A seven-year-old child stirred in a strange room, paper displayed on the walls with texts describing a world that doesn't belong to them, the writing of an author too scared to go beyond notes. Alcohol bottles and coffee cups lined a dusty desk and a candle sat on the sill of an open window, which brings in a gentle drift of sunlight. There's rain drying on the pane.
The child itself was much less than the average, severely malnourished, and the sun of the summer months had boiled spots and rashes to the skin. Scars and unhealed wounds melt into joints, stretch across bony planes, and make the child more recognisable as a wounded animal. Most striking is the face, a blank canvas only showing its miserable existence in the discolouring of the under eyes or the cracking of lips. All things considered, as all children inevitably are, the face is precious. The eyes are yet to be encumbered by knowledge. It's impossible to picture a face such as this child's with anything resembling a smile, however. Happiness does not suit it, just as happiness does not suit uncanny features. Sadness does not suit it, either, nor anger. The blankness of the seven-year-old face is so striking that it sticks in the mind as a stubborn picture, and even if another were to only know them for five seconds before seeing any other emotion than this blankness, it would likely cause fear. Even if another were to meet them as they were showing emotion, it would cause the same effect. Happiness does not suit this child.
The child sits up slowly from the modest bed in the cluttered room, observing this alternate life they'd been deprived of. There wasn't a singular gap or leak in the room that let the elements in. No stray dogs were in sight, no deprived people lurking in the shadows, and no rats attracted to the smell of rot. As they breathed in, they almost choked on their breath full of oxygen. It smelt like...a smell they couldn't identify. It was nice. Scarily pleasant.
Determining they were probably in danger in this new location, they looked over their body. Despite the obvious concern of being kidnapped, the child's reaction was outwardly apathetic and seeing no injuries brought no difference to that. Other than the scabs and scars, they were untouched.
What reason could someone have gone out of their way to pick up a child from the slums? Surely they must have a death wish or a benefit. They determine this was the rumoured auctions of an underground organisation to sell off children to high bidders – There are a ton of horror stories that float around the children of the slums, but they never thought they'd be one. Their shoulders remained hunched, weakness and malnourishment an ever-present trouble, but they were indifferent.
There's fog.
A purple they'd observed consistently among others with powers drifts through the door with gentle footsteps, the door opening. Its hinges groan, and paint that's been chipping for a while dusts onto the floor under it. An eighteen-year-old stands at the entrance of the room, face blank and unsure as he wanders into his room, "Sorry about the mess, I wasn't really prepared for this." He mumbles, voice deep.
[Y/N] stares at him, watching his every move from the bed they clutch the covers of. Their white knuckles regain colour at the meekness of their captor. As for the apology, they're confused. This is perhaps the most luxurious room they've ever laid eyes on. Never mind, it was probably a ploy to distract them from his malicious intent. The child watches the red hair on the man's hair bounce with his stride, the steadiness of his eyes despite his tone, and how his loose shirt hides what is a capable strength. The man exuded a quiet atmosphere.
[Y/N] shifts away from him as he begins offloading the contents of a tray onto the flimsy surface of a bedside table — A plate of something besides a glass of water. "I'm Oda Sakunosuke, eighteen. I'm a postman, so, uh, meals aren't gonna be luxurious. I've taken you from the slums, seeing that you loaked injured and soaked with rain – I looked around for an adult or guardian but couldn't find one, so we can contact your family once you've eaten." The child squints. A postman? Another lie, surely. They eye the food and water, undeniably desperate for the nourishment. And then the last term of this man's goals was realised, their brow creasing further, "No family."
Their raspy voice barely makes it into the room. Oda nods, "I figured so, but I didn't want to assume." There's quiet as the two watch each other, in no intimidating manner but as a simple surveyance between two expressionless outcasts. Oda breaks the quiet first, "What's your name?" Oda sits on the chair beside the bed, settles his hands into his lap, and watches the child. Their stillness was disturbing, but he'd grabbed a kid from the slums. What else would he expect?
The child pauses, going to answer but having to think for a moment.
So unused to anyone referring to them, they'd thought for a second that they'd forgotten it. It was unfamiliar, and a dry sensation on their tongue forced and choked. "[Y/N]." Like a terribly rehearsed line, they squeezed out what they could remember. Oda blinked at the quiet response, clasping his hands together and then unclasping them, "No last name?" [Y/N] shakes their head no.
Seeing as they hadn't reached for the food, Oda decided to take the glass and hand it to them, hovering it at a non-threatening distance.
[Y/N] stares at it, the unusual clarity of the liquid, and thinks about what could be in it. It wouldn't make sense to give the water first and then food if he planned on drugging them. Rolling their dry lips, they tentatively take the glass. Oda's eyes brighten – Not like holiday lights, but a dismal shed lightbulb – They're a shade of blue they find distracting, and they avert their gaze to the soft tremble of the water now that it was under their breath.
With a light sip meant to avoid taking lethal doses of whatever he may have put in the water, they find instinct begging them to finish the glass. They don't remember the last time they had water this delicious, so they ignore the caution and tip their head back to drink every last drop. Oda blinks a few times at the desperate sight of them licking the remainder drops, "Would you like another?"
"Yes." Oda hums, taking the glass from them again and leaving the room for a moment.
[Y/N] holds the covers under them, feeling the sluggish effects of dehydration slowly leave them. They slapped their lips, swallowed their dry throat, and grazed the surfaces of their tongue with their teeth. Was this heaven? Did they die in the rainstorm and go up above?
If that's the case, then the smell from the plate beside them will not cause any harm at all. Their stomach pains, aching for the food, and they give in, grabbing the paper plate and pulling it onto the bed as if they were a desperate animal before picking apart the crumbly brownish layer on what seems to be meat – Not a meat they've ever seen, and it's freakishly smooth, but their starvation wasn't particularly picky. They nibbled on it first, to taste, then by the time Oda came back, had finished them all.
"You finished the chicken nuggets already." He states simply, though his tone comes off as strangely fond. Not a tone they're used to. Oda seats himself back in his chair and then puts the glass on the bedside table. Within seconds, it's swiped by the child and gulped down.
"[Y/N]," The man starts, almost knocking the bliss from the orphan with its abruptness and how shocking it is to hear their name, "When you receive something from someone, say, food or a favour, you say thank you to show gratefulness."
[Y/N] simply stares. Oda hoped he didn't come off as strict, but if he was to take in the kid, he should probably apply some kind of authority. The last thing he wants is a rabid child. [Y/N] looks at the empty glass in their hands, their domestic alien language of manners ringing through their head, and raspily speaks, "Why?"
Oda tilts his head, humming, "It's a kind gesture. Humanity expects manners to convey respect. You're not an animal." You're not an animal. [Y/N] furrows their brow, "Stupid." Oda doesn't quite know what to say in response, fiddling with his hands, "I guess so."
...
"...Thank you." Their raspy voice almost makes Oda's heart stop in his chest with surprise. The shock eases into reassurance that this might not be horrifically difficult, and he lets out a breath of relief.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
A bath.
The child sat in the water, alone in the plain room, and glanced at the small duck the stranger had given them. They squeezed on the hollow object, lips moving rigidly at the squeaky noise. Their lips felt tight with the motion, the skin pulling apart enough to create cuts in the skin, yet they disregarded it as a warmth built in their chest. They felt light.
A splash of water fell on their hand, but it didn't come from the showerhead above them. It had stopped giving water for a while now. The water was beginning to chill at their feet.
A tear. The drop drifted down the curve of their thumb, then to the toy underneath it, and then into the water. A broken and forgotten sound fell from their lips, and they didn't know what to make of it.
They like the stranger.
[Y/N] left the bath once their fingers began to prune, and had to prevent themselves from slipping by clutching desperately to anything possible, unaware of how one would move when wet. They held the side of the tub with slippy feet, crouched and grabbed a towel. The entire process was new, and the child didn't want to get too used to it.
What if the man is taken away? Their ability is valuable — the black-haired boy from the slums explained that. Then men in suits, armed with guns, could get him, and then them.
Such thoughts drifted to the back of their mind as they stared at the pile of clothes given, finding them much cleaner than the ones they were used to. They were grabbed last minute from the closest charity shop, explaining the random assortments of sizes and patterns, but [Y/N] wouldn't know or care. Receiving a gift was already telling enough for them that they were in the presence of a saint.
A tag hung from the backs, the plastic having unreadable writing and unrecognisable brands. Their clumsy fingers attempted to pry them from the clothing, finding it a struggle, and then they began using their jagged teeth. With an affirmative snap, they held the plain shirt up. The sleeves were short.
[Y/N] was used to covering up to avoid being cooked alive during Japan's summers, for as much as the sweat would stick to them, the sunburns were always painful. Their eyes drifted to where scars dipped inward and morphed the skin as bullets, knives, and stray dogs had skimmed past them. But it was given to them, and a gift is so rare that even despite the discomfort, it would be unthinkable to turn it down. Plus, they're determined to avoid making the man awkward by refusing. It would be illogical to place themself over him.
Dressed in plain blue shirts which ended at their knees and the simple shorts which had miraculously fit, [Y/N] slunk into the kitchen. Their walk was a slight limp, though well hidden, and their feet were light as if floating on the floor. The only reason Oda could anticipate their appearance was because of his ability, which was conveniently activated before the orphan could step foot in the room. His surprise otherwise would have caused him to spill the grease he was disposing of over an open flame on the stove.
Oda went about turning off the stove before pouring the grease away, then tapped the ash of his cig into the mug he'd allocated as a temporary ashtray. He'd been meaning to get a new one for about a year now. Maybe he should stop calling it temporary. [Y/N] had sat at the small table by the narrow window, mindlessly examining the fabric of the curtains and pulling at the frayed ends. The domestic sight of seeing Oda going about his hazardous activities in the kitchen ignited anxiety, hence the pointless pulling.
"How was your bath?" Oda nearly winced at his odd conversation starter, but he had no clue what a kid would even want to talk about. [Y/N], distracted from the destruction of the curtain, mumbled, "I smell nice." He wanted to agree, but given the horrific stench of sweat, blood, rain and mud which presumably would have clung to them for however long they were in the slums, he found agreeing difficult for the plain reason of how that response could be interpreted. He didn't want to offend the kid's situation. So he resigned for awkwardly making coffee and clearing his throat instead.
[Y/N] was the one to break that quiet, which was a first, "Why am I here?" The initial excitement of having them engage in conversation quickly died. Oda stirred milk into his coffee, leaning to one side, "I said already. I found you in the rain, passed out and alone, and you had scraped up hands and knees."
Oda didn't want to come off as some saint or prideful saviour, because that's not why he'd taken them home. He'd delayed their stay here by several hours as he searched for anyone who knew them, someone to take them in from the elements or at least put them in a form of shelter — Most shut the door upon seeing the kid's face.
It was a sorry sight, the rain coming down like it was foreboding a tsunami as he went in circles around the dilapidated city, a kid unconscious over his shoulder as he asked anyone he passed. It was either he found someone, or he left them there. They were the two original intentions. Sure, it would stick in his mind for the remainder of the day that he'd left the poor thing in the middle of a damp path, soaked with rain and blood, and exposed to not only the elements but people. Especially after all that effort, knowing they had no one, that would probably strike something within him. But he found that he couldn't leave them there.
Oda had placed them against the building, rain still coming down, propping them up as one would with a doll, hoping that a couple of adjustments he made to their cold limbs would settle his mind enough for him to turn the other way and continue with his day. He had to be up for work tomorrow, and delivering papers at the crack of dawn with this on his mind would surely be difficult. But as he stood up and stepped back, he was suddenly locked in place with hesitation. Oda stared at their face, so devoid of anything, their sorry state nestled under a tarp and between two buildings, out of sight from anyone that may have ulterior motives with a child. He remembers how their limbs felt in his hands, like picking out a bird's hollow bones from a muddy puddle. Those details were quiet in comparison to the knowledge that this nameless child had nothing. They had no belongings, virtually nowhere to go, no one to rely on, and presumably nothing to live for but to eat another wretched meal from these pits. How would they acquire that money, he wondered as he stared, eventually landing on the answer he'd once resorted to. Crime.
Oda's fingers twitched in his pockets, the ex-assassin's face betraying nothing. In front of him, lifelessly propped against the brick of a run-down bed and breakfast, sat himself.
That man with a moustache, the one he can't remember the name of despite how much he digs, had given him direction. As a postman, Oda Sakunosuke was free of his past life, the only remnants being his cursed mind, and would become a person worthy of writing other lives. How can he write of life if he leaves the one in front of him, his own, to die? He would be making fictional ones in lieu of forgetting a real one.
So Oda threw the orphan back over his shoulder and made his way out of the slums, to his humble home, and mulled over calling in sick.
Back to the present moment, Oda watched the steam rise from his coffee, taking a tentative sip. [Y/N] squints at the table in front of them, "So you took me? For what? Do you deliver packages? Do I get a job?" Their string of words rasped their way into his heart, withering, and he shook his head, "You just get to be a kid, playing n' stuff."
[Y/N] couldn't understand. How, after seven years, was their luck working only now? It worked so well and so immediately for others, whether positive or negative and while uncontrollable, it was still present. But that begged the question of why it wasn't them who got the somewhat good jobs in the shops. They'd get more money doing that than penny scraping from occasional shadier jobs forced onto them by adults and stealing. The only luck they'd gotten was having assaulters suddenly die or coming across food when at the very end of starvation. Was it all leading up to Oda?
Perhaps too quickly, the hopeless soul latched onto that very idea, brightening considerably after some thought, and grinned. Their missing baby teeth whistled, and the yellowish tone of poor dental hygiene glinted with their smile. Where others would have hidden from the sight of the unnatural thing or mocked it, Oda let out a small chuckle, only encouraging it to grow.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
"What were you doing when I found you, [Y/N]?" Oda asked, half preoccupied with rolling papers as he flipped mindlessly through a catalogue of kid's toys. He'd decided he wouldn't smoke in front of them, as they were a kid, and while they've probably seen much worse, he'd rather not encourage his costly habit. The catalogue was purely for curiosity's sake. He'd already picked up on the fact that [Y/N] did not exactly fit into their age group, not in the slightest. From the delayed development of their body to the matured mind through their circumstances, it was difficult to say what they might enjoy.
[Y/N] was picking through an array of dandelions from the garden, blowing the seeds in the direction of the kitchen table as they sat across from him. The yellow ones were being put into different mugs of water. The afternoon sun of the day after being taken was settling through the narrow, water-stained window, making the sight less messy and more charming.
After much thought, [Y/N]'s hoarse voice disturbed the quiet, "I ran from the middle of Suribachi City, around the middle of the crater, because a group of drunk adults beat and killed the kids I was stealing from." Oda listened, stopping his flipping and rolling to urge their story. The child blew on a dandelion, only half the seeds falling to the table, "It started raining as I got farther out, and I kept going, 'cause there's more food the further you get out and towards the city's ports." Oda hummed, "And you passed out from exhaustion or something like that, just before I'd found you." [Y/N] shrugs, that being their guess, too.
That did not help Oda decide whether [Y/N] would want to play with the paint set or the football. He decided to take up the colourful catalogue and show the two images to them, "Which do you like better?"
[Y/N] blinks, face ever blank as they stare between where Oda is pointing, largely indifferent to what is on the page due to obliviousness. They'd played with a football before but preferred their games of hitting drunk people with pebbles until they noticed or cornering rats to pick them up and drop them on people's heads from the vantage of the shabby gutters. The paints, however, were new, and for that lone reason, they pointed to the mini picture of the tubes and brushes.
Oda observes the choice, then nods, taking out his wallet, "I'll put aside something to get it then." [Y/N]'s eyes were wide as saucers at both the declaration and the sight of his money. Oda was by no means affluent. He lived off of his wages, his savings going towards simple luxuries like books or the slightly more expensive coffee and cigarette brands, maybe even a trip to Lupin now and then. But seeing money carelessly pulled and placed away, promised for someone else's benefit, was entirely foreign to [Y/N], so much so that they gave a small laugh. Oda responded merely by continuing to label the temporary piggy bank '[Y/N]'s Paints.' – It was on a mug and likely never going to be replaced by an actual piggy bank.
The timer near the oven gave a sudden ding, turned off before [Y/N] could freak out over the noise and knock the dandelions over into puddles of glass. Oda pulled the food out, tipped it onto plates, and served it to [Y/N]. He first had to move the cloud of seeds formed in front of them, but they eventually got their food, and it was wolfed down at a pace that satisfied him enough to eat his own.
[Y/N] said their thanks, a new habit for them, and proceeded with gathering the yellow dandelions at the stem and tying them by the thread they'd pulled from the curtain, wrapping it tightly multiple times until it was thick enough to hold the flowers together. The amateur bouquet was placed back in its water and left on the table for the foreseeable future. The seeds on the table were played with until thrown in the bin out of boredom.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
The night sky was buried in a window with too much in front of the abyss. [Y/N] couldn't care for the void's call less, and settled into what they'd found out was Oda's bed. He'd decided to also begin saving for a comfier couch. The bed wrinkles under them, and they sink into the comfortable sheets, waving their limbs in the space between all the blankets just to feel the softness sink onto them again.
Their mind is restless with glee. They find it bothering to utter that this was the first time they seemed to have ever felt this way, both for them and anyone around them who would care to listen, as the only thing they could expect in response was pity – This was to be celebrated alone. They were experiencing life for the first time. It was impossible to care before, that life was that way, as they knew no other.
Little [Y/N] found themselves faced with a before and after, this being after, and the before would be so difficult to return to that they decided not to think about it at all. They think, a little smile tugging up their lips which have grown less cracked, that their ability has finally worked on themselves.
The smile paused, entire body freezing at the thought of their ability. They recognise a tipping feeling under their feet.
Adrenaline shot through the child, and they ran from the bed.
The kitchen lamp was on, and Oda was smoking near the comfort of his A/C, caught off guard at the sudden appearance of the small child nearly slipping on their socks around the corner.
He immediately discerns the impromptu burst of activity as [Y/N] recognises their ability hasn't killed him yet. They were just in time as purple sprung from them.
Wide eyes observe him in panic, and Oda stays in his wavering place. A few seconds pass.
Their chest empties.
Oda moves around the counter to their fatigued figure. "Are you alright? What was that, [Y/N]?" With a sudden humiliation at the act, [Y/N] steps back towards the wall and shakes their head, "Nothing." Oda watches, quiet, before taking another step forward and showing his hands as if he were dealing with a scared animal, "That was an ability. I know of them, I have one myself," He keeps his tone soft, and he's inwardly confused at his actions as he went along with whatever worked, which he found this did, "Was there cause for concern, [Y/N]? You're panicked."
[Y/N] peers up at Oda, hesitant, before seeing the worry in his eyes. It was strange, but seeing those blue seas hidden in his eyes before dim was too much to bear, and they spilt before they could think, "No, no, well, yeah, kind of. It's not happened in a while, but my ability kills sometimes. To..." They swallow, "It's To Conduct the Singing Misfortune. I dunno how it works."
"I see. If I had to guess, I'd say the chances of me, one of eight billion, dying are low. It only happened in front of you because you were in danger, probably." Using logic to soothe their worries wasn't what a child needed, and after some thought, Oda elaborated, "You can't hurt me, [Y/N]." The child blinks, hands clasped together anxiously, and he continues, "I'm your family now, [Y/N]. I'm not going anyway, alright?"
"..." [Y/N] stares at his honesty, astounded for a little while, and steps forward again. Oda watched them slowly crawl back out of their shell, seeing their eyes flit back and forth, and decided to lift his hand. He's slow, mindful of how their eyes track him, and eventually lands it on the top of their head with an almost non-existent touch before ruffling the locks a few times, "You're alright."
[Y/N], meanwhile, is utterly shocked. No amount of blinking made it any easier to process the kindness, and so they swallowed, accepting his odd petting and suppressing a few flinches, "...Thank you, Oda."
The slight smile stopped, shifting in confusion, "It's no problem [Y/N], but uh, It feels a bit... odd to be called that by family." They stared blankly back at him, thinking of names that instead suited his position. Does he perhaps mean to imply becoming their father? The very idea of attaching to someone sent a spout of dread through them, and they debated before drawing the line at an edge leading to a cliff, "Sakunosuke." The man chuckled, and they assumed it was the way they'd said it, but he was warm and supportive.