drag, steady gaze fixed on him. Dazai’s jaw worked, the fever making his resistance clumsy, but pride still dug its claws in.
Finally, with a noise of defeat like a martyr, he shoved his hands out from under the blanket and dropped them onto his lap, palms down, as though throwing down cards. Even then, Dazai didn’t meet Oda’s eyes, face turned toward the TV as if cartoons could shield him from the indignity of being tended to.
The skin around his knuckles was raw, torn open in places that hadn’t been wrapped properly. Oda cleaned them carefully, ignoring the way Dazai hissed and muttered through the sting. Every flinch was immediate, followed by Dazai’s stubborn attempt to smother it under a laugh or some low quip. It only made his hands tremble harder under Oda’s steady grip.
“Hold still,” Oda said, not unkindly, when the kid jerked too hard. His tone left no room for argument, and Dazai stilled, glaring at the TV as though it could absorb his protest. Oda kept working, the ritual motions soothing in their own way. Clean, wrap, tighten—actions he’d done for himself after jobs gone sideways, now repeated on a teenager who should never have been in this position either.
When he tightened the fresh bandages, Dazai’s eyes softened for half a moment, fever making him pliant. Oda caught it—that brief unguarded look—and it made his chest ache worse than the defiance had.
“There,” Oda said.
Dazai flexed his fingers slowly. “You’re very gentle with me. A dangerous precedent.”
The words should have been mocking, but the hoarse softness undercut them. Oda let them pass, choosing not to answer, though the weight of them lingered in his chest.
Ango, returning from the kitchenette with a bottle of pills, cut in before Oda had to answer. “One tablet,” he said, setting it on the table. “For the fever. Take it.”
Dazai wrinkled his nose. “What if I choke?”
“I’ll perform the Heimlich,” Ango said flatly. “Take it.”
Leaning back against the cushions, Dazai eyed the small white tablet as though it were poison. His lips curled into the faintest smirk, but his hand never moved. He could take bullet wounds without flinching, but a pill and a glass of water seemed to strip him of every ounce of bravado. Oda knew this trick: stall long enough, and maybe the others would let it slide.
He wasn’t surprised by the hesitation. He’d seen it before—the way Dazai eyed medication like it carried a hidden hook. He never said why, never offered details, but Oda could piece enough together: too many nights under Mori’s hand, too many things swallowed or injected without question. It didn’t take much to imagine how easily a pill could look like another trap. Oda didn’t press for answers; he only kept his gaze level, steady, until the kid’s pride gave way.
Dazai rolled his eyes, still letting the pill sit untouched, clearly hoping the standoff would wear them down. Oda only slid the glass of water closer, silent.
The scrape of the glass on wood seemed louder than it should have in the quiet room. Oda didn’t add another word, only waited, gaze steady on Dazai until the kid shifted uncomfortably under it. That was the difference between them: Ango argued, Oda didn’t have to. Silence itself was pressure when it came from him.
Oda nudged the pill closer to him, steady and quiet. “Cartoons are still on.”
That earned him a sulky glance, but Dazai popped the pill into his mouth and chased it with the rest of the tea. His throat worked as he swallowed, grimacing like the act alone was beneath him. When it was done, he shoved the empty cup away, muttering something bitter under his breath. But Oda saw the relief flicker over his face, tiny and unbidden, before the mask slipped back into place.
Ango exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a scoff. “You’d think we were torturing him.”
Dazai immediately burrowed deeper into the blanket like he’d fulfilled a great burden.
On the screen, bright colors played, battle sounds drifting through the room. Dazai’s eyes tracked them for a while, lids fluttering heavier each minute. He blinked stubbornly, forcing them open again as though he could hold off the inevitable by sheer will, even as his chin tipped lower and lower toward his chest. His head slipped sideways against the couch arm, then against Oda’s shoulder when Oda sat down beside him again.
“You don’t have to lean,” Oda said softly.
“Mm,” Dazai mumbled, nearly gone already. “Don’t mind if I do.”
The words slurred together, soft around the edges, and Oda felt the weight of him settle more fully. It was not trust—not quite—but something like it, born of fever and exhaustion. The kid always pretended he didn’t need anyone. Yet here he was, unconscious gravity pulling him closer.
Oda sat very still, letting Dazai’s weight press into his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of the fever through his shirt, unnatural and heavy, like holding a coal too close to skin. Each breath came hot and uneven against his sleeve. Oda found himself counting them without meaning to, measuring the slight stutters, the way the exhales lengthened as Dazai slipped under. It was grounding, in its own strange way—a reminder that the Black Wraith the Mafia whispered about still had to breathe, still had to sleep.
Oda glanced over at Ango. The man had lowered himself into the opposite chair, watching the cartoon with an expression that wasn’t quite irritation anymore. His eyes flicked once to the kid slumped against Oda, then away.
Ango’s glasses caught the light from the television, obscuring his expression, but Oda caught the faint crease at the corners of his eyes—not annoyance, but something heavier. Resignation. He’d known Ango long enough to read the difference. Even Ango, who prided himself on cold clarity, couldn’t quite disguise the pang of seeing Dazai like this. It wasn’t supposed to be their job, Oda thought, to catch him when he fell apart. But no one else would.
“He’ll sleep,” Oda said, more to fill the silence than anything else.
“He’d better,” Ango replied, voice quiet but edged with something tired.
His tone had lost its sharpness. There was no lecture to be given, no pointed remark. His weariness was the kind that came from caring more than he ever wanted to admit. Ango’s hand lingered on the armrest of his chair as though he meant to get up, adjust the blanket, do something—then he stopped himself, fingers curling back into a fist. Oda pretended not to notice.
There was no victory in Ango’s resignation. He, too, knew what it meant—to see the Black Wraith undone like this, a boy wrapped in blankets and fever sweat, asleep to the tune of cartoon jingles. It was… stranger, and sadder, than either of them liked to admit.
The cartoon voices rose and fell, tinny against the quiet of the apartment. On screen, bright colors tumbled across the frame, gunshots loud and jarring. It clashed so strangely with the stillness of the room that Oda almost turned the volume down—but Dazai’s head twitched faintly, as though he’d noticed the sound shift even in sleep, and Oda let it be. If violent cartoons were the anchor, then let them play.
Within minutes, Dazai’s breathing evened out, the fever flush still high on his cheeks but the tension bled from his face. For once, he looked his age. Just a kid, curled under a blanket with cartoons playing in the background.
His mouth parted slightly, the faintest sound catching on each inhale. The proud tilt of his chin was gone, replaced by the slack vulnerability of sleep. A strand of hair clung damp to his temple, and Oda had to fight the urge to brush it aside—not because the kid would wake, but because Oda wasn’t sure he could bear his own tenderness being noticed.
Ango leaned forward at one point, elbows on his knees, and studied the kid in silence. Oda watched him, caught the way Ango’s lips pressed into a thin line before he leaned back again. Neither spoke of it, but both knew: this sight was one they weren’t supposed to have. The Black Wraith was supposed to be untouchable. Unflinching. Not a sick, half-grown boy sleeping against a shoulder as cartoons filled the air.
Time stretched thin. Oda lit another cigarette, the ember burning low as he exhaled toward the ceiling. The smoke curled lazily upward, blending with the glow of the TV, hanging over the three of them like a veil. He didn’t move, though the arm under Dazai was starting to go numb. It didn’t matter. The kid’s weight was an anchor, a reminder of what kept him here—fragile, reckless, alive.
The apartment seemed smaller for it: three figures bracketed by smoke, lamplight, and the television’s glow. Outside, the city carried on in silence, indifferent. Inside, there was this fragile truce—Ango’s sighs, Oda’s smoke, Dazai’s breathing. For one night, that was enough.
Oda knew he would wake eventually. He’d stir, make some half-joke to cover his weakness, maybe even bolt back out into the streets with the same fever still clinging to him. But for now, at least, he was here. Contained. Breathing against Oda’s shoulder like the stray cat he was. And Oda, for reasons he didn’t bother naming, kept perfectly still so as not to break the moment.
The kid at his side cloaked in darkness was breakable in ways Oda would never say aloud—not to Ango, not to Dazai, not to anyone. But for all the blood and bravado, for all the sharp barbs that usually coated Dazai’s tongue, this was what he was underneath: a stray cat, too thin, too reckless, too ready to collapse. And Oda—for some reason—was the one who had to keep him from slipping through the cracks.
Oda exhaled smoke toward the ceiling, careful not to move and wake him. A stray, burnt and battered, but for tonight, he’d been corralled somewhere safe.