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It always seemed to Fyodor that he was unreal.
When you live for so long, faces begin to blur along with memories, and it seems that an office worker with huge bags under his eyes stood in the castle, nervously clutching a briefcase, and in the pavilion of the shopping center a grumbling monk clutching the Bible in despair. Everything is confused, swirling around a great force with the appearance of a man, and yet Dostoevsky is the lord of the chaos in which he finds himself.
And all because chaos is hideously primitive.
Maybe it came with experience and years, or maybe humanity is not only sinful, but also incompetent, but the essence is the same — even over the centuries they have not changed themselves. In neater costumes, with more coherent reasoning and more impressive cultural monuments, they are still just as pathetic and worthless, it is not a pity to inadvertently crush them. In the end, they will definitely not find a better life here. Existence in itself is a burden, and with ability users it turns into Russian roulette, and while you press the muzzle of a gun to your temple, annoying rats peel off your skin.
But now everything is even more unreal than usual.
At least because he is looking at his own severed arm, and if he puts his forehead to the helicopter and climbs deep into it with a spiritual impulse, he will see his corpse. And, as if this strange vision wasn't enough, he feels his wrists being grabbed. Something terribly hot, scalding, but at the same time it doesn't hurt Dostoevsky at all. He purses his lips thoughtfully and grins.
Dazai Osamu.
Dazai Osamu is just as unreal standing in front of him in a prison uniform, and there is a bullet hole in his head. Blood is oozing out of it, and it looks like a divine omen — cruel, tragic and completely creepy. Fyodor does not hold back the impulse, he runs his fingers over his pale cheek, and then over his forehead, presses his thumb to the hole that seems to have passed through the skull. But the blood flows even more strongly, decorating the pale skin. Dostoevsky removes his hand with satisfaction.
"It's strange," Dostoevsky briefly comments.
He wants to admit that he doesn't understand what's going on, that ephemeral affection and thirst combined with his own corpse underfoot and Osamu with a hole in his forehead in front of him is not something he's used to seeing, it's not something he could at least try to explain to himself. But instead, he is silent because he cannot admit at least one imperfection, because it is better to stand spat on, but with his head held high, because the messenger cannot fall, even slightly bend down, he must always be on top.
Osamu just smiles at him, and the expression on his face seems insane. It was hardly Dazai himself, but rather the hole that gaped in his forehead.
"What is not strange in this life?" he answers easily, as if he is not surprised at all, as if he sees such dreams every day, as if he catches bullets with his head every day and sees his hands torn from his body.
Well, it's a pity that there was a hole in such a head. But it's good that Osamu can use it even like that.
"Touch me, Fyodor," Dazai offers and amusingly tilts his head to the side like a puppy, even now his tail will start wagging and his tongue will stick out. He looks like a curious freshman who can't wait to attend all the lectures and become the best student. Osamu raises his palm, a surprisingly welcoming offer.
Dostoevsky grins and touches his fingertips to his. Fyodor feels the flame again, which scratches the pads, but Dazai, on the contrary, feels the glaciers gathering around his hands. The contrasting feeling is intoxicating, they interlace their fingers and look into each other's eyes, completely distraught. Maybe it's time to drop your mind? According to human standards, they are both dead.
But both are conscious. Only the chest does not rise, only the blood drips to the floor, only the bare feet touch the arm torn off on the ground.
They stroke each other, it seems as if they are trying to reunite, to become one: a deity or a vacuum — at least something. Pieces of a puzzle that the universe has thrown up with the ridiculous hope of someone solving it.
But palms are not enough — the heat and chills turn into a normal temperature, and now they are reaching for each other again in a deadly frenzy. They awkwardly grab each other's hands, put their heads on their shoulders and move to the beat of a God-only known melody. One-two-three, and there is no death, one-two-three, and the old pride is drowned in…
Love? No, love is something human, something carnal, something alive… That's not it. It's like a bond — not even a union. It was as if the corpse of one was roughly thrown on top of the corpse of another, and then indifferently and sternly tied with ropes, as if they were afraid that geniuses might rise up and go to do evil (incomprehensible good). The intentions of one are false diamonds, the intentions of the other are cloudy skies.
"Dazai, you're crazy, you're crazy, you're crazy…"
Music sounds in his ear as they circle over death. The scarlet spot on his forehead attracts all the attention, and it seems to Fyodor that the whole world is blurring around him. His head is a little dizzy (he wants to grab it with his hands and chop up the skull with his fingers), his legs give way (he wants to roughly pull them out and throw them to the severed arm), his fingers tremble a little (he wants to bite them off, swallow part, and spit out part carelessly). To leave only reminders of humanity, which was not in him anyway.
Let the outer correspond to the inner.
Dostoevsky, distracted from the symbolic blood on his forehead, finally looks around, only to notice that the whole world has really disappeared. A jumble of blood-gold flowers, the light is so bright, and at the same time it seems to be dark. He looks into the brown eyes opposite — Dazai looks around awkwardly, as if scared, but at the same time he smiles. He smiles with the sincere joy of a madman who saw a nuclear explosion.
They don't even need to get under their clothes — touching their breasts is already electric, it feels like a spear was sharply thrust through their ribs. It scratches-scratches-scratches the insides, while the crazy lovers open their mouths in a silent scream — he can't hear breathing, and the whole picture is creepy, but not for them.
For them, it is a picture of truth, it is a picture of karma, it is a picture of freedom.
It doesn't cost anything to move to the hips, it doesn't cost anything to bite the shoulders in a fit of passion right through the prison robe (and the bites blossomed even brighter than during life, if this life ever existed), it doesn't cost anything to open his mouth wide, dodging straight black strands, as if trying to completely wrap around his neck.
Finally, it doesn't cost anything to rub their hips against each other, pressing desperately, almost begging for more touches. Friction drives them crazy, gently removes the heads from their shoulders and juggles them so playfully, as if they were not heads, but colored balls.
They should not have much trouble bringing each other to euphoria. They squeeze each other in a sticky embrace, hiding in the array of a brave new world. There is almost no blood flowing from the bullet wound in his forehead, and Fyodor can no longer find his corpse because of the bright colors.
«My fate is my death,» sounds like a tocsin in their heads and, interlacing their fingers, they seal a dead crazy life.