dazai making up a whole language with fyodor that no one else can understand is amazing but imagine him using codes that, very objectively speaking, you could crack, it's just that no normal person would ever make the insane leaps in logic that it requires. except for someone familiar with dazai's weird thinking patterns, that is.
i just love the idea of dazai's unhinged antics being dialed up to an eleven when he was in the port mafia, and oda being the only one who simply wouldn't bat an eye at it but chuuya was the only one who would actually get it.
like imagine ango at the end of the jailbreak, his boss saying he should allow himself to sigh and lean back and maybe indulge himself, pat him on the shoulder, tell him what he pulled off reading heart rates wasn't easy and he should be proud for being able to keep up with such a plan
but ango i-drank-with-teenage-dazai-and-also-had-the-records-for-every-soukoku-mission sakaguchi can only remember the time dazai was like using greek sign language through his breathing patterns to communicate from a submarine from beneath the pacific ocean or something, and chuuya could not fathom how no one else could understand him.
and that was the day mori signed off on skk being exclusive partners because every subordinate in the room was crying tears of blood by the time chuuya finished explaining which blood pressure level was warning them about a bomb, which blinking sequence was him conveying the vault password and which series of inhales was just him calling mori a bitch.
(ango also pointedly did not want to think about how smug dazai had looked after the mission when mori confirmed skk would only be each others' partners for efficiency and to maintain everyone else's sanity
or about how when he called chuuya to tell him about dazai's prison break scheme he could only get like 3 out of 276 steps into the plan before chuuya rolled his eyes, said "got it" then hung up and pulled the whole thing off without a hitch.)
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Eddie walks in on you crying and he is immediately dropping to his knees.
Maybe you'd try to hide it. You don't like to show intense emotion like that, especially not in front of other people. Maybe it's been building for a long time and you just break without warning.
You're sitting at your desk with your face tucked into your shirt, tears streaming, hiccuping gasps, mouth contorted in a silent sob. Willing it to stop, to get back in control, for the sorrow to remove it's claws from your chest and let you breathe again.
Eddie edges the door open with his foot, about to bust in and shower you with affection, but the moment he sees you, hears your small cries, everything stops. He's across the room and to your side in 3 long-legged steps, dropping to his knees with his hands hovering, torn between wanting to grab you and tuck you into him and wanting to respect any space you need.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong? Are you hurt?" His concern just makes you cry harder, hiding further into the neck of your shirt, back bending as you try to curl in on yourself. Eddie's heart breaks, his hands curling into tight fists as he battles his own indecision on what to do. "Baby, please talk to me. Can I hold you? Please."
Despite everything in your brain just wanting to be alone, to suffer in silence, to not show this side of yourself -- your heart wins out. You drop the curtain of cotton hiding your ruddy and wet face from him and reach out like a child. It makes you feel like one. But Eddie doesn't hesitate. He drags you out of your chair and onto the floor with him, tucking as much of yourself into him as he can. Arms wrapped around, thighs under yours, shaggy hair making a new curtain to protect your vulnerability from anyone other than him.
He covers you with warmth and care like a fiberglass blanket over a fracturing fire and it breaks you to pieces. Sorrow for yourself, for how you're feeling, for how hard it is to accept this comfort, for how much it means to you to finally have it now. For how willingly and readily Eddie was prepared to give it.
He holds you as you cry, whispering sweet things into your hairline like, "It's gonna be okay, baby, I've got you. I'm here." Rubs your back in little circles, presses his fingertips tighter when you cry out louder as the waves crash over you. He keeps holding you as your crying starts to die down into little sniffles, as your breathing evens out. He doesn't let go until you start to pull away, and even then it's with reluctance.
The moment he can see your face again he's cupping it in his big palms, eyes searching yours to see if he can find what is hurting you, slay the dragon that made you feel this way. When you just shakily smile, sniffling again, he presses a kiss to each cheek, to each eyelid, to the tip of your runny nose, to the center of your forehead. And then he drags you into his arms again.
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