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It was at that tavern where I’d met him, oh, the demon himself. He found me when I’d had less than nothing to my name. I would spare you the faux joy and passion, but at that moment, my feelings were unfortunately very real, very true. There was a quivering excitement festering in my body, was he going to make good on the price tag on my head? Would he take that head, and mount it on the wall for his enjoyment, having never been a fan of the Port Mafia? Would he kill me just because he could, because he simply felt like it? The countless fantasies in my mind continued to cascade as he sat down next to me. He was beautiful. I’d only heard stories and seen blurry print-outs of security camera footage, and none of it could capture his haunting beauty and the presence that accompanied it.
The title of “demon” only fit it in the way it fit Lucifer, a beautiful angel cast to hell, cast down to this world where I was, by some miracle, able to bear witness to him now. His dark hair fell around his pale, bony face, damp from the rain. He was of an indeterminate age, either twenty or forty, it’s anybody’s guess. His skin was smooth and translucent. You could trace the blood vessels in it as one would the faint cracks that appear on the paint in old porcelain. His eyes were maroon, and tired. Half-lidded, with long eyelashes that you would expect on a woman. There was an almost biblical androgyny to him. The delicate features you could only expect from a sculpture or painting, the kind of beauty men went to war over. His hands were red, and I helplessly wondered if they would be warm when clasped around my neck. His fingertips were bitten and bloody, fingernails chewed down to raw obscenity, but they too were beautiful. His lips were bitten raw, too. If they met mine, could I taste his blood? If passion took over, would it look like I’d been kissing a woman with red lipstick? Would he bite my lips back? My eyes had wandered back to his when I noticed I was now meeting his gaze, still half-lidded, but now curious.
“Is that you, Osamu? I had not expected you to fall from grace so quickly.” He softly spoke, barely audible compared to the loud conversations in the bar. I could only hear him if intently focused, and that I was.
I doubt I could coherently respond to that, him casually using my first name as if we were close to some extent. I replied with a slurred mumble, unsure of what I let escape my mouth as I rested my head on the cold hardwood on the bar counter, closing my eyes and groaning. I heard his glass being set down and then picked up, my left ear pressed to the table so I could still face him, to some extent. He took a hand and softly brushed it through my hair, catching on tangles as his fingers combed through.
“It took far less work than anticipated to find you, I must say.” He quietly chuckled. “The Port Mafia had their eyes on The Bar Lupin for some time, but it was futile. You would not return there so soon after Sakunosuke’s passing, out of respect.” I opened my eyes to him gently petting me again, looking calmly at me, while taking the occasional sip of wine.
“I turned my eyes to other options. I had heard that you went here, Marmeladov Tavern, as they offered cheap room and board, at Sakunosuke’s recommendation. You’re living in the attic now, yes?”
I weakly nodded. Fyodor’s hand moved to my back, softly rubbing it. It seems his hands were cold. Fyodor’s expression turned more pensive. He took another sip of wine, silently thinking as his cold digits expertly worked through the knots in my shoulders, through the thin and scratchy material of my undershirt. The intimate gesture was so quickly tearing down any sense of anxiety or apprehension inherent to my being. The gentle touch of another person was something so foreign that I’d never considered it as something I was lacking. My eyes closed again, and I slowly drifted off into half-sleep before he woke me with another comment.
“Do you know why I came here?”
“You’re gonna kill me?” I said, something in between a whisper and groan.
“If I wanted to do that, you would not have even made it to this tavern to begin with.” He replied, quickly rescinding his hand. I whimpered at the lack of contact, looking into his eyes as he stared down at me. “I am disappointed. Everyone said you were incredibly smart, that you could read others so well. I am asking you to join me, Osamu.”
“Mhm. That was my second guess.” I slurred. His hand returned to my back, snaking its way up to the back of my neck. I tensed up at the cold sensation, and he softly chuckled. “I don’t care about much of anything right now. So long as your roof doesn’t leak.”
With his hands on my throat, could he feel my jugular roaring like an engine? Could he feel my weak breaths? Did he know how much this excited me? And, somehow, possibly, could he feel this same nervous anticipation? Was he also so easily excited by the prospect of a warm body next to him, regardless of what needed to happen so he could get there?
Fyodor’s hand traced up my neck, pulling me up by my hair.
“How lovely.” He whispered, before finishing his wine and hoisting me up. I couldn’t tell if he was stronger than I’d given him credit for, or if I’d simply lost a considerable amount of weight in the past few weeks and hadn’t noticed. He led me out of the bar, into a private car that I now realize he’d hired for just this occasion- he knew I would leave with him. The car was dark and cold, akin to the ones Mori would send on occasion, and I couldn’t tell if it was the memory or the motion mixing with my intoxication, but I was growing so, so very nauseous. The moment Fyodor helped me out of the car, I immediately puked on the sidewalk, my crappy shoes, and shirt. I heard him mumble something in an annoyed tone, walk me through the door to an apartment complex, and then up far, far too many flights of stairs.
The next thing I could remember was sitting in warm bath water while he gently washed my hair. I think I should have been scared that he was seeing me without my bandages, but I couldn’t focus on that right now. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced another person cleaning me, even as a child. Yet here he was, his sleeves rolled up, kneeling on the floor, saying kind and gentle words that I couldn’t process for the life of me. A hand softly traced down the bumpy, scarred skin on my arms as he went to grab the showerhead, carefully tilting my neck so the soapy water wouldn’t get in my eyes. It smelled like osmanthus. I was in a weird limbo- aware of exactly how prepared I should be for a knife in my back or something similar, but I simply couldn’t, not when I was feeling the gentle touch of a person for the first time in my life. Not when I didn’t do anything to trick that person into caring about me. It was something that seemed so shocking and rare that I would have to commit it to memory, like a meteor shower or some other fantastic event. A rarity I could proudly tell younger generations I was able to experience. But then, at the back of my mind, was the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing impressive about what I was experiencing and that Fyodor had to have known this, that he was manipulating me. But still, it was so, so easy to ignore and lean into his arms and the warm water flowing down my back. He was raking his fingers through my hair again, and I pre-emptively winced at him catching on one of the many knots in my hair with the confident force he’d been using, but I quickly realized that he was working conditioner into it instead. He noticed my reaction and said something I did end up remembering:
“No, no, Osamu. I am not going to hurt you here, nobody is going to hurt you here.”
He comforted me like one would a dog rescued from a horrible household. One that’s all ratty and weak, having likely endured so much, one who any person would instinctively help. A dog who can’t bark anymore, just whimper. That kind of dog clings to anyone kind to it. It can’t judge. There’s only room for love and fear in its heart. I don’t think I deserve the same kindness and gentle treatment as that dog. I think that’s why I’m so greedily accepting it right now instead of pretending to resent it. I have absolutely nothing to lose here. I was so scared of vulnerability for so long, particularly it being forced on me, but now I’m naked, drunk, and eagerly pushing my head back into his hands as I smile like an idiot, having never felt more free in my life. I’m the poster child for vulnerability. I know I should be scared or preparing for some kind of trap or for the rug to be pulled out from under me, but I don’t care. Though, Fyodor has nothing to gain from pretending to be kind to me right now. He could kill me if he felt like it. He could torture, maim, anything. He knows that better than I do. Yet, he’s instead chosen to wash the vomit off my hair and face with the kind of gentle treatment of a mother.
When he drained the bath and helped me into tailored pajamas, again, I didn’t wonder how he was able to tailor them, or why they had my name embroidered. I frankly didn’t care about any of the red flags that had been presented to me because I felt comfortable for the first time in my life. I didn’t need to sneak anywhere, I was sought after and found by someone who–at least superficially–cared about me. So, when he walked me to bed and climbed onto the other side, I can admit that I rolled over and clung to him. I noticed that he smelled like osmanthus like I did. From how I so gently held him and how he in turn held me, to the untrained eye, we may have been lovers. I would so easily accept a life like this, I could selfishly abandon all my promises so I could spend the rest of my days safely in bed with someone I believed cared about me. His face was in the crook of my shoulder, his right leg in between mine, and his arms held me softly. Not as if he worried I would flee, but in the off chance this room turned into a vast ocean, I wouldn’t drift away.
–––––
The next morning was a discomforting blur. My head pounded, and I wasn’t met with the typical smell of mildew that I’d grown accustomed to over the past few weeks, rather, rotting flowers, a pounding headache, and a warm body in the same bed as me. I would have assumed it was another bad, impulsive hook-up if not for the memories of the night before hitting me in a way not too dissimilar from my head to the Garrett's ceiling more times than I can count. I sat up and turned to the spot Fyodor was in the night before, only to see he was gone, reading in an antique leather armchair by the window. I then realized the source of the rot. There was a magnolia tree next to the window, clearly overtaken by parasites, and it was still making a pitiful attempt to grow in spite of those circumstances. I finally took a chance to look at the sparsely decorated room. He had a desk, along with a print of Saturn Devouring His Son framed above it. Countless shelves of old books, somehow all hard-back copies in myriad foreign languages. The bed frame was iron, some kind of antique, and the bed itself was shockingly large. The sheets were pure white cotton. I turned down to glance at my clothes, a far cry from the drawers and undershirt I’d been wearing for the past few weeks.
“Hm, you are finally awake.” He said, not looking up from his book. “I was thinking of waking you up myself, however, It did seem like you desperately needed rest.”
“What time is it?” I groaned, collapsing back onto the bed.
“Eleven A.M.”
“Did you make breakfast?”
“No, I was waiting for you. I wanted us to eat together, so we could talk.”
His fingers traced over the thin parchment of the book’s pages as he went to turn one, his poor posture causing his hair to fall and hide most of his face. What could be seen was illuminated by golden sunlight, gently outlining his skin, his lips, so gently bouncing off his eyelashes, and shining against his dark hair. He blinked slowly, and turned his eyes–but not his head–to me. Making a small ‘hm?’ sound, a passive-aggressive command for me to follow him somewhere, a command I’d happily oblige.
“What would you like to eat? I apologize, but I do not keep my kitchen well-stocked.” He asked while rummaging through the cupboards, refrigerator, and drawers. I was standing in front of the sort of “bar” area the kitchen had, separating it from the dining room, while Fyodor was on the other side. There was a counter, yes, but not the space needed to house anything but a few narrow glasses.
“I’m fine with just toast, or egg on rice. I don’t really care.”
His head pops up from behind the bar. “Toast it is, then. Would you like any tea?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I replied, sitting down at the small table in his dining room. However, to call it a dining room would be a disrespectful stretch of the imagination. It was hardly larger than the bedroom, which was already claustrophobic, though cozy. The dining room, however, had the single table I was at, which could seat three people, two chairs, and one window with the blinds drawn. The only source of light was the multiple lamps strewn across the room that Fyodor had seemingly chosen in favor of an overhead light. Some were expensive, meant to look like flowers, others were seemingly from the side of the road or a charity shop. The apartment was so delightfully well-lived in, that I truly reveled in how everything about it was steeped in Fyodor’s existence, even if he didn’t notice it like I did. I was spooked by Fyodor placing down a teacup in front of me, as well as the rest of the set–sugar and milk–before he sat down next to me.
“Now, do you know why I invited you to live with me?”
“I don’t, no. Whatever reason you have just isn’t something I particularly care about.”
“I did not want anybody else to have you; Now that you are free from the Port Mafia and Mori’s slimy hands. I think there are ways in which you can help me, and I can help you. And I must admit, I am very lonely.”
“Wow, you see me as such a treasure… I’m so honored!” I replied. Dripping with faux happiness, covering my face, and batting my hands like some damsel. “You really must stop, Fyodor. You’re making me blush! Gosh, you’re so territorial , wow! Do you use that line with all the young men you like to pick up and strip down?” I turned in my wooden chair to finally face him, resting my head on my palm.
“Dazai, have you considered that if you stopped assuming the worst of everybody, you may end up happier?” He sat down across from me, and I easily could (and likely should) keep up the pedantic rascal act to make up for how pathetic and embarrassingly I acted the night before. Unfortunately for me, he was sipping his tea while looking down at me like I was nothing more than dirt tracked onto a new rug, and it was making my face turn hot.
He fell victim to a sudden muscle spasm and ended up spilling his tea just a bit. Of course, I watched that tea drop’s valiant journey as it ran down the side of his mouth, down his jawline, and onto his neck. For a moment I could feel all my organs simultaneously fail due to the sheer power of my carnal desires towards that man. None of my other bodily functions were important in comparison to entertaining absolutely filthy thoughts that made me lose faith in humanity; for if I could think of these things, then so could anyone, and I don’t want to live in a world with people capable of such utter depravity. He tucked some hair behind an ear, revealing more of his neck. Oh, how pale, fragile skin stretched across muscle and vein. Forgive me, please, for saying this: there exists many things in this world that one wishes to lick but knows he must not. You have salt lamps, precious minerals, other people’s food, and of course, the neck (and possibly other body parts) of a strange and notoriously fatal man who took you to his home while drunk. The reason for wanting to do such a peculiar and frankly unsanitary thing isn’t only motivated by simple sexual desire or curiosity as to what a demon would taste like, but so much more.
You see, if you are in the position where you can lick someone, it’s never somewhere like on the bus or while walking down the street. It’s somewhere much more quiet, much more personal and private. It could be a bathroom, an alleyway, a bedroom, or, perhaps, a poorly lit dining room where your subject has carelessly spilled tea upon himself and it is your duty as a guest to clean that tea off him without wasting towels. That itself is already a great honor, indeed. It is not, and was never about the actual act itself, but the context. You’re able to entertain the literal feeling of needing to consume someone you feel connected to. It’s not fundamentally sexual, despite what people may believe. Is a kiss inherently sexual because it frequently happens during sex, or is it just an act of closeness? To add on, when you are in a situation where you can lick another person, the other participant should, hopefully, be willing. He can be shameful, yes, and he can perhaps spend some time talking about how he thinks your behaviour is disgusting and unthinkable, but he is still allowing himself to be held in place as you lay claim to his existence. You will be able to smell–and of course–taste him, but what’s more is that the tongue is a particularly sensitive muscle. So, if you pay close attention, you can feel his heartbeat. If you’re very lucky, you can experience his heartbeat grow in speed as he pretends to be nauseated but quickly gives in as he realizes that he cannot hide from the exceedingly obvious reactions of his own body. You are able to know that another person will accept a disgusting act and perhaps even enjoy it because they can be close to you. Or, you could do such a thing simply due to the novelty of such an opportunity.
Or, he may just stare at you from across the table, wondering why your head is in your hands, your fingers are tangled in your hair, and you’re looking down at your placemat and teacup, breathing heavily.
“Hm, and about the ‘stripping down’ comment, I will not do it again if it makes you uncomfortable. The next time you are irrevocably plastered, I can leave you to clean yourself up. And If it’s any consolation, I did not see anything shocking. Or impressive.” He punctuated this with another sip. I won’t lie to you. I stared at him completely dumbfounded.
“You sassy motherfucker,” I grumbled, grabbing the teacup in front of me, looking down with suspicion. “You probably drugged this, hm? If I drink this, am I going to wake up in an ice-filled tub at a hotel bathroom somewhere, missing a kidney?”
“You would be missing more than just a kidney if I were planning that.” He said, flatly.
“What, would you take my balls or something?”
He didn’t respond. Now, let me be clear: I would, probably, let him do something bordering or crossing the line into medical malpractice to me. Yes, dear reader, you may say to yourself: “Why, this Dazai fellow acts like a harlot! Stripping on the first date, letting another man he barely knows conduct unethical experiments on his sexy little body! What a horrible example to set for younger generations! Nay, what a horrible example of the human race as a whole! We should tear this man up and scatter him into the winds so he may never haunt this earth again!” And while I’m perfectly fine with entertaining any argument you throw my way, I cannot defend myself against the allegations that I would let nearly anybody into my bed. But, what I can say with much certainty is that I could count on two amputated hands how many have touched my heart! If Fyodor, for whatever reason, would wish to cut into me, to crack my ribcage open like a cocoon, and be able to see what lies inside me, I would accept due to the sheer possibility that even with (or without) anesthesia, I could possibly feel something even deeper than the acceptance I experienced in his bathtub last night.
Fyodor has taken a cloth napkin to blot at his neck and shirt-collar and is now staring at me, annoyed. He sighs, then speaks: “You keep such a strong fortress around your heart that it impedes everything. It is a wonder that you can get anything done like this. You would refuse to eat a simple meal for fear that you would miss it too much after finishing it! Your fears of grief and loss have been proven correct recently, and for that I am sorry, but you cannot keep up your jester’s act with me as it is an insult to the intelligence of us both. Now, either have a rational conversation with me like an adult or don’t speak at all.”
How dare he bring up Odasaku like that, how dare he nonchalantly mention him in a sentence about his complete awareness of Odasaku’s importance to me. Like it made speaking to me inconvenient for him. Like it made me annoying. If I had half a mind, I’d bound over the table and snap his neck with whatever limb could reach him first. I’d make him into a rotten fruit, where thin skin is the only thing keeping foul-smelling, sticky rot from exploding onto you, I’d make him into a stepped-on spider, I’d remind him exactly why he kept me here. What an evil creature. I stood up from the table, forcing my chair to make an uncomfortable screeching sound before it fell over as I began to storm off.
“How arrogant to think I act like this out of fear that I’d grow attached to you.” I practically hissed.
Fyodor gasped, and so quickly took off after me. He moved in such a peculiar way. You see, Mori had taken me to see “ The White Swan ” at the Mariinsky Ballet while we were on business in Petersburg. I, of course, hated the idea. I loathed being around him like I did now, I whined at length about how it was going to be boring, that I thought he was the most annoying person to ever live while he excitedly dragged me around to his associates in the Bratva and introduced me as his son. I was disgusted, but too scared to tell his associates the truth I’d repeatedly threatened in the drive over. I was angry and ashamed, but when we were in our (likely very expensive) seats, I could only pretend to hate the ballet for so long. I’m telling you this because it was so strange: he moved just like Odette; as if he walked on air, had not a single joint, instead only blades of grass moving in the wind, the idea of his movements making any sound was preposterous, he was nothing more than the physical personification of grace. That’s why it took me by surprise when he grabbed me by the forearm.
“That is not what I was saying, not in the slightest. You fear growing attached to me like you fear growing attached to anybody because you are human. You wish to keep people as far away from who you truly are because the heart is something so sensitive, so raw. It is almost like an open wound, someone touching it is horribly painful. Dazai, I understand such a thing. I did not invite you here to hurt you, I have taken you in because I believe we are similar people.”
I hate how deeply he enchants me. Oh, I despise it. I wasn’t a flippant person before but as you can imagine, in recent weeks my life has gone through many changes that I’m still acclimating to. I don’t like that I look at Fyodor like he hangs the stars in the sky not only because I currently hate him, but because he knows how to get under my skin so expertly and does it with a kind of confidence that only I would notice. He’s angry that I won’t lower my defenses around him because he can already peer inside my mind, heart, soul, spirit, anything dear to me or inherent to my being is laid bare for him regardless if I want it to or not. He sees my attempt to hide myself from the world as an insult to him. He sees me differently from the rest of the world and knows that I do the same, but my strange, stubborn insistence to pretend otherwise is insulting, it is disgusting. I know that the defenses I have are little more than formalities and embarrassing instincts tantamount to an ostrich burying its head in the sand when it senses danger. There are two camps in my mind right now, one of them is yelling:
“ Why, of course, Osamu is keeping himself safe like this! What, does one walk into battle without armor? Does one ride a motorcycle without a helmet? No, I think not! Just because you are enchanted by the demon’s shiny hair and kind words does not mean you can shed your breastplate before him in a room where he keeps the hearts of his enemies displayed on the walls! Who is to say he even sees all? What will you do if he makes the same realization as everyone else? ”
The other party fiddles with a stack of papers, awkwardly shuffling them whilst whispering amongst themselves. You must admit, they make good points. Finally, they stand up and speak.
“ While Osamu raises some terrific points about Osamu hiding himself from others, comparing Fyodor to the average person is a massive oversight on Osamu’s part. He clearly has already seen us for who we are, and only wishes for us to be comfortable with him! He is a demon, do you not remember? He may be the only person to ever properly understand us! ”
“ But don’t you see, Osamu? Such is the problem! When have we ever gained anything from being understood? We have only lost, and lost, and lost! ”
“ Therein lies the true problem, Osamu! Those people never did completely understand us, no! They could see, but not understand! We can see through Fyodor as he does us, we know the threads holding his being are the same as ours! ”
The other party pauses.
“ I suppose you’re right, Osamu. ”
“ Thank you, Osamu. ”
Fyodor has been staring at me for some time now. He’s still holding my forearm as I don’t pull away, as my arm goes limp and accepts his grasp. I don’t know how to react to anything. It’s humiliating, because unlike anybody before who has bore witness to my hardship, he doesn’t regard me with pity or empathy, but instead with complete recognition. There’s a look in his eyes that I’d never seen before from anybody. I don’t think I could ever describe it. It was like looking in a mirror and not only recognizing but not hating your reflection on the other side. I’d never experienced such softness in my life and it felt so heavenly upon my wounded, bleeding soul. I couldn’t stop myself from sinking into the ground, praying it’d open up and swallow me so I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my life giving into closeness to feel that good again. Fyodor sat in front of me and pulled me into him, my head on his shoulder. He held me differently from in bed, like it were windy and I was made from the most fragile tissue paper and he had to toe the line between tearing me and letting me fly away. I didn’t realize I was crying until I felt the fabric my face was pressed into growing wet, and then the spider’s thread that had been holding my emotions together since I was in that hall with Odasaku’s corpse finally snapped. I clung to Fyodor like I was trying to pass through his body, I wailed like my leg was caught in a bear trap, I cried so terribly because I never learned how to.
Fyodor’s grip on me loosened so he could take a hand to caress my hair. He hummed softly, not to drown out my howls, but to fill the space usurped by grief. He rubbed small circles into my back as I hiccuped into his chest and I began to blabber things whose meaning escapes me, even now. He leaned over to kiss the top of my head and kept his face there, his hums vibrating across my skull in the quiet hallway. I could have lay there and sobbed for centuries, I didn’t know. I’d never experienced being so fully in one place feeling one thing in my entire life, I’d never felt so much in my whole life. While so many emotions flowed through my ragged body, they were, in essence, all one. I didn’t want to indulge in my typical reaction when confronted with pain, that being limp off and indulge in whatever distraction I’d grown fond of recently. I hadn’t given pain enough thought to realize that the sensation we associate with it isn’t a static thing, but a release. There are small points in your body where emotions can escape, through your mouth and eyes and maybe even nose. When emotions are too big for your body, of course, they’re going to hurt when they escape. Grief is the biggest and therefore the most painful emotion you can feel, because an entire person has to make its way out of your body.
“You are safe here, Osamu. Nobody is coming to hurt you. Nobody will ever hurt you again. I am sorry for waiting so long to save you from all that darkness, I will spend the rest of your life making up for such a thing, please know that it tore me to pieces. My Спящая красавица, you can wake now, your kingdom awaits. The danger that threatened you does not exist anymore. The world is so beautiful now, do you know?”
He kisses my forehead again, pulling me closer. He could say anything to me and I would happily accept it so long as he still held me and let me cry. He runs a hand through my bangs, and I look up at him for the first time in what could very likely be one hundred years, and he’s smiling. He wipes a tear from my eyes, and such a tender act was too kind, too foreign, that it caused me to begin crying again.
“Ah, you’re far too kind to me. Surely you know somebody like me doesn’t deserve this kindness.”
“You bewitch me, Osamu. You bewitch the senses and the mind. When I saw you at that counter, when I sat down next to you, it was as if every single need and goal I had ever experienced was consummated in one moment. You have complete purity within you, and it was so beautiful that I truly feared that I could die. I had only dreamt of such a thing.” He kissed my cheek, but it felt more like he’d smiled into it. “There is not a single thing you could do that could manage to erase what is within you, what is immaculate. They tried, Osamu, and how I wish I could have stopped them, it may be my only regret. But despite so many efforts, despite all they did to stomp out your virtue, they did not succeed. Oh, my beautiful boy. It is all as I had hoped, I had worried you would not accept me as I did you, but that was so foolish of me, so foolish. I am sorry for getting angry earlier, know that you will never see me that way again.”
To be frank, I was not paying attention to a single word he said. I could hear that his voice was gentle and kind and that he looked at me as if I were the only good thing in the world, and it was clear he believed it fully. That was all I needed to know, I just needed to feel someone love me while I cried. I mentioned earlier, which may have been centuries ago, that I was attracted to him. This was never a “love at first sight” scenario, though if you have ever met the right person, there’s a sort of knowing feeling that comes with meeting them. However, Fyodor is the same as me, especially in the sense that we can understand every person we meet whereas nobody has ever understood us. I can’t accurately describe the feeling because my life has always been so different from others, but more than that, I can’t imagine that my previous happy moments could ever compare to how happy I feel right now, crying in his arms. I had not only experienced unconditional love for the first time, but I experienced it at the hands of someone who I knew deep down would be the only person to ever truly understand me. Life had become so much easier than I ever could have imagined in a matter of seconds. Everything was different now. He kissed my cheek again. I think it’s unfair to describe this feeling as “love” because it diminishes how impactful it is, it makes it seem like something that can only be romantic or platonic or something that you could ever stop feeling. This, instead, is as if a light had been turned on in a very dark room for the first time. It was like seeing color. Any romantic love I feel for Fyodor, no matter how much or how deeply I feel it, will never be comparable to this feeling or the knowledge that there is another person in this world who can understand me so deeply, another person who needs nothing more than to be understood. Maybe such a phenomenon can only properly be expressed through romantic or platonic gestures, and I’m content with that. I’m okay with this feeling being indescribable because I know I’ll never stop feeling it.
So there we lie in the hallway, still reeling from the opening of a door.