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Winter.
Cold December air howls, runs through forests of pines like phantoms chasing salvation. The snow trudges up in terrifying whirlwinds, a monster clad in white, and Dostoevsky shifts closer to the fireplace. Sighs against the pages of the book nesting tenderly in his pale hands. His hands are cold and everything is cold—just like his heart, just like his homeland.
There's a blizzard outside. No one would dare step out, lest they become frozen like statues of historical figures carved in dry ice. Even so, it seems that fate and hard-headedness always has a place in the world, even in the coldest of storms. Especially in them.
A knock on his door resounds, low and unthreatening. A friendly little knock. Three taps, like the small pattering of mice. Mischievous. Dostoevsky chooses to ignore it, instead turning the page of the worn-down book and eyeing the crow perched on the windowsill of the frosted glass above his bed. It is sheltered there, underneath the overhangs chilled with ice and sleet.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Ah, it wants to get in. He flicks his gaze away in mild disinterest.
Knock-knock-knock.
The series of knocks are louder now, more pervasive, slightly jingling the brass locks of the poor door. And Dostoevsky draws his lips in a thin line, gets up, unlocks the door to find—
A box. A present.
Certainly, it is odd. There is not a soul beyond this door, only the trilling of the breeze and the bite of the snow stinging his face. How odd indeed! That a shoebox suddenly showed up at his doorstep—a cabin in the middle of nowhere; in cold, lonely Russia; in a place off the grid, unknown to most government agencies.
To think that someone has found him here… how impressive. He'd like to meet this person, whoever they are.
They've left, however, and the only proof that they existed is this unassuming parcel.
With the box now in his hands (after checking whether it's a trap or not), he looks side to side. Is anyone there?
Not a beat or a breath or a footstep can answer. Oh, well, he should get back inside if he doesn't want to freeze. Closing the door behind him, he sets down the box on a chair. It’s awfully fancy, wrapped in shiny paper and sealed by a red ribbon.
What is the reason for this? Briefly, his eyes land upon the back of the closed door. He pulls the ribbon off anyways, and takes the box’s cover off as well. His nose scrunches at the pungent smell.
Inside the box is a dead rat. It’s bloodied and frozen at best. Ivory bones could be seen poking out through the mangled flesh which still has a coat of gray fur attached to it. The blood dried on the plastic sheet underneath the dead animal, probably put there to keep the fluid from spilling through.
Dostoevsky immediately covers the ‘present’ again. A frown, which was not so pronounced earlier, culminates on his face, now stricken with pallor caused by disturbance in what should’ve been a peaceful morning. There is not much terror as disappointment, though. All he could feel is regret for falling for the tricks of an amateur jester. They must’ve thought it to be a good joke.
For him, it is only disgusting, so he throws the whole box into the fireplace. Stares through the metal bars, at the fire engulfing the small corpse. He lets the dead animal burn so that it may find peace. And goes to the sink to cleanse his hands with warm water.
The suds from the soap bubble up like clouds on his hands. What would take his mind off that heinous crime? Off that poor thing lying in its own blood? Does a part of his brain have to be sacrificed for it to be forgotten? Shall he have to take a scalpel to his own skull and perform a lobotomy on—
He shuts off the tap. Warm water cascades off his fingers, the fire crackles in the background, and a sudden motivation falls upon his weary mind.
Some warmth would be nice.
He's now staring at the blue flame of the stove top, after the 'preparations' which he had graciously done.
Knock-knock-knock.
A heavy sigh is extruded from his lips. He gets up, goes to the door, glaring. “Who—”
“Oh, good morning, Dostoevsky!” a cheerful voice greets. Ah, so it has come to this. A man stands at the porch of the old house. He has brown hair, eyes like an eagle, and a beige windbreaker that hangs on him like icicles on a tin roof. That is to say, dripping; he must’ve been out in the forest for too long. He laughs, and it's as charming as a spell (and somehow also as tired as a furnace in winter). “Didn’t see you there.”
From Dostoevsky’s knowledge, he must be Osamu Dazai, formerly known as the Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia. Now recently defected. Why did this man seek him out?
Dostoevsky asks, “What makes you come here?”
“You, of course.” Dazai takes his hand, acting as though he’ll kiss it. “A beauty like Snow White, the fairest of them all, will you care to—”
Dostoevsky quickly retracts it back as if Dazai’s hand is a mass of blue flames.
“Stop it.”
Dazai guffaws out another laugh. “All right, but I’ve brought you a little Christmas gift.”
He gives to Dostoevsky a woven basket full of apples. Red, like the blood of martyrs. There’s a thin sheet of frost coating the fruits, although it’s no surprise, as Dazai himself is covered in frost. Taking it, Dostoevsky stares blankly at the basket, then asks, “Are you trying to be funny?”
It’s a scene straight out of Snow White. The one where the mysterious old woman hands her the poisoned apple that would later be the cause of her death.
“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” Dazai says. He’s shivering a little. “And can I come in? It’s cold out here, you know?”
The storm is still going. If one would look a little closer, they could see Dazai’s hair slightly swaying with the wind even if he’s already on the porch and mostly sheltered from snow. Dostoevsky opens the door wider to make way for him. The foreign newcomer takes off his boots and hangs his coat behind the door.
“I didn’t know you liked hot chocolate.”
Dostoevsky stops sipping on the sweet drink, answering, “That’s because you don’t know me.”
They’re now at opposite sides of the wooden table. It’s not always that he has someone to have hot chocolate with, especially on Christmas day. This is an isolated place he chose, after all. A safehouse for his steadily growing organization. It’s not much for now, but he’ll branch off in a few years.
Dazai shrugs. “At least I knew you’d have knowledge on cyanide.”
The basket is settled at the foot of the table. It reeks of bitter almonds, although not everyone can pick that up. Dostoevsky stares at the foam collecting on the sides of the mug. Was it right to have let Dazai in?
“If you knew it was futile, why did you still attempt to poison me?”
“I was just testing if you have any worth as an opponent,” Dazai answers, “and judging by the sniper I found near your house, I’d say it’s a…" He rubs his chin between his thumb and index finger, as though thinking deeply. "7/10.”
There’s a muffled scream at the front door.
Dostoevsky calmly sips on the hot chocolate, quick to reply, “7/10? Be careful, Mr. Dazai, you might want to look in the mirror.”
Turning in a rush, Dazai finds his reflection on the wall mirror. A red dot graces his forehead, like a gemstone, bright and merciful.
“I’d say that’s too generous.” Dazai laughs. He moves his head, and the dot moves too. “Why? Is my gift not enough for you?”
“I have no interest in such gifts.”
“That’s too bad, maybe you’ll like this better.”
Momentarily, he exits the house and returns with a black case. Dostoevsky concludes that it can only be two things: a musical instrument, or a piece of weaponry. Dazai sets the case down on the table, unlatching the cover to reveal—
“A violin,” says Fyodor, his voice laced with disappointment, “I play the Cello.”
“I know.”
Silence.
There’s a tired look on the Russian’s face, like he’s done with everything in life. “Is this a gift exchange now?”
Dazai’s eyes sparkle somewhat, awaiting. "I'm so glad Fyo-chan caught on!"
Dostoevsky sighs .
“Very well. Take a look at the green box under the Christmas tree. It’s for you.”
Dazai leaves the table and goes to the Christmas tree. As he receives the present, he comments, “I must say, I’m actually surprised a monster like you even celebrates Christmas.”
“The Lord’s birth is something to be celebrated.”
“How devout you are!” Dazai says overdramatically, in a cheerful tone that wavers once he sees the contents of the large box. How come he didn’t see the holes at its side earlier? “This is the worst gift I’ve ever received…”
The reaction makes Fyodor snicker (because he's not him when he's hungry.) Covering his grin with one hand, he says, deadpan.
“Exactly.”
That. That kills Dazai.
A small, gray puppy is curled up inside the box, sleeping. Its stomach moves gently upwards with each breath it takes. How did Dostoevsky even get a hold of such horrible creature?
The puppy wakes up. It sees the waste of bandages and backs away, going to the corner of the box. A bark is sent his way, and Dazai flinches, backing away as well. He exclaims, “You—”
Dostoevsky watches them with fascination as he finishes the hot chocolate. Suddenly, the box containing the puppy topples over with its weight. It runs to some concealed part of the cabin, hiding behind some shelves to get away from Dazai as much as possible.
Later, back at the table, they discuss this incident.
“You just sent me a death threat, Fyodor.”
“Oh? Are we on a first name basis now?”
“Don’t distract from the problem,” Dazai says seriously, “I’ll have you know that the real gifts I have for you are the bombs I planted outside your house. The remote? It’s in my pocket.”
Fyodor throws the ceramic kettle against the wall. Calmly. “Then I’ll have you know that my real gift is that hot chocolate you just drank earlier. I used the assassin’s teapot to poison only your cup , and you’ll die in twelve hours without the antidote.”
“Oh, this is getting exciting!” Dazai comments, clapping his bandaged hands together. “I’ll have you know that I paid your sniper twice what you give them. They can kill you if I signal them to.”
“You’re brash. That sniper is actually from the government, and I led you here as a body double in case they finally pull the trigger.”
“No, this house is a mousetrap for you . I knew the government was after you, so I tracked your movements with a spy camera—a fake bird—so that I could see what you were going to do about it. It would be entertaining to release to your subordinates videos of you caring after a puppy, making a Christmas tree, and sipping hot chocolate every other day. Not to mention you almost fainting every time you stand up—”
“Enough, I know you’ve run out of bandages,”
Fyodor says, and somehow the silence gets thicker and thicker as every second passes by like molasses flooding an entire city.
Dazai is first to break the eerie calm. "How did you-"
The Russian just stares forward, like a cat. And with a cat-like grin, he asks, with all the air of an all-knowing god:
"You're suicidelover69, right?"
Maybe it's just Dazai's perception, but the earth shook with the echo of that statement in his head as he's shown Fyodor's phone containing a series of text messages that looks too suspicious, for not even the CIA, FBI, KGB, will dare tread upon it in fear that they'll be obliterated to shreds by possessing the sheer knowledge contained in those digital pixels that Fyodor somehow has a hold on, and god, how did Dazai not see through it, how did he not notice the username, why was he faced with this bastard of a god and poor excuse of a human being—it's really not hard to fantasize the different ways he could torture this man—oh how he'd love to tear each of his goddamn limbs off or smooth his brain out into a sanguine smoothie, or hell, remove his frontal lobe altogether and see how he'll deal with the amnesia and the memory loss and the slow decline of cognitive impairment, but before that—
Dazai breathes out.
"I want to die."
"Haven't you always?"