Archive of Our Own

The demon Fyodor followed him home that day.

The morning after the world nearly came to an end, when the broken buildings still leaked smoke, when the sunrise many would never see burned the sky, when Osamu Dazai woke from death and once again lamented it, leaving the wreckage behind to return to a small apartment near the sea.

It had been a fun night, well worth it for the amount of planning it had taken. But still, the morning after was always laced with shadows. He couldn't see anything but empty beds, useless sorrow and disappointed ghosts. 

Frankly, there was nothing he wanted to do less than keep walking through this desolate, colorful world. The night had been dark, painful- and one of the most real things he'd felt in years. No part of him was ready to return to society after he'd bitten that apple, even if it had always been a set up.

The world that the three mourners in white had created in that tower was desolate, and silently, a battlefield of hidden hearts. It had been an extensive bet, between old friends and older enemies, all too ready to stake their claim in the fight to die, to kill each other, or let the world fall to ash.

It had been the closest thing he'd ever felt to peace, the way they all held each other wrapped up in a thousand lies. He would never let the end come that way, Dazai knew, but it had been fun to forget that for a night.

Sure, Dazai could say he'd infiltrated the enemy in order to thwart their plans, sure, Dazai knew that he had not much choice but to save the city, out of the promises he'd made to dead men. He had saved the city, after all. But to a certain extent, he knew they'd all let it play out that way, let it get that bad, let so many in the city die and pretend it was a necessary sacrifice.

It was the thrill of real danger, for him, a real death worthy of his time, the forbidden touch of someone just as cold as he. That's why he'd done it. Pretending to pretend was all he ever did. And pretending to love the two most dangerous people he knew was just the same. There was far too much sincerity in what they'd said that night, and Dazai knew none of them had ever truly been under the impression they were pretending.

But it was over. He wasn't ready for that to be over, even if they'd helped the host of it all leave them for a better place, the not-place, the place they'd all rather be.

And all the same, Dazai knew Fyodor was following him before he'd even heard footsteps, just far enough behind. There was no need for it, of course. But the unthinkable no longer felt unthinkable, after this, and sure enough, there was that slip of a thing in the shadows, bruise purple and snow white, his bloodstained beauty still dripping in the blood of those he adored.

There he was, still crawling back after stabbing him in the back, Dazai thought with a little humor.

Though Dazai had killed- Dazai had killed enough times that life no longer felt real- Fyodor was much more qualified to be called a murderer, and Dazai thought of him that way, endearingly. He knew just enough to pick apart Fyodor's soul, in return for his own.

Drunk on apples and wine, Fyodor had told him a story in Russian that last night… of a beautiful, sickly man in St. Petersburg with a heart and an axe and shaking, hesitant hands.

At one point, that was how Fyodor must have felt, just some boy with a simple, deadly weapon far too easy to swing and nerves far too shot to hold back. Maybe he didn't want to, really, maybe at first he'd only been sorry. But Fyodor's pale, thin hands were made for nothing but ending lives, and his mind was sharper than was comfortable. He'd probably just grown used to it, grown up, grown numb, grown to think of nothing but the taking of life. Be it by axe or pistol, poison, knife, or sweet, bare palms, there was nothing else, even if you stopped killing for years. It was only death.

It was what Dazai had experienced, anyway. Maybe it was different for Fyodor. But he had a feeling it really wasn't. He didn't know if he should be comforted or disgusted to know there was another one like him. But Fyodor had a purpose, a noble one, that of a scythe. Fyodor had made up his mind, at least. Dazai never would. 

Admiring the bright eyed from afar became difficult, though. Fyodor was easy to cave back into.

And Dazai walked forward with his head held high in the wreckage of Yokohama, quiet footsteps following comfortingly behind him, his mind hovering around Fyodor's gentle hands.

They could not take his soul from his blood, as they would for any other. Not like that. But Fyodor was the god of all death, not just quiet death. And they would take him. They would in time. Dazai yearned for that day.

Dazai imagined this was what religion felt like, the surging ache in his throat at the thought.

Rest. That was what he wanted, and from the way he followed, the same held true with Fyodor. After the crimes they'd committed under the excuse of a lie, the half hearted redemption at the end that pulled him away from it a second to ecstasy and reset the city in smiling disappointment. He needed rest, and Dazai found the thought of returning to the ADA and going back to acting like a human being so abhorrent that when he crossed the bridge, he didn't even think but to turn, gripping the side rail and leaping up to swing his legs over it.

He sat. It was a gracefully long way to the sea. Might feel nice.

…

There was a hand on his arm, silent, cold.

Breathing heavily, staring at nothing, Dazai felt it, the comforting, gloved hand, and his hands hovered on the top of the fence, a finger pinching the fabric of his jacket and pulling him back down.

Dazai didn't even turn around to meet Fyodor's eyes, nor would Fyodor have wanted him to in the moment. He just silently stepped down and felt the cold wind on his face, the soft assurance of dead fur against his shoulder.

Alright, his quiet sigh seemed to say, and the hand disappeared, fading away once again into the darkness. Fyodor wanted him dead anyway, so Dazai could trust him to know when would be the best time. He could wait. He could wait, it would be worth it for that glory, the worthy adversary that would either give him purpose or release from it.

For now, this was comfort enough to keep it at bay, as they still walked in silence.

They were two who had both tasted the others' blood, who had each kissed each others' wounds. Periodic lovers, situational enemies, always coming back some way or another against anyone's better judgement.

And the sun had almost lost its colorful tinge of newness by the time Dazai reached his apartment, a small, unkempt thing most convenient to the agency. He turned the key in the lock slowly, eyes darting from the door to his hand, leaving it wide open.

Birds in the distance were the only sounds, as silent footsteps followed him in, closing the door behind him after his shoes.

There had been no necessity to discuss it, though this certainly hadn't been in the plan. A thousand words were implied just in the manner neither of them spoke, tired eyes feared to meet each other but failed to let go. 

Fyodor just found himself back here, didn't he? Next to his horrid enemy, that empty eyed thing staring out at the sky through his tiny window, silent, bloody hands reaching out and taking his.

Finally, the two of them were forced to meet eyes, and they were met with a long stare of surrender. A temporary truce, perhaps, on their vows to end their lover's life. 

This was the closest either of them would get to lying down and sleeping in a skeleton's arms, so it would have to do.

It was clear that Fyodor had never so much as seen Dazai's apartment before, despite knowing everywhere Dazai had ever lived. But neither of them had slept in nearly fifty hours, and while light streamed through his windows, Dazai pulled up the covers and simply collapsed into his bed, while the demon Fyodor stood and watched. 

Dazai stared, expressionless, half lidded, up at the man, and managed a half smile, reaching out a hand.

Fyodor set his hat on Dazai's side table and climbed in delicately beside him, closing his eyes.

Under layers of blankets, thin, bony arms curled around one another.

Dazai still bled, onto those cold hands, and his bandages were loose. Fyodor shivered, feeling Dazai's fingertips against his ribs. It was comforting, in the dark, where there were no illusions. It was warm enough. They stayed.

...And Dazai woke, nearly eighteen hours later, to the sound of clashing silverware, cooking food and the smell of something sweet.

It was so confusing for a moment, as he slowly let himself float to the surface, gradually aware of the pain in his back.

He had been stabbed, and everything, so that was to be expected. But it wasn't nearly as bad, and when he reached back to feel it, it was closed. There were stitches there. The pain was muted, medicated.

Huh. That was curious.

He'd fallen asleep in his trench coat, but now he found himself in an old t-shirt and boxers, his bandages replaced. 

Dazai sat up, and he glanced down to see that he had been tucked in like a little kid. Blinking, he raised his head and stared at the door.

After some time, the man emerged from that doorway, into his small, messy kitchen, and someone else was standing in front of the stove. 

His cloak was hung on the door, his hat left on the table, and Fyodor stood there backlit by the morning sun, wearing Dazai's oversized sailor moon sweater and pink shorts, holding a pan of bubbling pancakes. It was a surprise, certainly, but Dazai enjoyed it.

There was much Dazai could say, but it was clear that the wound Shibusawa left was nowhere close to healing. Neither would say it, but it was clear why he'd stayed, clear why Dazai let him in.

There was nothing to it but desperate loneliness, really. Maybe they'd thought they were prepared to leave that place unfazed. The entire point had been for it to be one night, one lapse, one time to be reunited that wasn't supposed to count. But plans fell through.

No one had called the truce, but it hung between them, delicate, and as Dazai hung in the doorway pantsless and messy haired, Fyodor smiled.

So this was how it would be, Dazai thought, and it was honestly welcome.

Putting on a bright smile, Dazai rubbed his eyes and walked in. If Fyodor was going to stay here with him, he might as well enjoy it.

"Ooh, what's for breakfast?"

The other man tipped his head up, his smile weak, oddly genuine. Maybe it was something about the early morning that made it difficult to hide. "When was the last time you actually made food for yourself, Dazai? There's nothing in your cupboards but alcohol and convenience store food. The only thing I found was this. I hope you enjoy expired pancakes."

Fyodor scraped them off the pan and started putting them onto a plate, carefully. And Dazai watched for a bit, half asleep.

"Clearly, I'm in no position to simply go shopping around here, considering that I am a wanted felon. So I made this. Here."

His voice was flat. It was all that was there.

"Huh," Dazai responded, eyes lidded. "That's very sweet of you. Did you stitch me up too, or was that the stab wound fairy?"

Fyodor was silent. 

Perhaps it was sort of petty of him, when they were supposed to be at each other's throats, not to admit to it. But still, it went unsaid.

"I had to wash these too," he gestured at the plates, setting them down at the small table. It fit two or three, but it had only ever been set for one. Fyodor was the first one to change that, rather without invitation. Dazai didn't know how to feel about that.

"By the way, willing to tell me why you have a noose hanging up there like a ceiling decoration?" Fyodor pointed upwards. 

"Hm?" Dazai glanced upwards. "Oh, that. Yeah."

Fyodor opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

"It's quite a lot cleaner in here than when I fell asleep," Dazai noted, pointedly.

"Well, if I am to stay…" Fyodor looked up. "I would rather not live in complete squalor, saharniy ."

Dazai rolled his eyes. "Who said you had to live here? You just walked into my house, completely unannounced."

"You were the one who left the door open," Fyodor shot back easily, picking up a newspaper and crossing his legs on the seat, opening it up. "No surprise a rat got in."

"Ah. Well. Perhaps I don't mind."

For a while, the two of them sat together in subdued silence, witnessing through the window yet another sunrise. Matching shadows hung under their eyes, but the sky was one small upside to being conscious.

"It's like the day after Christmas," Dazai tipped his head, enigmatically observing. Perhaps it gave away something about his upbringing, but he'd honestly be more surprised if Fyodor hadn't known. 

"Whatever do you mean by that?" The Russian responded, regarding him with sharp violet eyes.

Dazai was still fresh from sleep, his hair curly and tangled on one side. The makeup he'd worn to their little apocalyptic outing had never been washed off, and now it appeared to have smeared, faded and streaked down his face like he was some rotting corpse, the face falling away from the bone. 

It suited him. He looked half dead. Fyodor savored that look, silently.

And Dazai shoved an entire pancake in his mouth at once, swallowing it like a snake. "It's like the day after Christmas, you know??" He gestured. "Half the decorations are still hanging up halfheartedly, and that sort of feeling hangs in the air, that emptiness that comes after it's all faded. Like, it's something you've been looking forward to for such a long time, it's the one day it's impossible to be sad, when all your dreams come true." 

Dazai twirled the fork absentmindedly, staring out with little expression. Fyodor waited for him to finish, curious as to where it was going.

The bandaged man laughed a little, listless. "But no matter if you got everything you wanted, if you had a great time or not, you're still going to find yourself disappointed when it's all finished. The presents have all been opened, the food has been eaten, the small surprises have all revealed themselves and the small amount of happiness produced from them has worn off. And you feel worse than you ever did before, blinking in the light of an ordinary day." He looked up. "That's what it feels like, right now."

It took Fyodor a second to understand what he meant, but when he did, a smile came to his face. "Do you see me as a source of thrill to seek?" Fyodor responded, across the table. "To fill your empty life?"

Dazai stuffed a second entire pancake into his mouth and put on that comical, high energy voice he used most of the time these days. "Yes, it's the only reason I ever associate with you. The adrenaline rush," he said, sarcasm dripping from it.  But the voice dropped off fast, along with his expression, back to a pathetic monotone. "It's the adrenaline rush I got from killing, when I was a kid."

"Really?"

That was something Fyodor could safely say he'd never felt. There was a certain satisfaction in it, especially towards those people who he loved dearly, but he'd never seek it out for that.

"Yes, well, I think I outgrew that. I don't know what feeling I'm chasing anymore, with these grand games. With you and Shibusawa. That was the end of it, though, and well, I got everything I wanted. But I'm back here, still feeling the same as before." He shrugged. 

"Oh, well." Fyodor looked down. "Did you honestly think it would make you happier? It's only what needed to be done. It's all over now, for the better, and you had fun while it lasted, didn't you?"

It was more for himself than it was for Dazai.

Eventually it wouldn't matter. Killing him was a blessing. He had wanted it just as much. But he was still gone now despite it.

"Hm." Dazai pouted.

Trying to keep himself calm, Fyodor returned to that poker face smirk, "Well, if you're living for the intrigue, you still have me. Don't think I won't make it as hard as possible for you." He leaned forward, gesturing around the room. "Dear, you're harboring an international terrorist who nearly destroyed the city not even two days ago. I doubt the Detective Agency next door would be very delighted to learn about that."

Dazai gave a slight smile. "Well, at this point none of them would be much surprised. They don't have very high expectations as to my morality."

"But you'll still try to thwart my evil plans for me, won't you?" Fyodor asked with a sweet smile, cocking his head.

"Of course, Fedya. I'm fairly confident cohabiting spouses are still perfectly capable of fulfilling their duties as nemeses. Expect nothing less than my best."

But there was a silence that hung in the air.

"But not right now, right?" Fyodor met his eyes, reading the brunette's mind. 

A little pained, Dazai's smile held, though it collapsed in on itself slightly. "No, not right now, please." He stared down at the empty plate sticky with syrup. Though only his right eye had lost its vision, the left seemed just as blind.

Fyodor idly watched that blank, emotionless face in front of him. Dazai was weighed down heavily, his hands clasped in his lap, slumping in the chair.

A pale, thin hand leaned over the table and reached out, carefully taking a strand of Dazai's hair behind his ear, voice a tired, kind inquiry. "But what would fulfill you right now, [Dazai] ?"

He had lapsed to their coded language, the one they'd come up with when they were both only seventeen, just mostly out of academic curiosity and as a fun bonding activity. It had grown into much more than that, though. That language was based entirely on retaining words and combining them for new meanings to fit any situation. Because of it, though, it lent itself heavily to metaphors. 

And this was Fyodor's own name for Dazai in that language, compiled of codes for a thousand other things. 

Blue moon beloved , or soulmate for the nihilist.

Dazai smiled, but it was empty. "Death?" he stated, like a question awaiting approval. 

Fyodor rested his chin on the back of his hand, sad eyes bruised with overuse. "Death, is it? So why not just step in your noose then?" He pointed upwards again, at the rope hanging there festively, dusted in cobwebs. "It looks inviting, doesn't it? A wonderful necklace, to go with your smudged eyeliner. What's stopping you, [Dazai] ? God knows it's not me."

Dazai sat in his chair, eyes wide in rare surprise. And curling up a little, overwhelming, bittersweet despair flashed across his face, over that blank, sweet thing. "Fedya, you really do know how to hurt me, don't you?"

"Yes," he responded, with no hesitation. "I do. But the question still stands. You're a resourceful man. Why, then, do you still walk the earth?"

Dazai hung there, his shoulders pulled up in defense, hair falling over his eyes. "Why don't you tell me then, if you're so smart? Why don't you kill me if you want me dead so badly?"

Content to play this game, this cat and mouse of daring each other, Fyodor cleared his breakfast and placed it in the sink, turning and regarding him. "I am , Dazai. If it is found that I entered your house, cooked you breakfast, and convinced you to kill yourself right in front of me in recordbreaking time, I have, all things considered, murdered you. I think it would be glorious. To catch you here, of all places, after all you've survived." He continued to walk around the room, clearing Dazai's plate while he stared silently. "Such an unflappable man, reduced to that in minutes?" Fyodor met his eye, with a smirk. "Wouldn't that be the greatest irony?"

Dazai did not respond.

"Of course, I know I could take any life with force, but it's more refined to convince someone to do it themself, wouldn't you say? It's kinder."

For a long time, there was nothing.

"...Get my stepladder for me, won't you? It's tucked over there where all the thingies are."

"Of course."

Fyodor quietly walked over and picked it up, setting it in front of Dazai's feet. "Here, love. Go ahead."

With a miserable, sardonic smile, Dazai's eyes flicked to that noose waiting above.

And he stood, reaching up and climbing. "Yes, it would be a fitting demise, wouldn't it? I'd be quite a fool to take the bait, wouldn't I?"

"Yes, you would. But when have you been anything else.?"

Dazai giggled, his lips shut tight, and took hold of the noose, sliding pale thin fingers around rough rope. On the chair, he stood on skeleton thin legs, above Fyodor.

Death's violet eyes were warm, inviting, the sweet, sharp edge of a knife, the small smile of the reaper, waiting patiently.

Hesitating there, Dazai grimaced, shivering, pulling his head through the hole, hand on the knot, tugging it a little.

"Like this?" he licked his lips, swallowing, half joking, half not.

"Well, you're halfway there. You see, in order to die, you have to let go."

"Would it make you happy?"

"Very."

Fyodor said this with all the conviction in the world, or he tried to.

If Dazai were really to drop dead, it would only make his life easier. There were other lovers to be had, there was Nikolai to cling to him, and plenty of others who would be just as happy to take his life or hold him tight. 

Dazai's final death would be the greatest thing to watch, in the end, it would be the best thing to do for him. He would be kind to Dazai's corpse, he could become part of the ashes and bones he carried around like Shibusawa had been. He could bring him home to the snow and lay him to rest somewhere he could be happy, far away from here. 

A dead lover was a perfect lover. There were no complications, no arguments or weakness, no guilt for the death of someone who'd deserved and craved it. But truly, did Fyodor believe he could be happy like that?

No, but he could pretend, just like with Shibusawa.

Dazai took Fyodor's smile as permission. Maybe it was just to prove himself to the demon, but…

Fast enough that he couldn't stop himself, he grabbed the rope and tried to support the weight with his hands, sweeping that step stool out from under his feet with a crash.

It swung, he lost hold, and the knot did what it was tied to do, pulling tight around a bandaged throat.

It hadn't been perfect- if he'd fallen straight down there would have been a quick, loud snap, and nothing else to say about it. But he hadn't, and he was choking, painfully, at length, all that composure gone in an instant. 

There was Fyodor's great nemesis, writhing in the air contorted in pain, weakly grasping at his throat and wheezing, his eyes pleading at the demon standing before him.

Fyodor stood, not moving a muscle, and after a long second, turned up. "It hurts, doesn't it?"

Of course it did, those eyes said, their light dim and suffering.

"Do you want me to cut you down," he continued, voice high and condescending. "Really? Waste that perfectly good rope?"

At that point, Dazai couldn't have answered, with only a self-loathing resentment in his eyes. But nevertheless, Fyodor flicked his wrist and gripped the hilt of his dagger, reaching up over the blue faced man and sawing rather tediously through the rope with a sigh.

There was a heavy, soft thump as Dazai dropped, limp, and Fyodor's pale hands were around his throat, prying the noose from that struggling grip.

He knelt, staring at a pale, wheezing thing, saliva dripping from his mouth, heart pounding like a drum, sweat on his brow and a thick rope burn where the bandages had twisted off. It was a pathetic sight, one very familiar to Fyodor. And he kept up that smile, stroking that knotted hair, pulling his head into his lap as Dazai curled into him like a fetus, barely conscious.

Kneeling on the floor, Fyodor sat like that for some time, with that half alive thing, miserable and loved, forever wavering.

"Poor thing," he mocked, with real sympathy. It was the way their game went, the reality badly hidden underneath it. 

Dazai lay clinging to Fyodor, his eyes shut tight, coughing weakly.

Fyodor had no qualms about hurting Dazai… it was what he wanted, and what he needed, the rude awakening to the stubborn fight his body would put up no matter what, over and over, to live.

It was for Fyodor too, though he'd never let Dazai hear it.

Dazai was alive, he knew, with a tone of certain, bittersweet relief. As long as the rest of them had to be, he could count on Dazai's heart to betray him at every moment and continue to beat.

Fyodor held him tighter than he would have liked to imagine he did.

One day, it would all be gone. One day, one of them would triumph. Either Dazai would die to kill Fyodor, or Fyodor would kill them all and save Dazai and himself for last. It was the only way it could ever go. 

Yet, together, their hearts still stubbornly tried to heal, again, again, again.

They were giving into that a little, at the moment.

Absentmindedly, Fyodor began to hum. It wasn't a tune he could name, but it felt like comfort, something long past.  It sounded of childlike wonder, of warm fireplaces and complete conviction that everything was taken care of for you. 

Dazai made no move to stop him, his breath slowly easing, half lidded eyes sick with emotion. Fyodor's hands sifted through Dazai's overgrown hair. He had gone entirely calm and still, softly folded into the man's lap. Fyodor let him.

The action became trance-like, and still he knelt on the floor, silent, but the feeling was broken instantly as the door began to open out of the corner of his eyes.

He jolted up, at the jingle of keys and creak of the doorknob.

"Hey, Dazai, you missed work again so I was sent to make sure you haven't hung yoursel… f…"

It was a white haired boy, one who Fyodor recognized, as the tiger boy who had ended Shibusawa's last life. And he stood awkwardly in the doorway, mouth agape.

Putting two and two together, Fyodor became aware of what their appearance must be to them. Ah, the very same terrorist who'd just nearly caused armageddon, humming and cradling Dazai. Dazai, who had very clearly just been cut from the ceiling.

"Ah… yes, he has, but I've taken care of it, don't worry." Fyodor said without much inflection.

"H… huh?" Atsushi's face twisted into a disbelieving confusion. He could almost laugh at the absurdity, but he very much did not. "Aren't you-"

"Yes, I am… did you need something?"

Blinking, Atsushi just stood there.

But seemingly from the dead, Dazai rose, so fast Atsushi nearly screamed. He looked surprisingly alright, with red cheeks and an emotionless smile, his arm around the Siberian demon himself.

"Oh, hi Atsushi- it's alright," Dazai said with a hoarse voice, still calm. "I let him in," he clarified helpfully. "Anyway, don't bother, I'm staying home from work today. Health reasons, you know. I was betrayed and stabbed by Somebody We Know," he rolled his eyes, with a humorous glance to Fyodor. "Sorry to worry you, carry on!"

After a significant amount of time, Atsushi just eventually turned around without a word, closed the door again, stunned. By the sound of the footsteps, as soon as he'd done it, he went off at a sprint. 

Amused, Fyodor turned to Dazai. "Huh. Nice kid. Do you think he'll tell?"

"Atsushi? Hell no," Dazai managed, but it was followed up by another pained cough and a self deprecating smile to go with it. "Think he'd rather… talk to Akutagawa."

"Ah," Fyodor just smiled, standing up with his hand on Dazai's shoulder. "Dear, get off the kitchen floor, let's get you cleaned up."

"It's your fault," Dazai teased, rather immaturely. 

"I'm sorry, who hung themself? I don't recall it being me."

"Fair," Dazai said from the floor, sitting up with some difficulty. "But if you plan on staying here… you're going to have to get used to that." He smiled. "It's my nightly routine, Fedya. Every night before I go to bed I hang myself to keep my body on its toes-"

Fyodor looked unimpressed.

"I'm just kidding. I only do it about every week or so."

Walking to the doorframe to the bedroom, Fyodor looked back at him, cocking his head. "How many times has it been again?"

Dazai stood, his hand on the table. "I think you overestimate my ability to count." He looked up. "I mean… I really didn't mean it half of the times… and I was like, blackout drunk most of the others. I don't know." He rubbed at his temples, looking down at the mess of his bandages. "I'd say it's probably around the same number of people that I've killed."

"That's what, a hundred fifty?" The rat raised his eyebrows, crossing back into the bedroom. "You and your rookie numbers."

"Sounds about right."

He took Fyodor's hand, and attempted simply to fall face first back onto the bed. But Fyodor held tight with narrow eyes and held it up, till Dazai was diagonal, mouth half open in confusion.

"For god's sake, let me change these sheets. This is disgusting, look at all the bloodstains."

"Come on, they add character," Dazai protested. "It's like halloween print sheets."

"Where do you keep the extra sheets?" Fyodor sighed.

"What do you mean?" Dazai blinked, plopping himself in a chair and staring up in lethargy. 

Unamused, Fyodor motioned to the sheets. "The extra sheets. For your bed."

"My what?"

The black haired man pursed his lips, staring. 

"Do you really mean to tell me you've never changed your sheets? Not once? My dear, you've lived here for what? Two? Three years?"

Dazai absentmindedly nodded. "Yeah, I used the ones that came with the bed when I got it after the agency hired me. I used up most of my old mafia salary in hotels after I left before then, so…" He shrugged.

Cringing in physical pain, Fyodor glanced back, stripping the bed to reveal that the bloodstains had long ago soaked into the mattress. There were quite a few, and of many varying ages. "Sure. Whatever. But you had to have done it at some point. What about before then?"

The bandaged man answered automatically. "Ah, well, before Oda insisted I use his guest room, I lived in a shipping container down on the west side in the waste yard. The mattress in there didn't have sheets, I used my old coat."

"I guess that explains that," Fyodor sighed. "Well, I'm going to wash these then, and you'll just have to cope for a few hours. Put on some real clothes. Doesn't have to be fancy. But you're not exactly rocking the hello kitty pajama pants."

"Aren't they cute?" He smiled, holding up his leg and wiggling his badly painted toes. But Fyodor was already exiting the room. "Oh… goodbye," he said and dropped it again, staring into nothingness.

Unsurprisingly, Dazai was still sitting in the same position when he got back, though he'd grabbed the bandages from his bedside and attempted to rewrap his neck, treating the rope burn with unemotional reflex.

"Did you miss me?" Fyodor asked, staring with half lidded eyes. 

"Yes," Dazai deadpanned, and it wasn't as if it were untrue. "Do you think I need new bandages for my arms? I assume you changed the ones that I bled out on. Thank you for that. But they got messed up again."

"Yes, change them," Fyodor closed the door and went back to Dazai. "But you only need them on your current injuries, lapochka. You're wasting most of them."

"No," Dazai flat refused, tired.

Fyodor sighed. "Don't kid yourself thinking there's a point in hiding your scars. You try to kill yourself every other day, are you under the impression that people wonder what's under there?"

"Actually, yes," Dazai said, picking at them. "I mean, it's mostly a game at this point, keeping them on no matter what. I managed to convince Atsushi I hide secret mermaid scales under here. He's never been able to prove me wrong. That's why I never take them off."

Fyodor gave him a discerning look. "Is that really it?"

He looked down. "I mean. No. But." Dazai shrugged. "I don't mind you looking," he said as he began to unravel them.

The tan lines from his hands to arms were painfully stark. It was the color of a fish that had evolved to live underground for eons, Fyodor couldn't help but think. Blue veins ran under the surface, skin almost translucent. He couldn't decide if it was hideous or beautiful.

From the look of it though, Dazai truly never took those things off, not to sleep, not to even bathe. That was a little disgusting. But he supposed all Dazai's eccentricities came with the package. He'd certainly handled worse. 

He wondered, how long had Dazai been like this?

Fyodor knew Dazai had been recruited by Ougai Mori at thirteen, and clearly he'd already been quite ruined by then. 

Dazai must have actually been a fairly well off child, wealthy and miserable. Of the way he acted, it reeked of abuse and neglect. Somehow, Fyodor pictured a small boy sitting alone in an ornate, locked room, humming and expressionless in front of a book, concocting complex theories as to why he alone was the exception.

Perhaps he had run away, or perhaps he killed the adults around him, but he'd gone out into the world looking for trouble, as if finding it would better him.

It was a cute idea.

Fyodor didn't care to dwell on his origins, but oddly enough, Dazai and he had much the opposite experience, and yet they both arrived at much the same place. 

"...So you're sleeping here," Dazai observed, somewhat apathetically.

Fyodor turned to him, from the uncovered mattress. "Yes, I want to be able to kill you in your sleep." 

"Aw, that's sweet," he cocked his head, smiling.

"Unless there's an issue with that, Dazai? Do you usually have anyone else over that I might need to be aware of?"

"You're not getting anything out of me, demon," Dazai said with a smile, eyes half lidded. "I don't take people home, people take me home, there's quite a noticeable difference. The last time I had someone over before you was that girl from the azure messenger thing who needed a place to stay. She's dead now. Kind of a shame, she was hot."

Fyodor raised his eyebrows. "Ah. So what did she think of the setup?"

Dazai laughed. "That was like two years ago, I'd just moved in. She didn't believe I owned the place, which would be true, cause I don't own it. I'm popular with the ladies though. Bi women love me."

" Liyubmiy , you're gay."

"Correct."

Fyodor sighed, sitting beside Dazai, a little startled when he plopped himself right down on Fyodor's lap. "How could I forget that your grand moneymaking scheme in life is prostitution." He turned and rested his head on his knuckles. "Just rob a bank like the rest of us."

"Aw, come on, it's not like that!" Dazai protested, but shrunk under his partner's judging gaze. "Ok, maybe it is like that, but I also have steady partners. Other than you."

Expectantly, Fyodor raised an eyebrow. 

"Well, me and Kunikida-kun are married, thank you very much."

There was an odd second of silence, a rare look of pure confusion on Fyodor's face. "Love. You're married to me ?"

Fyodor remembered it distinctly, it was very much official. It had been a private affair, yes, they'd done it in an abandoned church far out in the woods, yes, the only other person there had been one of the decay of angels who happened to have a marriage license, yes, it had been nearly midnight of a full moon and yes, they'd nearly gotten frostbite in dusty old wedding dresses but it had been official. They'd gotten papers for it and everything. 

Dazai rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, in Russia . I married Kunikida-kun here . He still pretends like it didn't happen."

Fyodor massaged his brow. "Dear… does that really work? I'm not sure that's legal."

In response, Dazai shrugged. "I dunno if we really ever made it legal? We were both drunk as fuck. Well, either way, I can totally hold steady relationships, you're just jealous. I don't really hang myself as often as it seems, the bandages on my neck are usually from when he takes me into the back room at work and strangles me to relieve some stress. It's great." 

"Ok," Fyodor nodded, rolling his eyes. 

"I'm not done, ok? I also have Chuuya- I mean, I don't know about him…" Dazai sat up, suddenly thinking. "No, we never actually broke up. So that means I've been dating him even longer than I've been dating you! Ha! Ah, well, he's always a bit of a drama queen about it, you know, wanting me to return his calls. But technically we're still dating. So. And… well, there was Shibusawa. But."

Dazai pursed his lips, and Fyodor did the same, awkwardly. 

"Anyone else I should know of?" Fyodor said tiredly, quick to change the subject.

"Well… I've definitely had sex with at least a few guys in the guild-" At Fyodor's expression, he smiled- "You don't get to know which ones, fuck you. Guess. But, um… I don't think that really counts since it was just once or twice. Might pull out Fitzgerald as my trump card again if I want though, you never know. There's also Nikolai now too though, so I think I'm pretty hot and sexy for repurposing all of your boyfriends. Anyway-"

Fyodor held up a hand, startled. "Dazai. What? "

"What what."

" Nikolai - I-" Fyodor stopped for a second, just to take it all in. "How do you even know about him? Much less…"

Dazai looked one way, and then the other, somewhat uncomfortable, trying to stifle laughter.

"...What."

"So you know how you have a tumblr account. You know. Your decay-of-angels-official."

"Oh, so you're the anon that's been bugging me. Noted."

"You know how you have approximately 20 followers all named "Jessica57" "Jessica58" "Jessica420" and so on?"

Deeply distraught, Fyodor put his head in his hands. "Mhm."

"I thought it would be fun to DM one of them," Dazai continued, holding out his hands. "So I send Jessica68 a DM like 'so, I heard you like murder and fyodor dostoyevsky' and boom, turns out it's your boyfriend's alt. So we're best friends now. He sends me incomprehensible memes and we pretend to be porn bots at each other. Very fun. You have great taste in men."

After the shock had settled, Fyodor smiled with a little laugh, charmed. "I hate to say that seems perfectly like you two. Alright. Should I be concerned for my safety, or yours?"

"Yes," he laughed. "You should probably be glad we've never met in person yet. We'll probably conspire to murder you."

Fyodor smirked. "Ah, well be sure to tell me when it happens, alright?"

"Sardonically, Dazai smiled back, leaning against Fyodor. "Of course." And on a whim, he took the man's hand, siling. "Would you like to dance?"

" What ?" Fyodor asked, exasperated, dragged forward.

"I meant what I said, look, I have a balcony, isn't it nice out? Do you want to dance?" 

Dazai seemed almost too happy about it, face flushed and smiling, suddenly full of so much energy. As he said, there was a balcony, though it wasn't much more than a concrete slab with a fence around it. 

"You shouldn't be allowed to have a balcony," Fyodor sighed.

Dazai smiled knowingly. "You're right, but they haven't banned me yet. Come on, please? Let's dance on the balcony. The sky is pretty."

"You're wearing a shirt marketed towards wine moms and cutoff pajama pants. And your balcony barely fits two people standing up straight."

"You're so mean to me," Dazai whined, grabbing his partner's cold hands. "What about just here?"

"Fine," he sighed, "But I'm not going to imagine the music. Put something on to dance to."

At his request, Dazai grabbed at his phone and tapped a few things, and something dark and romantic came on. Fyodor had been expecting something stupid, but actually, he quite liked it, and began to wonder if Dazai had picked it out for him to begin with. With a little smile, he gave in.

For the impromptu nature of it, when Fyodor took Dazai's hand and the background became a blur, he could almost feel as though they were there, at the very end.

It was the smell of smoke and the sweet wind from the sea and old, dusty pages in his hands, the utter absence of anything else but Dazai beside him. The last two beings on earth, serenading each other in blood, giving up the fight and laughing to the sound of silence. There was that sensation of noble dread and miserable solace, in the holding of each others' trembling hands.

And, a couple only made for their worst moments, two killers in the ruins of their own making, Fyodor and Dazai danced. It was a fast, passionate thing, as the world around them disappeared in despair and delight.

Violet eyes met dark brown, the kind of brown like wine and grave dirt, the kind of violet like stained glass and oxygen starved veins.

One day it would be everything they hoped and feared, and their eyes would dull, in the sunset over their graves. 

It was only a matter of time, he knew, upon their tiny balcony, and it was the comfort and horror and Dazai's downfall, a smile brimming with tears that gave him the emotion to risk it.

They twirled fast, and Dazai fell back in a dip, his spine arched, something ripped.

He made a small noise, a slight concession to brief agony as dark red warmth began to spread and cling to his shirt.

"Ah,"

Dazai's hand slipped from Fyodor's and he fell backward, face stark white.

Fyodor stopped and scooped him up before he could topple over the edge of the balcony, quick.

Eyes darting from Dazai's face to his side, he held him tight. "You popped your stitches," Fyodor observed with a little exasperation, leaning down.

"I could tell," Dazai responded, breathless, staring blindly at the ground, blood saturating his bandages.

Groaning, Fyodor pulled Dazai back inside, coaxing him back onto the bed. "I really did just wash these sheets… because of the bloodstains," he sighed.

"I told you," Dazai managed to laugh.

If there was one thing Dazai could actually keep stocked in his apartment, though, it was first aid supplies, and Fyodor quickly spread them out beside the bed. Dazai lay there, breath hitching, on his stomach, with a shaky smile.

"Fedya…"

The Russian was already leaning over him again, with gauze and a heavy hand on the wound. "Yes, lyubimiy? You're bleeding out again.

"So I am…"

He looked out at nothing, only half there. "Fedya… will you keep patching this up if I keep reopening it?"

"It's terribly inefficient," he complained, hands busy.

Dazai stared, face falling into emotional disuse. "It's Shibusawa's…"

Fyodor stared into Dazai's eyes, and sighed.

"I'd rather we just have kept his skull, but… it's been broken, obviously. I have his necklace though, dear, it's a better souvenir than a stab wound."

Dazai's eyes flicked back to life. "...You have Tatsu's necklace?"

"...Yes."

With some difficulty, Dazai swallowed, debating it as those killer's hands once again moved to take a needle and thread to his skin. "May I see it?"

Fyodor looked away and reached under his shirt, pulling out the long chain, a gold pendant, the same shape as the side of the cloak Shibusawa had made him for one day and one day only. 

Dazai reached out feebly and held it, the metal warm where it had touched Fyodor's skin. 

"Alright, if that'll placate you, may I stitch up your wounds now? Or should I sit here and watch you bleed out?"

"..."

"Bleed out? Alright." Fyodor set the needle down, waiting for Dazai to come to terms with his mortality for the sixth time this morning. "You can only die once, you know."

With a little pain, Dazai ignored the defeat in that line and smiled. "Fine."

"I'm going to need you to let me take your shirt off, then."

Dazai turned and bared a pale white back, stitches a bloody mess of thread and ripped skin. "Sexy."

Fyodor raised an eyebrow. "Do you usually say this to people whenever they stab you?"

"Yeah, if they're sexy," he responded, before pausing. "Well, it's not exactly that, you know, it's like, sex appeal, but instead of sex it's the appeal that someone has to jump off a bridge with me." 

Fyodor barely even reacted. Fair enough, for Dazai.

He pulled the stitches through, and he could see Dazai struggling despite his words. His breathing was heavy, that smile reserved for his worst pain and greatest ecstacy.

To Dazai, those might as well be the same thing, despite his supposed aversion to it. His mind wandered, distracting itself, wandered into the places it always did around his violet eyed counterpart.

"Would you?"

"Would I what?" Fyodor asked, clearly preoccupied.

"Die with me," he muttered, eyes half a galaxy away. "It doesn't have to be a bridge. If I asked, would you?"

Fyodor looked away. "What is it with you and double suicide? Can't bear to go alone, can you?"

Dazai's silence was the loudest thing in the room.

Frowning, he muttered, "You didn't answer the question." As he said it, the needle pierced his flesh again, and his sentence was punctuated by a whimper.

Cold hands lifting from Dazai's back, Fyodor studied him silently. "It depends on the situation. If you were to ask me when the two of us were the only obstacles left to either defeat or success… if you can prove yourself to me and save this pitiful world with it, surely. If I'm to see my downfall in the climax of this war, it will be with you, I promise." He leaned down and stroked Dazai's cheek. "And if my own world comes to fruition, our deaths are already written in together, don't you worry."

His dark hair brushing Dazai's face, Fyodor smiled.

"But if your question is directed towards the present time, I'm afraid you'd have to face it yourself. I'm not about to be tricked into such an easy end."

"I'm not trying to trick you," Dazai laughed, a cracked, broken thing. "It's just so easy to give up when you're right here. That's why I tried to stay away."

"Hmm… well. Surely, I understand. Sometimes it doesn't even matter no matter how hard you've worked, does it? It's just too long to wait, no matter if the sun will rise in only a few moments?"

The demon of salvation felt it, deeply, and it was probably the most damning thing he'd ever said. He turned, to meet those eyes. 

"Yet, no matter how much you dwell on it, you never will, will you?"

Under Fyodor's mercy, Dazai paused. "What?"

He sat on the bed facing away, staring out the window. "I wouldn't go with you, but even if I agreed at this very moment there was nothing left to do, you would find yourself some arbitrary reason to stay, even just that it would be too much trouble to go. We are both perfectionists in death, though you try to mask it. You can yearn for it all you want, but nothing will ever be a good enough end till you've fought it off a thousand times already."

Dazai watched Fyodor turn back to him, catching his eye before he could look away again.

"It's a curse," he admitted.

"You want to die." Fyodor looked into Dazai's soulless eyes.

"I want to die," he responded, with just the same inflection.

Stitches, cold hands sticky with hot blood, Fyodor's hands were covered in Dazai's blood just like a thousand other times.

"But the unfortunate side effect is that it's permanent, isn't it?"

"Mmm…" Dazai groaned.

"So, love, what do you envision after death?"

"I don't," the bandaged man responded automatically.

"Truly?" Fyodor inquired. 

Dazai stared at the bedsheets, marred in blood once again. "I hope so, anyway. But I've never been a religious man. Sometimes I wish I was, sometimes I'm glad my family couldn't have cared less." He thought about it a second. "It's one of those human things, spirituality. One of those keys to life, somewhere in meaningless words. I can't seem to find what they're all looking at."

It was the opposite of everything Fyodor had ever known, Dazai's utter blindness to religion and the brief wish he knew what they were all going on about. And half of him wanted to say he was better off blind, yet, with Fyodor it all worked out the same anyway.

He really had believed it, every bit of it- the sinners and saints, the creation and destruction, mercy and damnation that built the foundations of murder. Words that caused wars, wars that shed blood, words that stirred devotion and despair, he knew the taste of them well. 

When it all fell apart, there was nothing he could cling to but kind darkness just the same.

His Decay of Angels was the only answer to give, when nothing held true but death. Perhaps, if he took up the mantle of that fallen god, his cursed hands could give the answer.

Of course, he didn't want it to be true, more than anything, he wished there would be some right path to direct humanity onto, some utopia he could create where life might be kind, but no matter where he looked, humanity just wasn't like that.

Even if the means to utopia were right in front of their eyes, they would find a way to suffer, those stupid sinful things, they would find a way to hate and find a way to hurt. To erase the sin was to erase humanity, and humanity's only respite from themselves, from the cold and from the pain of their own making, to lead them when they so desperately wanted to be led-

Death, gifted to suffering children, Death, in great faith, Death, the only thing Fyodor could give. Sweet, kind death, the only place where they would find peace.

Maybe, if he was god, then he might learn why someone would make this godforsaken thing to begin with, maybe he could finally end the failed social experiment of sentience.

"I think that's where people get the meaning of life and such from. But I believe in nothing. We come from nothing. We go to nothing. Nothing is the only thing we can ever count on," Dazai smiled, kind enough that it was pleading. "The only thing I want is a reason to believe otherwise."

Almost sympathetic, Fyodor gazed at him. Dazai had never seen anything but chemistry, chance, and eventual oblivion, where a thousand divine corpses lay in Fyodor's eyes. Yet it was all the same, when the veil was drawn back.

"Please, I'd give anything to believe. If we must wait, make our deaths worth something. If I could worship anything, it's you."

His gaze was heavy with sorrow, and Fyodor felt it sinking in, comforting, hollowing, like a soft, warm black hole burning into his chest.

"I'm honored," he said, though it was with much more sorrow than anything else.

If only it was easy to be his god of death, to stroke Dazai's face and gently pull the soul from his heavy body, if only even without it-

If only it was that easy to give in and do the honors for each other, if only his mind would let him. But contrary to everything he said, he postponed it as long as he could.

Complications like this made it hard, for the both of them.

Dazai was miserable not because he wanted to die, but because he could not stop wanting to live.

And the world's end was so close, and so far, and so hard to love even when Fyodor was its harbinger.

So the only thing they could worship was that faraway date of relief, remaining in check so neither could they decide to live or die.

Eventually, they would give, entirely, irreversibly, but they both hoped to be faced with no other choice, that the decision might no longer be theirs to make, fighting to push the button onto the other.

...Dazai's wound was stitched again, and Dazai couldn't help but mourn it. The pain was starting to leave, and with it left the sweet skull who'd given it to him, leaving him once again for the darkness.

Daai wasn't kind enough to let him stay. He'd bring it back, he'd bring it back again before long, from one wound or another, or perhaps he'd just make a new one to pull the ghosts through.

But Fyodor's deathly cold hands drifted to him, and that would be enough to hold him over for now. Without words, they were upon him, and he allowed himself to be held and kissed, laying heavily into the mattress as if there was a way to sink through the floor.

It was one of those things Fyodor noticed about Dazai, where he would go entirely limp and simply accept anything that befell his body. Playing dead, he thought of it like- was it a challenge to his own body, or some sad attempt at shutting off everything else?

Surely, his guard was down, but despite it, Fyodor only kissed Dazai's brow. He had not the energy to hurt his partner anymore today. The skin was delicate and feverish, all scars and blood just under the surface, fighting for every second of life.

One day, it would calm and cool, his bones would sink into the grass, flowers would bloom from the hollow sockets of his skull. Most of the time, it was the only thing that reflected in his eyes. 

"Fedya…" the thing housed inside muttered, eyes closed, face flush. "When I'm gone, tell me again what you'll do with my corpse?"

A feeling of awful emotion surged through Fyodor, and there was nothing he could do to sort it out. Their thoughts met again, didn't they- right on the worst thing to have in common. With kindness and pain he smiled. Sometimes, he wished it might not be the only kind of comfort he could give.

The thing not quite a man inhaled, thinking a moment, before landing on Dazai in small resolution.

"I'll be the one to put you in the ground," Fyodor whispered. The words meant no malice, nothing but kindness. "I promise, when the leaves turn and you finally give up, I'll be right there behind you, and I will stay, just long enough to be immortal, just short enough to be a god, just conscious enough to witness your rotting into the ground."

In the beginning, the pledge had only been one of nemeses. Everyone on his list of people to go was treated all the same. Anyone strong, tragic, or alive enough to be killed by him deserved a serenade to their blood. 

This he'd said a thousand times, a gentle lullaby to the poor souls his hands brushed. Poor Karma with the autumn hair and yearning to be something more, so many god awful soldiers and policemen, armored and scared and filled with useless rage-

And to Dazai, a promise given far too many times.

In response, there was only Dazai's breath, poorly regulated and shaped by a grimace. Whether that was good or not, neither of them could tell.

"What would you wish me to do?" Fyodor asked, staring into the despairing morning. "I'll stay as long as you need me to. I'll make sure that your little agency knows you're safe with me. I know you say they don't care, but that's one thing about humans, they lie."

"Oh, you're asking now? ...You can have my bones, if you want them," Dazai said, listlessly.

"And where do you want to go?"

"I… oh, I don't know. Grow some flowers out of me. Plant one by Oda. My friend."

"That's a long time to wait."

"You've waited all this time, haven't you? You said you would stay as long as I asked."

Fyodor sighed, wishing his chest would stop filling with shivering heat. "Ah, so checkmate it is. So you go in my garden. Except I'll be sure to burn your heart. I'll leave nothing left of it."

Dazai stared up at Fyodor, and there was the saddest little laugh. "That is a true comfort."

"I know." He looked up to the sun again. "I'll take your smallest bones and make a ring of them. I'll fill the garden with snow, and the sky will turn black. The crows will take whatever's left, and when I'm ready to go, I'll lie down beside you."

Dazai looked to the side, away from where he clasped his lover's hand. "I've always wondered… would your ability work on yourself?"

Fyodor mirrored Dazai's pained expression. "No. It does not."

"I'm glad," Dazai said, with a sunshine smile. "It wouldn't be fair at all if it did. But I suppose it would be a bit awkward to reap your own soul. Not that easy."

"No," Fyodor returned it, voice low and quiet.

"When did you learn that?"

"Nine."

"Oh… we were about the same age then. The first time."

They talked through it, this elaborate declaration, but eyes grew heavy, trembling under the weight of shadows and unshed tears.

"Should I curse myself and say I'm glad you lived?"

"Well, if I hadn't… many, many more people would still be alive," Fyodor admitted, somewhat guilty. "And yet, God has failed to stop my heart. So I've assumed his position on that matter. But I need no supernatural gift to finish my job myself with a dagger."

"What a wonderful sight," Dazai muttered.

"If I have anything to say about it, you won't be around to see it."

Something in Dazai knew he'd be better off that way. But it wasn't comforting.

Both began laughing, as tears shook and fell from eyes like rotting blood, and everything slowly fell apart, when there were no more jokes to be made about it and all left to them was hollow and broken. 

In panic to muffle it, they grabbed each other and shoved their mouths together as the waters closed over their heads, nails digging into shoulders, desperate and painful.

Heavy breathing, racing hearts- it wasn't the romance, it was anxiety and desperation, yet the leaky eyes would not stop.

Why were they still sobbing, if it was everything they wanted, if it was only what was always coming to them, what they'd killed half a city to have a taste of-

Shouldn't they want it?

It was hard to talk to him when nothing stopped them from saying anything on their minds. But god knew they weren't about to stop now.

"We really are no good for each other, are we," Dazai laughed, his fingers woven into Fyodor's hair. He would sew them there to stay if he could, with a needle and thread. And just the same, Fyodor had entirely lost his composure, pale and shaky holding Dazai there. 

Without thought, the words came out. 

"Well, you might as well join me, darling, if it's so easy to drag you down- there's a spot for you whenever you're ready. In the Decay of Angels. I could kill that damned Fukuchi anytime I liked and he knows it. I'd do it just to fit a neat five for you."

But before he could barely finish, Dazai stopped him. "I wouldn't join you," he laughed, dazed and in pain. "I've considered it too long. I'm not there yet. I plan to be dead before I could stoop that low."

"Shame," Fyodor said, but he was glad.

For a second, having Dazai truly at his side, open and broken and spilling blood all over with Nikolai and Sigma and himself… it would be glorious-

But something in him knew it would work too well.

Give them two days, and the world would be gone. Two days, that's all it would take, he'd done the math and double checked it. If there was no more argument to be made, nothing left to be had but the end-

They'd be toasting each other with poison laced cocktails and watching the last sunset with bated breath, every nuclear launch code in their hands.

Despair filled Fyodor's smile, and it stung, like a slap in the face.

What could they do to the world if they didn't keep each other in check? He didn't want it to be that easy, he didn't want this awful world to be over that soon. 

What sort of hypocrite was he?

Dazai might be his will to live. 

Well, how about that then, he admitted it to himself. What a way to suffer.

This was the reason they'd killed Shibusawa, and yet, those wounds still bled. 

Kill Dazai and it would be over, kill Dazai and there would be nothing left.

They both knew knives were within reach, but hands were just as good for holding, weren't they? They'd pick up the dagger in time, eventually, the day would come- but-

Dazai closed his eyes against Fyodor's chest, in that worn pink nightshirt.

Not today.

Fyodor sat up straight, and inhaled deeply, looking to the mid-morning sky, bright and calm. "Well then, [Dazai] , I'll just have to keep you on your feet." 

Dazai groaned, but Fyodor pulled him up, buttoning his shirt and smoothing out the bandages. 

"And I'll stay here for good measure," he continued. "A villain in your house, you better keep vigilant. Now get up and go to work. Otherwise I'll have nothing to fight against."

Dazai protested, red rimmed eyes heavy and tired. "It's hard to fight, and I'm lazy. Tatsu got it so easy."

Pulling on his hat over the pink getup, Fyodor turned an eye toward him, expression hard. "Well, we all have to carry on somehow. Stay around to be my personal annoyance."

"Ha."

After a long, long silence, Dazai pulled on his shoes and coat, staring at the ground and walking to the door. 

Fyodor's eyes followed him. 

Perhaps he would get to clean this awful room next, before the preparations for genocide.

But Dazai hung there, just a second too late.

"I missed you," he said with a genuine, bright smile. 

And Fyodor's surprise was so great that Dazai was able to snatch the hat from his head, in one fell swoop. 

"See you after work," he said and blew a kiss, slipping out the door with Fyodor's ushanka on his head.

Fyodor put his hand to his chest, dazed.

Well. That would do.