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Noisy New York was not too welcoming.
A capitalist hulk, ringing with skyscrapers and the economy, rolling bills into a tube and eating them, a grotesque yuppie, throwing excerpts from "The Great Gatsby" and "American Psychopath" into the information throat.
Bright lights and men in business suits, obsessed with success, but remaining identical cardboard figures on the sidelines of life, contrasted sharply with colorful graffiti and poor neighborhoods from which rhymed speech flowed.
Dazai looked down at his feet and admired the painted carriages and walls, trying to avoid collisions with hurried office clerks. They were always talking on the phone, and the collar of his shirt was stained with ketchup.
Osamu was in no hurry.
It seemed to him that he was the only one in this city in no hurry — he strolled impressively around the area, staring at the sky, then at the buildings around.
Only his heart was trembling from the upcoming meeting.
Dostoevsky is somewhere among these streets, hiding in a stuffy and dark room and creating, fascinated by the music of the poor neighborhoods of New York. Forever, like kites flocking to the dead, he sinks his teeth into the new.
He always seemed a bit weird to Dazai.
He seems to know absolutely everything and is chasing completely new knowledge and phenomena, even if it seems that they simply cannot be of interest to a person like Fyodor Dostoevsky. But no, he eats every crumb of knowledge, devours the fruit of Eden right with the peel, what's more, with the branches and leaves of a tree that has taken root in the garden of Eden.
A weirdo. However, isn't Dazai himself the same?
Always wrapped in bandages, always smiling, despite the pain that crawls inside like an anthill and gets out through neat cuts on the skin. They are both insane, both misunderstood by the world.
But understood by each other.
Holding hands tightly, they dance a waltz, reveling in the music, mystery and suffering.
However, Dostoevsky is not interested in waltzing today.
He didn't even live in an apartment, in some kind of garage, which was securely locked and had another graffiti painted on the iron door. The door made a terrible noise when it opened, as if it opened the way to hell.
But the noise did not overshadow the hip-hop music that Dostoevsky was making.
He looked at the records with a studied look, periodically moving them, trying to create a good and rhythmic sound, but as soon as Osamu entered the room, he stopped. There was no smile on his face, but Dazai knew that Fyodor was glad to see him.
It was read in the look, empty, but somewhere there was a flicker of tenderness, as if trying to break through a cold shell and get out. Love was hidden in the way Dostoevsky interrupted, paying attention to Dazai, how he lay for periods on his lap, how he kissed him affectionately, running his hand through his hair.
Fyodor didn't like words. But he showed love perfectly without them.
Strange. It's weird.
But his love is bloody meat under the butcher's strong palms. Fresh, hearty and primal.
The garage door closes, and Osamu and Fyodor remain in a stuffy, poorly lit room.
"And how are you without me?", shadows playfully play on the walls, just like in an amateur puppet theater.
"Good. I learned a lot. People look at me with dislike, but I've heard a lot of new music", the warm lamplight plays on Dostoevsky's icy black hair.
"That's how it is. Why don't you record a song about how you love me?" Osamu playfully sits down on the table, crossing his legs and defiantly looks into Fyodor's eyes.
He's obviously not joking.
Unlike Dostoevsky, Dazai was a terrible romantic. He needed walks along the embankments, he needed kisses under the Moon, love poems and tender words. Fyodor was not like that. But, trying to at least pretend to be a romantic, he still invited Osamu to New York.
By paying for his trip, of course.
"Maybe you can record a song about how you want to leave me alone?" Fyodor answers with the same playfulness, but with a sharp arrogance and grins. Oh, he's definitely getting a taste.
"M, no. You want too much", their conversation is like a game.
Whether it was chess or cities, they always loved games. Their entire relationship resembled a sickeningly gentle, electric love game.
And they both reveled in this feeling.
"That's how it is."
A short answer, but long fingers reach for the chin and gently pull it towards him. Dazai lowers his head lower and catches screams and rhythmic music from the street out of the corner of his ear. But frankly, he doesn't give a damn what happens outside the garage door when deep purple eyes look at him.
Osamu smiles and doesn't hold back anymore. He kisses Dostoevsky fervently, and his fingers dig into his cheeks, stroking wildly. He pulls the sickly Fyodor towards him, kisses him, closes his eyes, feels his heart pounding happily, as it hits his ribs.
Dostoevsky doesn't hold back either.
He roughly pushes Dazai further onto the table, placing his palms on either side of him. He pulls away from his lips, hastily licking his lips, and bites into his neck, first hastily pulling off the bandages. Osamu moans teasingly, clearly trying to provoke Dostoevsky even more.
Fyodor takes his time, he bites the skin steadily, licks it, feeling how Dazai fidgets and clings to him with his hands, clearly losing patience. The cacophony of sounds ringing alarm bells outside the garage door is mixed with their heavy, ragged breathing.
"Fedya, you are unbearable..." gently pulls Osamu, throwing back his head. Dostoevsky does not even smile, only his left hand climbs onto his stomach and roughly strokes it. A muffled groan is a great sign that Fyodor is doing everything right.
Dazai, a little nervously, in a hurry, pulls off the stretched T-shirt from Dostoevsky and throws it on the floor. Fedor clicks softly, his fingers getting under the belt of Osamu's trousers.
With every second the tension and passion between them grows, it seems to Dazai that he will soon go crazy. He will become a smeared inscription on the carriage, he will turn into music from the recitative of love and samples of pleasure. Dostoevsky does not show it, but he barely restrains himself.
And he whispers.
He whispers, whispers, whispers in Osamu's ear how he loves him, how he thinks about him every day, how he misses him, how he wants to do so many things with him, almost eat, absorb everything, run his fingers into his brain with lust and admiration.
Dazai is trembling more violently, almost begging for relief from his suffering as soon as possible.
Clothes quickly end up on the floor under the measured creak of the table. Their voices get louder and come into harmony with the music somewhere far away, along with the screeching of garages, along with the screams of teenagers, along with the arguments of adult men.
The bodies are woven into a boiling mass, in love, mad, thirsty. They rub against each other with a pleasant squish, while their foreheads stick to each other so gently and carefully, and their eyes get lost in those opposite.
Relief comes soon enough, first Dostoevsky goes limp, getting closer to Dazai in a fit of thirst for love, attention, affection, then Osamu. He places his hands on pale shoulders, covered with small beads of sweat, and exhales.
"I forgive you for not writing a song."
"And I forgive you the money I spent on your trip."
They both laugh softly, hiding their lips in a messy and free kiss.