Neither happiness nor unhappiness.

“My assumption is that those who plucked us from our dimension chose food that was familiar to us,” Rohan sets the plate on the counter and folds his arms, watching Dazai rifle through the fridge. “But I thought the same thing as you– I hope there’s something more interesting out here.”

There’d better be. It’s a good thing to have confirmed edible food on the home front in general but when you have an ability that can determine edibility anyway, something so simple loses its charm. So frankly he is a little annoyed. 

“You are as well, I take it, with a name like that.” A classic– respectable.

“Morioh,” He doesn’t mind offering information like that, especially when it’ll help his own ends. “Though I don’t know if you’d recognize the name– our Tokyo-faring roommate didn’t.” 

“Makes sense,” he acquiesced, feeling just a little dejected. Despite his initial impression, this Rohan fellow seemed easy enough to get along with, for the time being at least. He seemed fairly quick on the uptake, which was always a good sign.

“That’s right!” He exclaimed with a flourish, smiling rather pleasantly, “I’m from Yokohama.” He supposed it didn’t matter much, anyways, considering the circumstances- he hadn’t the slightest clue when he might get to see home again. Oh well. Dazai turned his attention towards the cabinets and began inspecting those as well, although with significantly less interest.

“Can’t say that I do,” which was strange, since Dazai considered himself knowledgeable in terms of Japanese geography. Still, he didn’t think much of it- simply more evidence that they weren’t from the same worlds.

After waking up to a furious coughing fit to even catch a sliver of air, Oda immediately sat up in pain. He was conscious… right? Were his memories of Dazai only a pleasant dream to the harsh reality of where he was now? The only proof he had that it could have been true was his jacket which was nowhere to be found. He clutched his hair and teeth tightly clenched. He knew it was too good to be true.

Just then, the person that went by “Sei” tossed a jacket at him and mentioned it needing to be hung to dry. That alone provided enough information to confirm his doubts were unsound and provided instant relief for a few seconds. Sei then gave a rather long-winded essay on where they were, what happened, and where they were going. He was still recovering from the whiplash of both his body and mind, but he was able to understand enough to know what mattered most: that he wasn’t going to go home and live there. This was his home now. He gazed into the emptiness of space as they were landing. So many things happened in what felt like a short amount of time. Oda’s eyes softened as he thought about who he left behind. It was reminiscent of when he left the mafia, only this felt harder to bear.

Oda calmed his breathing and tried to think of any positives. The kids were still alive and they had more than enough food. Some were old enough to care for the others and he could still see them every now and again. He might have more time on his hands than ever to write too. His last memories were reconnecting with Dazai. He was still out there. Maybe one day they could meet again.

When he was finally off of the shuttle, Oda decided to look around to gather information for himself and frankly, after that wreck of a landing he needed somewhere quiet to relax with some food as well. There were surprisingly a few options, but the small ramen shop seemed to be the place he decided on. Upon entering, Oda took a quick look to ensure a placid nature of the restaurant before coming to a conclusive decision when somebody caught his eye.

His eyes widened in disbelief. It was an intense feeling of déjà vu. Oda didn’t even notice he was getting closer to the individual as he was desperately trying to make sure it was him. To anybody else already situated in the establishment he was probably seen as a cat preying upon its next victim with eyes locked, moving in a beeline for it. It wasn’t long before he was mere feet away, but this time he didn’t care to be seen as some idiot mistaking somebody for someone else.

“Dazai…?” Oda asked in a sharper tone to match his still shocked and confused face.

He was about halfway through a bottle of a simple junmai sake when he heard his name. Being recognized in such an unfamiliar place caught him by surprise, and his head snapped up on reflex. Dazai caught familiar yet quizzical blue eyes for a second before letting his head slump forward into his arms and groaning loudly.

“Alcohol induced hallucinations, is that it? This can’t be happening again, can it?” he lamented into his hands, his voice a touch louder than it was normally due in part to the visible flush upon his cheeks, “Ah, fate is a cruel mistress, indeed...”

He slumped in his seat, directing a gaze that was surprisingly sharp despite his inebriation back up at the man standing in front of him. He took in the other’s slightly disheveled appearance and filed it away for later (preferably sober) consideration.

“Hey, Odasaku. It isn’t very nice of you to keep doing this, you know. I missed you, but if you’re going to keep coming and going like this you might be the death of me. Not in a good way, either!”

When Dazai had first arrived, he had been confused. He’d nearly vomited on his shoes, his head spinning and unable to catch up to the rest of him. He had never experienced something quite so disorienting in his life, and he had experienced a fair number of unpleasant things. After a short briefing on his situation, Dazai hadn’t known how to feel.

That was before he’d remembered. Temporal anomalies, they’d said- Dazai was familiar with the concept, at least on the surface. It was easy to infer what had happened after he knew that much, and it confirmed his suspicions.

The Odasaku of “his” time was still dead. That was an undeniable truth that Dazai could not bend or find a way around no matter how hard he tried. The Oda Sakunosuke he had spoken to the other night (night? two nights? weeks? he had no way of knowing how much time had passed since then) had not been the one he was personally acquainted with. At the same time, he wondered how different Oda’s alternate selves could be; the one he had met had not felt any different at all.

Regardless, none of it mattered now- it had been nothing but a cruel trick of fate, giving Dazai the illusion of obtaining the one thing he could never have before ripping it from his grasp once again. Still, the knowledge that somewhere Odasaku was able to live the life he had longed for helped lessen the sting, and Dazai was able to find some semblance of peace in that.

Even if Odasaku had found his peace without him.

“…It would seem that way.”

Well there are a few commonalities between them, at least, being Japanese recluses of some garden variety or another. With the obvious out of the way, he notes Dazai’s particular energy. There’s a sort of detached quality about him that Rohan can’t quite pin down yet. Without all the pieces in place, it’s not something he makes a judgement on for now, but it becomes the lens through which Rohan views him. 

“Kishibe,” Rohan offers in return with a nod. But Dazai can probably gather that from the embroidered lettering on the chest pocket of his button-down; 露伴. Vain? Perhaps. Stylish? Of course. If Dazai was ever curious about how to write his name, be curious no longer. 

“Oh.”

Rohan looks down at the plate in his hand. What an oversight. It’s probably not good to show his hand too early– risky business for others to know about his abilities too soon. So instead he mimes picking the piece of “paper” from the drumstick and tucking it away in his pocket while he de-activates Heavens Door’s ability– that is, the ability to read the experience and qualities of living (or once-living, for a small window of time) things by turning them into books. But no one has to know that. It’s all clear now– just a normal chicken. 

Still, he feels a sense of obligation to tell the truth. A half-truth, at least. 

“The kitchen is fully stocked. I just got here myself, so I’m taking inventory. Seeing what’s expired. It’s all edible on paper, at least.” 

He looks up at Dazai. “That was a joke.” 

Indeed, Dazai takes note of the intricate embroidery on Kishibe Rohan’s clothing, and he wonders for a moment the purpose of displaying one’s own name, before filing it away as inconsequential- most likely relating to the man’s own disposition rather than serving any kind of practical use.

It was clear from the get-go that the man was an eccentric, but judging from his peculiar behavior, Dazai could discern that he was indeed hiding something. Which was just as well, really- those with secrets tended to respect the secrecy of others in turn.

Dazai “ooooh”’d at Rohan’s explanation, moving to inspect the fridge himself. He was slightly disappointed to find it full of typical nutritional staples- albeit from a brand he didn’t recognize- rather than some kind of esoteric space food he had never seen before. He sighed before closing it again and turning back to his companion.

“What’s the point of being in a space city if the food is all the same?” He complained, albeit mostly to himself.

Realizing that her focused investigation might come off as a bit rude, May eased the clock back into position. Perhaps she would buy it at another time, if it was still there.

“Help with…?” May paused at the question, the small injection of praise within his words moving past her without notice. The man had said he wasn’t from around the city, which presumably made his power within it weak. She doubted he held any position that would aid her with the financial bind she was in.

“I have found myself in need of a job,” She stated plainly. Even if he couldn’t help, it didn’t hurt to discuss it. 

For a second, the thought of describing her previous life circumstances seemed logical. It was part of the reason she was having difficulty deciding on what to pursue, after all. But then she realized that not all humans were fully aware of the Gundam Battle Nexus. Conversations like “I participated in solo battles for money in one world, and was six inches tall in the other world, so I’ve never run a cashier register before” would be a little unbelievable for some.

“My resume, if I had one, would state that I have some expertise in mechanical combat, but I’m afraid that likely doesn’t carry to any reasonable job application,” May explained, settling on a vague description. Lifelike or not, she’d have to learn a whole new skill-set to pilot anything new - the controls for Gunpla were very simplistic at times. “Otherwise I’m good at…being patient, perhaps. I came in here hoping for work, but I don’t believe they’re hiring.” 

“Job searching like this is a new concept for me. If you were to help me, I would make sure to repay you for the assistance.” With the clock now an abandoned treasure, May had no need to be in the store. “If you’re interested, we could discuss the arrangement further outside.”

Job searching, huh? Somehow this situation seemed eerily familiar. While Dazai so far knew little of the odd community he had unwillingly found himself apart of, he did consider himself rather resourceful, at least. He wasn’t an employment agent by any means- he hardly knew what one required to to have a “normal” job in the first place- but how hard could it be?

Dazai hummed in thought, bringing a hand to his chin as he nodded along to the woman’s explanation. “’Mechanical Combat’“, he echoed, “What does that entail, exactly? Are you an arms specialist, perhaps? Or do you have a general knowledge of machines?” At least she had some sort of specialized skill set, by the sound of things. He wasn’t sure what he could have done for someone who possessed no practical talents to speak of (in other words, someone like himself).

“You really considered working in a dusty old place like this?” He asked, waving a hand through the air and unsettling the layers of dust on the nearby shelves to illustrate his point, watching disdainfully as the particles floated down around him. “This certainly wouldn’t do. Consider yourself lucky that they aren’t.”

At the suggestion of exiting the cramped little store, Dazai wasted no time in agreeing, making his way through the shelves and being careful to avoid hitting his head on any of the many hanging ornaments and knickknacks. He reached the front door and held it open for the other, with an exaggerated flourish and a beaming smile.

“I’m more concerned about getting sick,” Oda responded, “You were just out there, after all.” Finishing up the drink in front of him, he continued, “But if where we’re going next is close by, I’d be fine with going.” He didn’t want Dazai to get sick, especially after meeting him for the first time in awhile.

Standing up, he takes off his jacket, resting it over his forearm and heads over to the door. He figured the least he could do was provide a makeshift umbrella, and the only thing he had was his jacket. Oda looks back at the man still preparing to leave back into the rain, “So where are we going?”

“Come on, Odasaku! You know that stuff is a myth, right? The rain can’t make you sick,” Dazai stated matter of factly, following Oda’s lead and standing as well, following him to the door. He couldn’t help but notice that the older man still had a couple of inches on him, and the realization made Dazai’s steps falter for less than a second, overcome with a strange sort of emotion that he could not identify. As if nothing had changed...

But it had. For better or for worse, it had.

It felt nice hearing such a buoyant voice that Dazai has, even if his words didn’t match the tone. He could always find a way to lighten the mood that Oda couldn’t help but smile a little.

The smirk quickly faded at the thought of how much he may have missed. Oda’s mind thought only the worst possible outcomes. He needed answers, but Dazai wasn’t going to give it all away here. Leaving was the best plan if they were to talk further.

“Of course I would like to leave, but what about outside?”

The storm outside seemed incredibly minuscule compared to the revelation that Oda Sakunosuke was indeed here and alive, something that was steadily becoming more and more real to Dazai with his every breath. It nearly terrified him- but all he did was direct an impish grin at the other man.

Oda nodded in apprehension. He remembered all too well every scar that Dazai told him about. Without thinking, he gently placed a hand on Dazai’s now exposed arm. He grazed his fingers across, feeling the textured scar tissue. There was no way somebody would be able to copy such wounds down to the detail and knew why they were there.

“…You’ve always told me your most recent encounters with death… And so candidly…” Oda looks directly at Dazai, “I recall your other arm being far worse than this… But these are much older… They were still healing when we first met. I noticed the bloody bandages and I asked you what had happened. You told me that you managed to get a hold of a straight edge razor and ‘tested to see how sharp it really was.’“

Oda let out a sigh. He left a close companion for his own selfish gain at a peaceful life. Did Dazai have anymore scars that he didn’t know about?

Lightly grabbing Dazai’s wrist as a gentle support, Oda took his free hand and carefully re-wrapped the scars using the worn down bandages. Once finished, he interposed the others hand between his.

“I should apologize to you for leaving the Port Mafia without saying anything to you.”

Odasaku was right, of course, and Dazai could only watch silently as he wound the bandages back around his wrist, unsure how to feel with his suspicions confirmed. He wished it were simple enough for him to feel joy at the sight of his dear friend, breathing and speaking and alive, yet all Dazai felt was a heavy sense of foreboding- as if he were waiting for the other shoe to drop, and for Oda to be wrenched from his life once more. It couldn’t be that simple- nothing ever was. Distantly, he observed his own bandaged hand between both of Oda’s slightly larger ones, noting their warmth and attempting to commit the sensation to memory before he inevitably lost it all again.

“Apologize?” Dazai repeated breathlessly, finally looking up to meet the other’s gaze, “Yes, you should apologize for letting me assume you've been dead all these years, O-da-sa-ku.”

It most likely wasn’t his own fault- Odasaku didn’t seem to have a single scheming bone in his body- but Dazai was feeling petty, all things considered. Besides, he couldn’t tell the other man that he probably had much, much more to apologize for- at least not yet.

“You’ve missed a lot, you know...” Dazai trailed off to glance pointedly around the establishment at the other patrons, “How do you feel about getting out of here?”

Maybe not quite as empty as you’d think. Trick of the viewing angle. 

From just behind the wall to the kitchen, a man with an eccentric side-swept hairstyle (which here feels like an understatement) peeks his head out. And he doesn’t exactly look happy. “Put-upon” is probably the best phrase for that stern, tightly-drawn expression he’s wearing, like Dazai has somehow inconvenienced him. Man’s got a frown that should be etching lines into his skin but several hundred-dollar cremes and a good dermatologist have clearly put that idea to rest.

Anything below the shoulder is out of view, but you can see his hand. In it, you’re sure to see the man holding a plate with a single chicken drumstick perched atop it. There’s a small piece of paper…sticking to it? Coming out of it? Trick of the viewing angle, probably.

“Oh,” is all the man says to start, giving Dazai several conspicuous once-overs in quick succession. “There are others here now, too. Quaint.”

Dazai returned the other man’s scrutiny, although not nearly as harshly, plastering a friendly smile upon his lips despite his exhaustion. They appeared to be similar in age, if nothing else- he would be blind if he failed to notice the other’s interesting fashion choices. Well, for all he knew, that could be how everybody around here dressed.

The man’s obvious annoyance was not lost on him, either, but he opted to ignore it. “I was told this was where I could go to get some rest,” Dazai drawled, punctuating his sentence with a theatrical yawn, “Are you my roommate? I’ve never had roommates before, that’s exciting.”

Oda examined Dazai’s body language, glancing down and back up at his eyes. His aura felt defensive. Oda peered at the bourbon placed by his rested arm. Picking up with his other hand, he took a few sips to ponder. The sweet notes were all he could taste and smell. How many has he had at this point? The answer already left him for more pressing thoughts.

As much as it hurts to hear a former confidant to say those words, he had a point.

It’s been years of separation and solitude for Oda. Taking care of the kids made it difficult to ever think of visiting Yokohama. The only time he comes back and he comes into contact with Dazai? Meeting somebody he knew so intimately suddenly became more suspicious than coincidental.

Oda pointed his eyes back at Dazai, eventually giving an answer, “We’re in the same boat… How do I know who you are? I wouldn’t want to possibly give away information that enemies could use against the executive of Port Mafia.”

“Tch,” Dazai frowned, his conflicting and heightened emotions causing him something akin to anxiety and making him irate, “You approached me, in case you forgot. I was planning on sitting here in silence and maybe drinking myself to an early grave!” The volume of his voice rose as he momentarily forgot where he was, but a single pointed look from the bartender was enough to remind him. He slouched in his seat, considering his options. He could still get up and leave- but would he ever forgive himself if he did? If this man was an imposter, Dazai owed him nothing but a slow and painful demise.

But if this somehow, miraculously, did happen to be the genuine article, the Oda Sakunosuke that Dazai had anguished over for the past 5 years... Then he had to know. More than anything else, he had to know.

So be it.

He pulled his left arm from the sleeve of his jacket and pushed up the shirt sleeve, revealing the layer of bandages underneath. Slowly and meticulously, holding his arm to his chest to prevent the prying eyes of the other bar patrons, he began unwinding the bandages that covered his forearm. Once he was satisfied, he glanced up into the other man’s eyes.