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It was a funny thing, finding someone who matched you so well. Someone who could rival you in a test of intelligence, in any skill one could possess. It wasn’t often that there could be such a pairing. And what, then, was it supposed that one would do when that pair was broken, to nevermore have the conversations that had kept them both sane in a stint of confinement? Dazai wasn’t quite sure he had the answer to that.
He had always known that Fyodor would have to go. They were enemies, nothing more. So why did it feel so hollow without him? It was his fault that the viper was gone in the first place, his plan that had finally exorcized the demon. But now that it was done… it felt wrong. Like some piece of him that he had long thought dead was alive but… irreparably damaged.
Dazai felt these feelings impossibly deeply, and there was no one to share them with. The only one he could have even considered to understand him was dead, and it was as though he had been the one to pull the trigger. He longed for just one last conversation with Fyodor, one last look into his mind. One last whisper against his skin, drinking in the smell of the other man. Oh, how drunken he had felt every time he had breathed in that scent. How incredibly dizzying it was. And how incredibly tragic that he would never smell it again.
Often he wondered if there was something he could have done, some way that Fyodor could have lived and Dazai could have gotten what he had wanted. Dazai knew he was awfully selfish and wicked for wishing for that, for even thinking it. Fyodor was a threat to everything all of his friends held dear, and had to be stopped. But it couldn’t stop Dazai from wishing he had thrown that all away, just for the taste of his skin against his tongue, the feel of teeth against his neck, the feeling that maybe, for once, someone was for him. It was all a facade, of course, but… he couldn’t help but think, perhaps delusionally, that Fyodor felt the same for him. Whatever this feeling was.
It was consuming his every waking thought. He had long stopped sleeping, long stopped seeing the other man in his nightmares. How could he have slept, when every time he closed his eyes, he saw the helicopter. Saw the tragedy that he had set in motion. It was too much, too all consuming. Like a lit cigarette being pressed to his skin every second it continued on. It had to stop.
Dazai wasn’t entirely sure what had come over him, or how he had even got here. It was the last place he had seen Fyodor alive, atop the prison of Mersault. How had he managed to climb back up here? It was quite unclear to even himself, but at least he was alone this time. Last time it had been far too loud for him to process the implosion of his shooting star. But now it was all too quiet.
He stared at the rooftop, all that was left to remind him of what happened was a scorched area burnt into the roof. There was something romantic about that, a permanent symbol of who had been there before. Of who had left a permanent scar on the roof, and in his heart. Oh, how he wished he had more time. It seemed to be a treasure that was forever running out. Time was a cruel mistress, fate even worse. No way to fight either, just dragged along forevermore, as if one was being drowned in a river.
There had been many times where he was convinced he could outwit fate. Times that he thought he could outmaneuver anyone or anything that tried to trick him. But now, he wasn’t so sure. There were things that had an odd way of weaving through any defense made, things that left scars and cuts and wounds that would never heal. And some of them were too deep to even contemplate living with.
Dazai wasn’t sure where he was going, but he hoped Fyodor would be there.