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“You know,” Dazai begins, breaking the silence with a rather late pondering, “you’re really quite pretty.” Fyodor hums in acknowledgment as Dazai pushes a piece of hair back behind Fyodor’s ear, hand lingering to trace down the sharp curve of Fyodor’s jawline. He was staring, cogs and gears whirring behind curious brown eyes. “I think I should kiss you.”
“Is that what you’re thinking?” Fyodor asks, amusement clear in the small quirk of his lips as he looks down at the boy with his head in his lap. Brown hair flare over his thighs, brushed back from his face by Fyodor’s restless hands. His lips were mildly chapped and Fyodor couldn’t help the thought that passed through his mind of one way he could get chapstick on them.
“Among other things,” Dazai admits, turning his head to look at the flames crackling safely within the fireplace, letting the light dance along the solemn lines of his face.
“It’s the other things I’m worried about,” Fyodor mutters, hands still curled within the soft tresses- pulling ever so slightly out of his own tactile curiosities. Dazai’s nose scrunches up in distaste and he lets out a small whine of annoyance, turning his head to shoot an accusatory glare at Fyodor- he raises his hands in surrender, “My mistake.” Dazai’s glare lingered, wary to leave him unattended after such a slight. Fyodor took the time to inspect his cheek, thumb running over the small cut that was still healing from the other day.
He found the idiot slumped over himself, drunk half to death and frozen even closer to it. His fingers were blue under the nail and his lips a similar shade. Fyodor was no fool, he knew exactly who this man was and why he was here. He doubted he’d left all that long before Dazai too left, running from painful memories. Though how he’d ended up here, in a small southeastern town on the Russian border, was something even Fyodor took pause at understanding. A year and a half passed since he last left Japan, he only just received word of a lead he’d been chasing since leaving- there was no reason for the demon prodigy to be here. Except, of course, to try and drink himself to death somewhere nobody would think to look for the body.
Begrudgingly, Fyodor took him home. A storm was due any day and to leave him outside was to sentence him to death. He still had use for the young man after all, it would be a waste to leave him here to die. That’s what he told himself still even though after cleaning up Dazai’s various wounds and leaving him wrapped in a blanket by the fire like a slow roast chicken he had decided to stay. “It’s too snowy” He’d said the following morning already having made himself quite at home, coffee in hand and a pile of books beside him. Indeed Fyodor supposed it was, the blizzard had crept along overnight, the still-burning fire burning brighter than the dark skies outside
Snow dusted the entryway showing that, indeed, someone had tried to open the front door. Though, Fyodor doubted it was snowed shut; he probably just didn’t want to walk around in the cold and that was as good as snowed in for the both of them. “Aren’t you worried I’ll kill you?” Fyodor asked, pouring himself a large mug of coffee and frowning at the chip he found on the handle.
“I doubt you would’ve gone through the trouble of doing it yourself when the weather would’ve saved you the time. Besides, I wouldn’t mind dying at such pretty hands.”
Fyodor rolled his eyes, “Such a strange stray I’ve found.”
They turned the radio on, soft croons of Russian Christmas carols sweeping through the large pine cabin. Dazai made a small noise, “Oh,” He muttered, “It’s December.” He tapped his long fingers along the back of the leatherbound book he was reading- stretched along the length of the couch. He hummed along to the song absently, staring straight ahead out one of the large windows, book momentarily forgotten. They owed each other nothing, just two men who happened to be in the same place at the same time to ride out a storm.
“Would you like some soup?” Fyodor asked, taking the polite route of telling someone to come back down to earth from whatever horror he had fallen into memories of.
“You can cook?” Dazai asked, eyebrow raised in curiosity looking over the back of the couch at Fyodor as he made his way to the fridge. He grimaced slightly at the question, dropping down to grab a pot after pulling out a large plastic container.
“I can promise that what’s in here is soup, but I cannot promise the taste.”
Dazai smiled, “Ah, I see.” He looked down at his book once more, “I’ll have a small bowl.” Fyodor lit the stove and began to heat two mugs worth of the sweet red soup. “Thank you.” Came a small voice from the couch not bothering to look up from his book, his lips pulled in what could almost be called a smile.
The first day passed just like the morning had, quiet and lazy. The pair only aware of the other’s company as opposed to enjoying it. They ate once more, speaking languidly between bites of soup that Dazai confirmed was certainly soup. The fire burned, crackling along with the scattered noises of the radio that Fyodor let play- neither all that keen to sit in silence. By the time night had fallen, they had decided to leave sleeping arrangements as they’d been the night before, Dazai was welcome to the couch and Fyodor would return to his room. Neither would be doing much sleeping, but they both thought the action of ‘going to bed’ was something worth trying- even if they were both to sit and stare at the albedo-lit ceiling and toy with tangles of thoughts.
The second morning was as dark as the first, wind whistling beyond the thick glass of the windows. Fyodor watched as the snow swept by, fingers grazing the cold glass with a gentle touch. How beautiful it all looked he thought, large flakes of snow dancing on clean sheets of white like ballerinas on the stage, feet hardly touching the ground. How free must they feel?
Once again Dazai made enough coffee for two and was curled up on the couch, once again Fyodor poured coffee into his slightly chipped mug. “Good morning,” Dazai said, closing his book around his fingers- different from yesterday.
“Yes, morning,” Fyodor replied making his way to the couch. He already knew that he couldn’t kill Dazai by accident, had guessed as much from the rumours and confirmed it the night he brought Dazai home; brazenly running the back of his hand down the chilled skin of Dazai’s cheek after patching him up. Still, he was wary, keeping his feet tucked in close underneath him and his two hands wrapped around the hot ceramic as he sipped at his coffee. Death aside, he wasn’t one so keen on physicality.
“Sleep well?” Dazai asked, drinking the dregs of his coffee.
“As well as you, I’d imagine.” He said, also taking the moment to sip at his coffee and blink the weariness from his eyes. Even if he didn’t sleep there was still something to be said about being in bed wrapped up in the soft crinkle of a goose-down duvet.
Dazai shifted, his weight leaving the couch as he stood, “I imagine another pot of coffee will be in order then.” He mused, heading to the kitchen and brewing another pot with the familiarity of a man who grew up here. He was interesting to watch. His rumpled white dress shirt too big for him and tucked into the slacks Fyodor only now realized he’d been wearing for two days without wash, his hair was unkempt but in the same way it was when they met and it was his guess that was just how he kept it. His limbs were long but not lanky, and each movement was purposeful and composed despite them; discipline woven into the very threads of his being. “Enjoying the view?” He asked, not even looking back at his voyeur.
“Not much to see I’m afraid.”
Dazai scoffed, mock offended, “Perhaps I should have been worried you would kill me. Since you’ve just shot me in the heart.” He was clutching his chest with one hand and the counter with the other, “I don’t think I will survive this.”
Fyodor picked up one of the books Dazai had so kindly redecorated his living room with and began to read, “A Pity.” He mused to Dazai’s theatrics with a sip of his coffee.
“Cruel!” Dazai announced, “Cold-hearted man!” Fyodor hummed along in agreement, “It would be warmer in the storm!”
“Don’t get lost.” He added helpfully, peaking behind him once more and finding Dazai with a rather exaggerated pout, “Is the coffee done?” He asked, unable to stop the small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“The men who try to kill me are kinder than you,” Dazai muttered, bringing over the steaming silver pot of coffee and pouring it.
“Should I try killing you then?” Fyodor asked, frowning at the lack of cream in the top-up of his coffee.
Dazai pulled something out of the fridge before returning to pour something into Fyodor’s mug. “With the soup you served me yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised if you already were.” He accused, stirring Fyodor’s coffee with his finger.
Fyodor made a face, more concerned with the ill-mannerisms of Dazai’s stir than the marauder accusation, “I have spoons you know.” He said, still frowning at his mug.
“My hands are clean.”
Fyodor drank the coffee. He was never one to say no to caffeine and despite his reservations, it tasted just fine. Dazai returned to the couch with his coffee as well after he finished and stretched his legs into Fyodor’s lap, earning himself no small glare from him. “You’re sitting on my bed.” Was all Dazai said before laying back and placing the book on his face for a quick nap.
Once more the radio played, the fire crackled and they ate soup twice, once just after the old clock rang noon and once more a few hours after the sun fell deep beyond the horizon. It was then that Dazai decided he was bored, draped over the armrest of the couch. “Do you have any booze in here?” He asked peeking through cupboards like a forager animal. Fyodor sighed, unfurling himself from the half of the couch he had claimed as his own and resting his book face down on the coffee table. He reached over the fridge into the small cabinet above and pulled out a large jar full of a clear liquid, passing it to Dazai who beamed at the gift. “We should play a game with this.” He said, pulling out two mismatched glasses from the cupboard to the right of the sink.
“A game?” Fyodor parroted, not quite returning to the couch, leaning against the counter instead. “Such as?”
Dazai looked him up and down with a gaze hot enough to melt the snow outside, “Strip poker.”
“I have no playing cards.” Fyodor lied, ignoring the warmth running up his neck.
“Liar.” Dazai said immediately, eyes dark with something Fyodor didn’t wish to dwell on, “But fine, what about two truths and a lie?”
Fyodor raised an eyebrow, “How would either of us know if the other was being honest?” Dazai grinned, something wicked.
“The honour system.” He offered simply, much to Fyodor’s amusement.
“As useful as a mop underwater.” He brushed off and Dazai rolled his eyes.
“I ‘m starting to think you just don’t want to play a game with me.” He handed a glass of the vodka to Fyodor, “What about chess?” He suggested, “I’ve already seen your chess set so you don’t say you don’t have one.” He added quickly before Fyodor could speak.
He chuckled and took a sip of his drink, “I suppose I could stand to play one round.” He conceded, watching as Dazai quickly set up the board on the coffee table, knocking away Fyodor’s book with little regard for marking the page he was on.
“158.” He said offhandedly, at Fyodor’s frown, “You’re on page 158.” He said, setting the final piece- the black king- onto the board.
Fyodor kneeled across him, gently placing his glass at his side, “Useful little thing aren’t you?”
Dazai snorted, “Hardly.” Slender fingers waved at the board in front of him, lines of white porcelain ready to move at his touch, “White moves first.”
Fyodor started classically, moving a pawn to E4 with a gentle hand, the soft velvet lining under the piece landing with a muffled thud. Dazai’s eyes glittered in the firelight as he made his move, knight to F6. They played without much thought, lazily moving the pieces to and fro with nothing more than quirked lips and raised brows to communicate their enjoyment. “Hmm, perhaps I should have gotten you to drink before we started playing.” Dazai mused when they were nearing the end, each with only a handful of pieces in play.
“I’m afraid we don’t have enough vodka in the house for that to be worth anything.” Fyodor consoled, taking Dazai’s queen and finding the little flicker in his at the movement quite curious.
“It only takes one mistake, Radnój.” Dazai said, standing and raising his hands above his head, “I’m bored, let’s finish tomorrow.” he suggested as the bones in his back popped at the sudden movement.
Fyodor watched, head cradled in his hand, “The game was your idea wasn’t it?”
Dazai fell onto the couch with a sigh, “Yes, but I’m bored now.” He pats the couch next to him, “Come, let us gossip like schoolgirls. Tell me, who is the cutest boy in school do you think?” He was grinning like a fool and Fyodor found himself unable to decline, taking a seat next to Dazai who quickly shuffled so his head was within Fyodor’s lap. Dazai babbled on, his question from before seemingly irrelevant to what he wished to speak of, his ramblings ranging from his fascination with entropy to how boorish he found Nietzsche to be. As he spoke Fyodor’s fingers wove into his hair, pushing back messy curls of brown. Eventually, he runs out of things to say, the thick swell of silence closing in around them like a warm blanket and they stay like that till finally Dazai breaks the silence. “You know,” he says, “you’re really quite pretty.” Fyodor hums in acknowledgment as Dazai pushes a piece of hair back behind Fyodor’s ear, hand lingering to trace down the sharp curve of Fyodor’s jawline. He was staring, cogs and gears whirring behind curious brown eyes. “I think I should kiss you.”
“Is that what you’re thinking?” Fyodor asks, amusement clear in the small quirk of his lips as he looks down at the boy with his head in his lap. Brown hair flare over his thighs, brushed back from his face by Fyodor’s restless hands. His lips were mildly chapped and Fyodor couldn’t help the thought that passed through his mind of one way he could get chapstick on them.
“Among other things,” Dazai admits, turning his head to look at the flames crackling safely within the fireplace, letting the light dance along the solemn lines of his face.
“It’s the other things I’m worried about,” Fyodor mutters, hands still curled within the soft tresses- pulling ever so slightly out of his own tactile curiosities. Dazai’s nose scrunches up in distaste and he lets out a small whine of annoyance, turning his head to shoot an accusatory glare at Fyodor- he raises his hands in surrender, “My mistake.” Dazai’s glare lingered, wary to leave him unattended after such a slight. Fyodor took the time to inspect his cheek, thumb running over the small cut that was still healing from the other day “Tomorrow perhaps.” He says, finally declining Dazai’s earlier announcement of Fyodor’s need to be kissed. Pushing Dazai off him he finishes his drink and puts his glass in the sink, “I think it’s best for me to retire.” He says ignoring the whine from the boy on the couch, “Rest well.” He says as he leaves, not so foolish as to wish him a good sleep.
The morning comes as it has twice before, once more the winds howl and the snow dances, and once more Dazai is already awake- a new book in hand, with two mugs filled with coffee. The radio croons despite the static and the fire crackles, their game from the night before left untouched on the coffee table next to Dazai who is sprawled along the couch. Again Fyodor sits and Dazai stretches himself across Fyodor with a cat-like smile before covering his face with a book and taking a nap. Three days hardly made a routine but Fyodor finds he doesn’t hate it, despite his casual habit of musing to himself it was rather entertaining to find a reply being spoken to his musings, nice to have something other than the walls watching his slow descent into madness.
Today Dazai watches, perched like a cat atop the counter, as Fyodor clumsily makes what could pass as a vegetable stew- nothing more than salt and pepper to season the broth. His hair still damp from the shower hes taken, water dripping onto the collar of the shirt Fyodor left outside the bathroom door for him to wear. It fits as well as someone else’s clothes could, even if they are a little tight around his shoulders.
Dazai speaks as they sit down to eat, surrounded by the smell of browned onions, “Your cooking is bad enough to almost make me miss home.” He teases, eating another spoonful of stew anyway. “At least the food there was flavourful.”
“Almost?” Fyodor picks at, blowing on his stew before taking a bite.
“Home doesn’t have you handsome.” Dazai dodges with a brazen wink, the silent request to move on hidden within the flirt.
They’d eaten later today, not having realized he needed to cook something new as they’d run out of soup the day before, the sun was near set by the time they were washing the dishes. The radio plays as they clean and when Fyodor finishes, hanging the towel after drying his hands Dazai is standing before him with a hand extended out to him perfectly timed with the swell of stringed instruments surrounding them. Fyodor gives him a rather dubious look, no doubt the man can dance- he was the demon prodigy after all but still, it seems a strange activity for the pair who still had yet to formally introduce themselves. “Just one,” Dazai says, and as if the words themselves are enough to push Fyodor forward he raises his hand to meet Dazai’s being pulled in the second they touch.
Their movements aren’t anything fancy but they aren’t clumsy. They step together gracefully, narrowly avoiding the sparse furniture as they move to the gentle sounds of the radio. Dazai’s hand is feather-light across his lower back but it’s enough to keep him ramrod straight with the electricity that seems to come from them. They move together with near-practiced ease, Dazai’s lead easy to follow despite Fyodor’s unfamiliarity with being lead. “You’re rather elegant for a stray.” Fyodor muses after Dazai spins him, bringing him back with a firm nudge upon his lower back, once more sending lighting running across Fyodor’s skin through the thick layers of clothing.
“I had a strict owner.” He replies, bitterness leaking into the easy cadence of his speech. They slow as the song ends, slightly out of breath and standing a touch too close in the pale moonlight that finally decided to peek out from beyond the clouds. Dazai’s eyes waver, flicking down to the soft plush of Fyodor’s lips a moment too long before returning to his eyes. “Did you know there are many things worse than killing me?” Fyodor looks at him, a touch out of place, tipsy off of Dazai’s warm touch. “The first night I was here,” Dazai explains, “You asked if I was afraid you would kill me.” Fyodor nods, “But there are many things more for me to be afraid of.” He looks at Fyodor’s lips once more, taking half a step forward. They are close, too close, Fyodor can smell the stew on Dazai’s breath yet still he stays, doesn’t dare move and shatter the moment.
“You seem to be rather familiar with these other things,” Fyodor replies weakly, the cogs of his mind trapped in warm molasses.
“I’d be happy to share.” His hand reaches for Fyodor’s cheek flinching as a loud pop from the fire cracks the intimacy of the moment. Fyodor blinks, quickly taking a step back. He pauses with uncertainty for only a moment before he makes his way to the fridge and once more pulls down the jar of vodka, pouring two glasses and handing one to Dazai nearly dropping the glass as he avoids the touch of their fingers.
“We have a game to finish don't we?” He asked walking to the table and kneeling before it. Looking up at Dazai who had a rather odd look on his face that Fyodor couldn’t place.
“Hmmm, tomorrow perhaps,” Dazai says, settling onto the couch. “I’m afraid I have no desire to play at the moment.” He stretches out as he did every morning, covering his eyes with the closest novel- one Fyodor knows he’s already read while here.
“Perhaps.” Is all Fyodor says as he too retires to his bedroom for the night, waiting for his heart to stop beating at a rather unhelpful speed.
Their routine is broken the next morning. No longer is the wind howling, nothing but a peaceful scene of a snow-covered forest beyond his windows. There is no coffee when he enters the living room, there is no man sprawled across his couch. His books are once more returned to their shelves as if nobody touched them to begin with. The only lingering trace is the chess board, the same as the night before with only one change- the white king now in check by a queen that had been freshly crowned. One pawn missing from where it had been just the night before. ‘It only takes one mistake’ the words dance through Fyodor’s memory as he smiles, cheeky brat. He leaves the chessboard out, making his way to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee and ignoring the way he accidentally makes enough for two.