#sache writes

Oda poured a round of shot. “You want a drink?” He asked.

Stretching languorously on the bed, he turned to face Oda, standing in the dark room and bare to his eyes. “I’d rather for us to fuck again,” Fyodor replied.

Oda rolled his eyes. “How about you fuck yourself and I watch?”

“Good idea,” he agreed, but he stood up instead, walking towards Oda and snatched his drink. “Vodka? How romantic,” he said drily.

“Don’t drink it if you don’t want it.” Oda took another glass shot and poured one for him. “They don’t have sake here.”

“I’m not complaining.” Fyodor sat on the table, still feeling a deep ache inside himself and considering—

“I’m going back tomorrow.”

“I know.” It wasn’t something up for negotiation. They had their duties, after all. Oda, as an assassin for hire, and him for the Rats. Fucking six ways to Sunday everytime they met was just a convenience for both of them.

Regardless of feelings involved.

Lips pursed, Oda stared at him. There was a weight in his gaze and it made Fyodor felt bare and vulnerable despite the fact that physical nakedness wouldn’t affect him. It was as if Oda could see him.

“I—” Oda paused. “We’ll meet again soon.”

There was no such thing as hope, but Fyodor somehow looked forward to it.

“You stopped working as an assassin,” he raised an eyebrow.

“I want to be a writer,” Oda said, lying on the bed naked beside him. Relaxed, as if he hadn’t just dropped a huge surprise on Fyodor’s lap. “A murderer has no right to be a writer, so I have to stop.”

“That’s a rather naive way of thinking.”

“I’m still doing it.”

“And you’re adopting orphans now?”

That got him a smile. “They’re great kids,” Oda said. “Kousuke, Katsumi, Yuu, Shinji, and Sakura—the only girl. You—” he paused, looking at Fyodor with an intensity that Fyodor knew what he was going to say. “You should meet them.”

Perhaps he should have expected it. Still, it caught him off guard that Oda asked him to meet his children.

It made this thing between them for several years to be more real. That perhaps it wasn’t just sex, that there was something else Fyodor could look forward to.

“I’d love to,” he said, honest.

Oda smiled.

He never got to meet them in the end.

Oda’s adopted children—whom he never met before yet he looked forward too—were dead.

And Oda, died—somehow taking his heart along the way. A heart, that he never thought that he had one until it was gone. Oda was an assassin, taking out a heart was what he was great at—dead or alive.

Never thought it was possible to lose something that he never had either, yet—

The pain was still there. Reading the reports and the rumors of the book and he thought of changing the course of events, of trying to keep him alive—and taking back his lost heart, but most of all he wanted to eradicate all abilities. Without abilities, perhaps Oda wouldn’t be killed. He would have lived his life normally, be a writer he always wanted to be. Perhaps they could sit together in the dreary cold night, writing the words on a piece of paper.