To conduct the singing misfortune [Dazai and Reader]

Dandelions

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."