Oda Sakunosuke

Oda in crumb mode with Ango is an almost pathetic, yet painfully tender image. No matter how busy Ango is, Oda always finds an excuse to seek him out. He follows him with his eyes like a loyal puppy, and as soon as he hears his voice, his whole face softens. It doesn't take much—a glance, a "hello"—for his whole soul to overflow.

“Have you eaten yet, Ango?” "Do you want me to come with you? I won't bother you, I promise to stay quiet..." “Can I see you tomorrow too…? Or, well, if you can’t, that’s fine… But… maybe the day after…”

He calls him with any absurd excuse: asking if he left a book behind, dreaming about it, wondering if he keeps warm at night. And if Ango doesn't answer a message, Oda rereads it a thousand times, wondering if he said something wrong. He doesn't say it, but you can feel it in his silence when he looks at him with a mixture of guilt and hope.

When he's with him, Oda sits closer than necessary. He listens to him speak as if every word were a gift. He laughs even at his bad jokes, holding Ango's gaze until he gets uncomfortable. If Ango scolds him or ignores him, Oda shrinks back a little, but never leaves. He stays there, with a sad half-smile, saying, "It's okay, as long as you're okay... I'm okay too."

And if Ango ever hugs him first, even by accident, Oda freezes, as if that alone were enough to live for weeks on end.

“You don’t have to love me… just let me stay a little longer.”

That's Oda, crumbler: someone who loves without measure, even if he receives almost nothing in return.

Oda, in crumb mode with Ango, is a patient tenderness incarnated. He isn't effusive, but he makes up for it with a silent devotion that's cloyingly constant: he straightens his collar without saying a word, serves him coffee just the way he likes it without him even asking, and treasures every movie ticket or napkin they shared as if they were relics.

Ango receives a message in the middle of the afternoon: “Have you eaten yet?” Then another: “I thought of you when I saw this book.” And finally a photo: the spine of the book in question with a note: “I bought it for you.”

When Ango is tired, Oda doesn't pester him; he just offers his lap as a pillow, strokes his hair without a word, and stays there until the other falls asleep. If Ango complains about work, Oda listens with disarming calm, and eventually says something simple like, "Let me take care of you today."

He speaks softly, as if the words were sweet crumbs he drops so Ango always knows the way home. Because deep down, for Oda, Ango means home.

Oda is a man, just like Ango. They are both gay.

Odasaku said nothing. Not a word as he watched Ango talking with the official. He just watched from the shadows, hands in his pockets, lips pursed. It wasn't irrational. He knew Ango didn't belong to him. That no one belonged to anyone.

But still… it hurt.

It hurt to see Ango laughing with another man. How his expressions relaxed, how that man looked at him as if he'd already conquered a piece of him.

That night, Oda barely ate dinner. He sat next to Ango, quieter than usual. He didn't snuggle up to him. He didn't touch him.

When Ango asked him what was wrong, he just looked down and muttered:

—Sometimes I think someone better could make you happier.

And then he smiled, sadly. Because yes, Oda knew how to fight, he knew how to kill. But he didn't know how not to feel small when someone else made Ango shine.

Oda leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. His eyes, fixed on the man who kept talking to Ango, showed no emotion. But his body was tense. Too tense. When Ango returned to his side, Oda didn't greet him. He just looked at him. And he said in a low, firm voice:

—I didn't like the way that guy looked at you.

Ango raised an eyebrow, surprised. -What are you taking about?

Oda took a step forward, closing all the distance. He cupped her chin with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity of his eyes.

—I'm only going to say it once. You're mine, Ango. I don't care if it was just a conversation. I don't want to see him near you again. I don't care who he is.

The tone wasn't violent. It was definitive. Like an order spoken with the calmness of someone prepared for anything.

And then, as if nothing had happened, he gently adjusted her glasses.

—I don't like competing for what I already have.

Oda laughed softly when Ango told him how nice his new colleague was. A small, dry laugh that didn't reach his eyes.

He didn't say anything for a while, just listened intently, his hands absentmindedly stroking the back of Ango's hand.

But when Ango finished

He wasn't the type to make a scene. Oda would never raise his voice. But when he saw that man—too close, too smiling, too delighted with every word Ango said—something in his chest tightened. It wasn't anger… it was something else. As if a shadow had settled behind his eyes.

He stood to one side, watching. Ango was laughing, as polite as ever, in that polite tone he used with everyone. But Oda knew him. He knew that twinkle in his eyes was real. And he didn't like it.

When they were finally alone, he didn't say anything at first. He just leaned closer, as always, silent. But this time, as he wrapped his arms around Ango's waist, his arms tightened. He pressed him against his chest, openly.

"Does that man always look at you like that?" he asked in a low voice, with no hint of joking.

Ango blinked, surprised. —What man? Yoshikawa? He's just a Ministry contact…

—He looks at you as if he already knew you naked.

Ango blushed. -Ode…

"I don't like it." Oda buried his face in Ango's neck, his voice almost hoarse. "I don't like someone else imagining what only I can have."

He said it without anger. He said it like someone making a promise.

His hands slid down Ango's back, intertwining behind his waist. He had him wrapped around him, firm, with no escape.

"I love you, Ango. I don't like sharing even your smiles. And it's not that I don't trust you"—her eyes rose to meet his—"It's just that I get a little wild when it comes to you."

And then she kissed him, slowly, deeply, as if she wanted to leave her name written on his lips. Not violently, but with a need so delicate it hurt.

Then he simply added: —Next time someone looks at you like that, look at me instead. Just me.

Odasaku crumb with Ango

Odasaku wasn't a man of many words, but with Ango... it seemed like every silence he spoke took the form of a caress. He looked at him like someone contemplating a sunset he never wanted to end. It didn't matter if Ango was reading a report or talking on the phone: Oda always found a way to be close, to pass him a cup of hot tea, his fingers gently brushing against his, or to whisper a shy, "Don't work so hard, okay?" in his ear, as if the world were a kinder place when Ango smiled.

At home, Oda became an expert at small gestures: he would tenderly adjust his glasses when they slipped, tuck him in wordlessly if he fell asleep on the couch, and leave handwritten notes between the pages of his books—some that simply said "I love you," others had clumsy drawings of a cat and an owl hugging.

Sometimes, when Ango was especially tired, Oda would simply hug him from behind, without asking, his head resting on his shoulder, his soft voice murmuring things like, "I like you better when you let me take care of you." He was patient, sweet, and had that way of pampering that doesn't suffocate, but surrounds, shelters, like a warm blanket in winter.

And even though Ango protested with a “you don’t need to spoil me so much,” Oda responded with a calm smile: —I know. But I want to. I always want to take care of you a little more.

Because for Odasaku, loving Ango was just that: making sure that she never lacked warmth, tea, or shared silences where everything was right.

(This will be later, when they are treating each other better and Ango knows he is alive.)

🥖 Oda Sakunosuke – “Crumb”

Full name: Oda Sakunosuke Alias: Odasaku, “crumb” Age: ~30 years Status: Officially dead. In reality, he lives hidden, untouched, like a breathing ghost.

✨ Personality

Silent, steady, melancholy tender. He has the kind of sadness that doesn't make a sound, but sticks to your bones. He observes more than he speaks. He doesn't want to save the world, only to avoid destroying it further. Sometimes it seems like he's given up, but he's still alive. That's his little rebellion.

❤️ Likes

Cheap detective novels, bent at the edges.

The smell of old ink.

The places where no one screams.

Sharing a simple meal.

The early mornings when the world is silent.

Listen to beloved voices from a distance.

The touch of a warm hand, even if it is only in memory.

Ango, when he's not lying.

Dazai, when he's not running away.

🖤 ​​Dislikes

Betrayals that are justified by "what's right."

The senseless deaths.

Goodbyes disguised as silence.

People who pretend not to see.

The pain that serves no purpose.

When Ango avoids his name.

When Dazai looks down and doesn't speak.

🕯️ The most precious thing to him

Ang: An open wound. A living memory. The most precious thing isn't always the healthiest. He keeps it inside like a hot stone he can't let go of. Alone, that's where he needs it most. When the world falls silent, he begs it (in a broken voice, barely a whisper) that it hasn't forgotten him. That it hasn't changed him. That it will come back. He's not looking for forgiveness or justice. He just wants Ango to look at him the way he used to. Sometimes she thinks she'd die if she saw him cry. Or if she saw him smile, for the last time.

Dazai: Your partner and friend.