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Who would have thought that an attack on Dostoevsky would turn out like this?
Who would have thought that the attacker would scream in agony, twitching his arms and legs, breathing so heavily and greedily, as if they were taking out the bones from him? Who would have thought that at this moment his facial features would be terribly distorted, forming such native Dazai cheekbones, cheeks, chin, lips, eyes…
They walked around Yokohama together as innocently and stupidly as if they were teenagers. Each of them understood the absurdity of what was happening, they seemed to be releasing balloons into the sky, in which rockets were flying, explosions were heard. They ate lollipops while people lay around moaning from the approaching starvation.
All that remains is to spit poison into the world ocean after lollipops and kiss, watching the fish throwing themselves ashore as if they were falling from the sky.
And then? Wait for the blood rains?
They are too happy for the impending disaster that they both feel.
The end of the world…
They are not interested in anything except chess, except touching each other, passionate and thoughtful glances.
And their romance is like the last dance before a nuclear strike, like kisses over the mouth of a volcano, like declarations of love that whisper to each other before they lose their heads on the scaffold together.
Love is sick, love is poisonous, love is the purest and most sincere.
The dark Yokohama alley greeted them with silence, and Osamu did not suspect that he would look in horror at Dostoevsky's shot head.
Fate is an evil thing.
He already wants to fall to his knees, not paying attention at all to a petty thief who had a weapon, who... reported something hurriedly on the phone? This is not a thief… Someone else who wanted to kill Dostoevsky, but persistently ignored Osama, running away.
How he didn't care who it was… Dazai was not disposed to revenge, rather to a strange grief. Should he be happy about the victory or..?
A scream. A terrible scream, and then a thud on the asphalt, hitting it.
Osamu nervously looks around and sees a creepy... but strangely attractive picture.
Osamu nervously looks around and sees a creepy... but strangely attractive picture.
A beautiful, invisibly bloody performance just for the amusement of Dazai. For some reason, it seemed even more intimate than sex.
Osamu slept with Fyodor. And more than once. But this is the first time he sees this.
It seems that when Dostoevsky gets up from the ground and looks at his own body, Dazai trembles either from surprise, or from fear, or from admiration, or even from excitement.
Fyodor looks at his corpse completely indifferently, it seems as if he has seen it a hundred times already, and the sight of his own dead eyes and parted lips is no longer able to surprise.
How many times has he died?
Involuntarily, Dazai thinks about what it would be like to kill Dostoevsky.
He thinks about a quick and well-aimed stab in the throat, about how Fyodor will fall to the asphalt, twitching and choking on blood, but his usual smile will remain on his face, and his eyes will sparkle with superiority and a loving farewell.
Because Osamu would no longer live — they would both understand this, and in this intimate and frank gesture would be the peak of their connection.
Dazai's face would have twisted. He would have felt his organs being rearranged by an invisible hand, as his hair darkened and tangled, as his lips were covered with a dry crust from frequent biting. He wouldn't have screamed. He would probably have fallen to the ground, arching his back and enjoying the way his body was gradually disappearing into the sea foam.
He would have become Dostoevsky. His essentially useless body and mind would become a receptacle for something so great.
It would be the most beautiful death.
"Dazai?"
Fyodor devours Osamu with his eyes. It seems that the humble employee of the detective agency was much more interesting than the corpse that was lying on the ground.
"Oh? I'm sorry, I got distracted", Dazai measures Dostoevsky's corpse with an indifferent look and grins, pointing at the body with his finger.
"Did you do that often?"
Fyodor is grinning.
"You can't imagine how much", with these words, the Demon approaches Osamu, placing his palm on his cheek.
It's hard for Dazai to think about anything other than Dostoevsky. The swarm of thoughts about how long Fyodor has been living at all, how often he dies, how it feels, how he discovered his ability for the first time is quickly replaced by just one thought — Dostoevsky is damn attractive.
Most likely, this is not exactly what you should think about after your... lover was killed, and then he rose from the dead in a very peculiar way, but Dazai was always with quirks. Maybe that's why Fyodor liked him?
That is why Osamu no longer asks a single question, presses his lips to Dostoevsky, kisses him fervently and completely in love, charmed. Will his love live forever? Or almost forever?
Oh, if only Fyodor would one day continue to exist in his body!
Thoughts are like maggots in an open wound — they go deeper, devouring meat, making their way closer to the bone, to the human essence. Dazai likes it.
Dostoevsky is only amused by his lover's reaction. He kisses him back, smiling insidiously and smugly. It's nice to feel superior, such burning admiration, which probably makes you a little sick.
Osama must be sick of greatness.
He is ready to give in, he is ready to appropriate, he is ready to do anything, just to merge with greatness now, just to become one now, just to get as close-close-close as possible.
If he were a fire, he would burn him down, if he were a cannibal, he would eat him, if he were an ocean, he would drown him, if he were a black hole, he would make him disappear.
But he's just a human being. The man who knocks Dostoevsky down on the asphalt, on which blood is visible, and who kisses him unconsciously, helping him undress.
And his body is... strange. As if distorted, as if not fully formed, as if with stretch marks, as if the skin does not fit tightly enough to the body. And he can fix it, he can pull it over the skull, he can do as much…
But he can also finally get rid of the throbbing in his head, from the way the blood is beating through the vessels. Closer…
Dostoevsky twitches slightly, digging into Dazai's shoulders, and Osamu feels like his skin is going to slip off right now. And underneath it is not a skeleton — some kind of divine essence: boundless and sticky, tastes like caviar, maybe dinosaur bones.
Their moans resemble the echo of space, something distant and mysterious, something that is lost among the stars and the vacuum. But they can hear.
They can also hear each other's heavy breathing when they come. They hear the rustle of clothes as they help each other get dressed, they hear drops of blood dripping from Fyodor's corpse as they walk away from the alley.