Ｌ♡ＶＥ ＴＲＩＰ | odasaku x reader

THE SADNESS LINGERS WELL BEYOND INTO THE NIGHT

Odasaku stood listlessly in the warm and cozy library, not entirely sure why he was there. There was nothing to do. Or, perhaps, there were far too many things he needed to do, needed to say, needed to think, that he tricked himself into escaping into the library. Not like he had any time to read anything at the moment, but it felt nice to run his fingers tenderly across the bindings of the books, to feel the titles of the books and the authors of the books, to feel the love and mother-like care that went into creating each paragraph. Perhaps libraries like this one stopped time. Perhaps the libraries protected the books inside from the world outside, dearly holding each word close to it's shelves and making sure the dust of time wouldn't suffocate the author.

What in the world am I thinking? He furrowed his eyebrows. Insane.

Hirotsu opened the door to the library. Odasaku turned to face him.

"I'm not surprised to see you here," The elder man said, taking long strides to stand next to him. The nostalgic smell of cigarettes surrounded him, almost like an invisible aroma of a certain flower choking out the aromas of other flowers. "Planning on reading anything?"

"Nothing at the moment," He replied, staring up at the tall shelves.

Hirotsu nodded solemnly and understandingly. He seemed to understand everything. He understood how the world worked, how people thought, and understood why it had become so vile. He understood his humble and meaningless place in the world. He closed his eyes slowly. "Books, poems," He started, "Dances, compositions, art . . ." He sighed. "So meaningless."

Odasaku looked at him.

"Do artists really know what they're doing?" He wondered aloud. "Authors simply take a myriad of words and throw them together, saying they created a story, saying they created a world. But they don't really know what they wrote. They didn't create anything." Hirotsu walked gracefully past the shelves of books, as if he touched each and every one of them with his smoke. "Perhaps it simply sounded pretty at the time, but in reality, they don't mean anything together at all."

"Maybe," Odasaku replied.

"Or artists," Hirotsu continued, "Do they really know what they're drawing? They say they've created a vision for the world, or reflected their thoughts and feelings onto the canvas. However, it is merely a scratching of penciled lines, or senseless streaking of paint." His gaze lingered thoughtfully on the books before him.

"Perhaps," Odasaku said, unsure if Hirotsu wanted a different response.

"However, we're drawn to them. We love them. We find them beautiful and can't read the poem enough times, or we listen to the piece of music over and over. Why is that?"

Odasaku gave the man a concerned face. "Is everyone going through an existential crisis? First Dazai says questionable things about love and now you're-"

Hirotsu let out a laugh. "My apologies, Oda-kun. I'm old and tired. I ramble. In reality, I came here with the intention of letting you know you're going on a mission."

"Is it a solo mission?"

"Dazai-kun had been assigned this mission, but he refused, saying he simply didn't want to."

Inwardly, he sighed. Odasaku was relieved. He was still in the dark about what Dazai was upset about.

"So, as a replacement," Hirotsu said and crossed over to the door and rested his gloved hand on the golden doorknob, "This young lady will join you,"

He opened the door, and Y/n stood there, fist in the air about to knock on the door.

Odasaku and Y/n sat together on the subway. Everything outside the window was a pink and orange blur. The setting sun made everything look like it was blushing. Odasaku asked her, "How was the tour of the Port Mafia?"