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Fyodor had never seemed sensitive to Osamu.
On the contrary, he seemed to be a man completely invulnerable, indifferent to everything. A meteorite could have fallen on him, and Fyodor would most likely have just dusted himself off and left, casting a tired but satisfied look in the direction of the space stone.
The look is divine.
Who would have thought that such a person could be so weak in front of such a small thing as sounds?
They stood in front of each other in expensive suits. Osamu studied Dostoevsky's pale face and adjusted his tie with a faint smile. Nearby, classical music was playing softly from a gramophone, it seems, another piece by Tchaikovsky. Fyodor was relaxing under the arms of his lover, and Dazai, frankly, did not want to go anywhere right now.
He wanted to stay with Dostoevsky. Hug him fervently and sentimentally, kiss him affectionately and gently, untying the annoying tie. To plunge back into the sweet feeling that there are only the two of them in the world.
With a stern look, Fyodor reminds that Osamu cannot afford such a liberty. He just sighs sadly.
"How long will we stay at this event?" Dazai asks, sliding his fingers along Dostoevsky's neck.
"A couple of hours. You'll only have to walk with me and eat sumptuous food. Do you think you can handle it?" Fyodor sneers sarcastically, but Osamu just rolls his eyes.
Dostoevsky often mocked his lover, always joking that he was not smart enough, that he was useless and unable to cope with even the simplest tasks. Dazai was never offended. He just grinned back, left a kiss on his pale bitten lips and showed his worth through a game of chess he won.
Both of them liked this eternal rivalry to hell. The desire to be better than another made my teeth ache, as it happens from too much sugar or ice cream just from the freezer. They try to jump above the other's head once and for all, but it never works, each time one still surpasses the other.
It wonders who will be on top right before the death of the other?
They often thought about death.
"I think I can do it even better than you."
An unexpectedly affectionate smile adorns Dostoevsky's face no worse than an expensive necklace around the neck of the Queen of Britain.
"I don't doubt it."
A light kiss on the lips that makes Dazai want to scream. He desperately wants more! But he can't.
The event turns out to be a typical gathering of the rich. Osamu feels out of place, but obediently follows his counterpart while he talks mournfully with pompous men in suits, with serious women in fragrant fur scarves.
Dazai himself could use this time to observe other people.
In order to study in a little more detail the stately men with cold, sharp eyes who get under the skin no worse than a medical scalpel, he could study the women who were captivating with their beauty and diamonds on their fingers and thin necks, who smiled cunningly, then sipped champagne with a mysterious and gloomy look.
But Osamu didn't want to.
His gaze was entirely focused on Dostoevsky. To the way he is wearing a luxurious dark purple, almost black suit, how he holds a glass in the palm of his hand and talks steadily with an unknown gentleman, how he tucks a strand of carbonaceous hair behind his ear, how he casts rare glances in the direction of his lover.
Dazai awkwardly sees a hint, a call, a thirst there. But he understands perfectly well that Fyodor only wants to tease him, and therefore suppresses an uncomfortable desire.
However, it was difficult for the observant and attentive Osamu not to notice the changes in Dostoevsky's behavior and appearance.
It was as if he was in pain.
He covers his eyes with periods, winces when no one is looking. And it even seems to Dazai that he has become a little paler. His hands seem to tremble slightly, and he wants to hide his ears behind them, but every time he stops, as if he remembers that this is not done in decent society. And the look became somehow embittered, as if offended, and most importantly, strangely desperate.
Osamu, after looking back a couple of times and making sure that no one was watching them, hurriedly takes Dostoevsky by the arm and leads him to the bathroom.
Osamu, after looking back a couple of times and making sure that no one was watching them, hurriedly takes Dostoevsky by the arm and leads him to the bathroom.
Osamu, after looking back a couple of times and making sure that no one was watching them, hurriedly takes Dostoevsky by the arm and leads him to the bathroom.
Fortunately, the restrooms consisted of several separate rooms, so no one would bother them.
What was remarkable was that Fyodor did not even resist. On the contrary, he seemed to quicken his pace, wanting to get away from the annoying crowd as soon as possible, from the sounds of plates and forks, from the crackle of glasses when they accidentally hit his teeth, from ringing laughter, from the rustle of a dozen suits around, from coughing and heels hitting the wooden floor.
The door closes, and Dostoevsky exhales in a relaxed manner, even without looking at Osamu. He covers his ears with his hands, closes his eyes and breathes heavily. Dazai is silent, just glares at Fyodor, trying to figure out what's wrong and how he can help.
They spend a couple of minutes in utter silence, as if Dostoevsky is gathering strength to say a single word. Osamu, of course, does not put pressure on him, patiently waits, listening to the dull sound of footsteps outside, to the music that was playing outside the walls of the restroom.
"Thank you", Fyodor finally exhales with a tired look, "let's wait here a little longer and go back, I just need to rest a little…"
"Of course", Dazai nods briefly and gently puts his hand on his lover's shoulder, leaving a gentle kiss on his forehead, "is it all because of the sounds?"
Dostoevsky only nods briefly. He wasn't too fond of discussing his weaknesses with anyone, even his lover.
"I didn't think you were so sensitive", Osamu sneers sarcastically, receiving only a stern look in response. A silent rebuke and a request not to talk too much. Dazai just laughs gently and innocently.
"I will not reveal your secret to anyone..." Osamu whispers and reaches out to Fyodor, kissing him on the lips while warm palms warm pale cheeks.
Dostoevsky doesn't mind at all, he kisses Dazai back contentedly, trying to calm down in his arms, to distract himself from the creaking pain in his ears. Fyodor lazily leans on the sink, allowing Osamu to kiss himself. He goes down a little lower with his lips: kisses his chin, neck, strokes his waist gently, soothingly.
Dostoevsky can only breathe heavily and stroke his lover's shoulders, drowning in sensations. He looks at Dazai from under closed eyelids, trembling eyelashes, bites his lip as he kneels in front of him and tries to undo his belt as soon as possible.
"Be extremely careful... we'll have to be in plain sight for at least another hour..." mutters Fyodor, looking sternly at Osamu. He raises his head and smiles, winks even quite absurdly, playfully. Dostoevsky just rolls his eyes. He is sure that Dazai will be careful.
Just as he is sure that his actions will cause his legs to give way, and his heart will want to jump out of his chest. He chokes on the sensations, presses his palm to his mouth to suppress moans, and Osamu still shamelessly moves his tongue, feeling Dostoevsky's hips.
And, most beautiful of all, Dazai leaves no trace — swallows everything to the last drop, grinning contentedly, as if waiting for praise, waiting to be stroked on the head and kissed on the forehead.
Fyodor will only smile weakly instead.
"Well done", he mutters, feeling calm and ready to face a new sonic hell outside.
Osamu puts Dostoevsky's trousers in order and rises, leaving a kiss on his weathered lips. Fyodor smiles at him, buries his face in his shoulder, clinging to the last seconds of calm and relative silence.
"Thanks..." he mutters.