I Don't Smoke (bsdxmha)

Home is a fickle word

Dazai sprawls himself across the floor of his home, letting the breeze flutter over his hair through the half-opened door. A few red leaves peek their way into his dark hunk of metal, with autumn in full blast. His eyes track them as they settle onto a few stray half-written reports tucked away.

He's thankful for the fact it is neither hot nor cold weather at the moment, which means his room will stay at a fairly nice temperature during the daytime. Nighttime though... that's another story. At least the bandages keep him somewhat warm when the meagre blankets on his bed refuse to. He needs to buy another quilt to add to the bed, now that he thinks about it. Ah, home sweet home.

There is a scarcity of exciting work to do in the mafia ever since the resolution of the Dragon Head Conflict. Dazai never thought he'd say that. He hates work. He hates even looking at Mori, and the conflict kept them apart frequently as the boss of the Port Mafia was continuously fretting over one death or another. But now, everything is back to a tentative normal and it's quite boring. Where's the excitement?

The sole good event in this past month is his newfound friendship between low ranking grunt Oda Sakunosuke and suspicious information keeper Sakaguchi Ango by continuously meeting at Bar Lupin at the same time in some freaky coincidence. Literally soulmates, he keeps telling them. It is nice to have drinking buddies. Besides Chuuya (who had recently become a full member of the Port Mafia), he didn't really have any other acquaintances. Plus, Chuuya's taste in wine can't beat a good old fashioned.

Dazai sits up in one swift motion, searching the floor for his phone. Should he go and bug Chuuya? Dazai wonders if the ginger would slip on a banana peel if he conveniently placed them in every doorway. Ugh but.. he already sees plenty of Chuuya during work hours, bleh. Grasping his phone, he messages someone else,

Light shines through the falling leaves like a practised dance, painted with colours of red and orange. Dazai's footsteps patter along the alleyway in near silence, squeaking every few steps on the occasional piece of trash or cigarette stub. Somehow, this alleyway feels more like home than anywhere else ever was.

He enters the small bar to see Oda already there and sitting at his usual seat by the bar. He has a contemplative look on his face, which is not uncommon for the adult.

"Odasaku!" Dazai calls out, waving excitedly with one hand as he takes a seat right next to him.

"Afternoon Dazai, how are you?" The older man smiles warmly at the teenager.

Sometimes Oda's presence is exactly what Dazai needs.

"Why, I'm doing horrible! There's nothing to do Odasaku, nothing!" Dazai's hands shake Oda's shoulders back and forth. "My life is just so boring!!. Maybe I'll jump off a bridge on my way home today, to spice things up. "

"If you die today, you'll miss out on drinks tomorrow night." Oda points out, raising his eyebrow. "Wouldn't think you'd like that."

"Agh, you're right! Then it would be inconvenient for you two because you'd miss me so much! Ah, whatever will I do? I guess I'll have to save my bridge-filled activities for another time... A shame, really." He laments, hanging his head in mock defeat, before brightening up when a glass of whiskey is placed in front of him.

Oda sighs contently as he sips away at his own whiskey tangled in between his fingers. Dazai follows similarly.

"I adopted a few Orphans after the Dragon Head incident" He admits, staring into his glass.

"Oh? How predictable, Odasaku." Dazai warmly says, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His hands pat the other man on the shoulder as if to congratulate him

"...They needed a home, it was the mafia's fault their parents were killed."

They settle into a comfortable silence. It was often like this, the two of them would settle comfortably in each other's presence. Oda is a ruby surrounded by stone, it is always a shame he refuses to kill. He's just bound to the chains of desire. Dazai might find Oda's idea of not killing to appease the faraway dream of becoming an author foolhardily, but he never voices this. Maybe in fear of upsetting the man, or maybe because he likes the determination in his eyes.