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A kiss on the cheek. This is as much affection as Dostoyevsky would allow for a simple greeting — too intimate to anyone who knows him, yet too ambiguous for the onlookers to discern much about the nature of their relationship; However many of those there can be on an out of the way alley bathed in the dull warm light of Yokohama dawn.
Dazai nowadays tends towards expressive and affectionate either way, and maybe it makes the touch easier for Dostoyevsky to swallow. Or maybe it's the time they've been together; The time they've spent together; The time Dostoyevsky spent in Yokohama. A combination of all of these factors and more that change his reluctance to show that Dazai is anything other than a rival, or, perhaps, when the both of them are in a more amiable mood, a friend.
A curt nod, a small smile and a brief touch of an arm on his back, in an almost, but not quite a hug, is all Dazai receives in return, accompanied by a quiet, ever distant, “It is nice to see you again, Dazai-san.” It is so much already. They’re close enough to feel the low scent of chamomile on Dostoyevsky’s skin — close enough for him to feel Dazai’s own muted scent. It used to make Dostoyevsky wrinkle his nose. It used to make his eyes shift. It used to make him hate the reminder.
Maybe he’s grown to accept it by now. Maybe he’s just grown better at hiding. Maybe he doesn’t feel the need to show his distaste anymore. Dazai doesn’t not care, but he’s sure he’ll figure it out sooner rather than later. There is no need to waste time on pointless interrogation. Not when time together can be far better spent and time apart means only more opportunity to think and look.
Dostoyevsky has been away from the city for two months now. Clearly, he hasn't missed Dazai. Clearly, Dazai hasn't missed him. But both of them have felt the ache of unwanted distance in the light of an unnecessary necessity, leaving the world around awash in boredom, in simmering dark anticipation flowing just under the skin.
Isolation never felt quite like this before, Dazai doesn’t think. Explosive. Distracting. Active. It’s an exciting feeling as much as it is
“Likewise,” he says, smiling brightly at the other beta. “It’s been too long since you’ve made time for little old me. What’s so important as to keep you away, I wonder, hm?” There is no expectation of a truthful answer. There is no expectation of a proper answer at all.
Dostoyevsky holds a pause, as if deciding how to respond, “A simple visit home, nothing more. Even I miss it, believe it or not.”
Dazai does. He has heard Dostoyevsky talk about it plenty. It doesn’t mean that there isn’t more to it — more that he wants Dazai to infer and to find. It also means that being by his side might get a little more difficult in the coming days. Visiting Russia always brings back the worst in Dostoyevsky when it comes to them.
They walk the street, a polite distance between them, but side by side nevertheless, aimless and not. Simply enjoying the weather and the company for the moment. Giving Dazai the time to decide which unofficial landmarks to show off this time — too many visited and too many left to visit — and Dostoyevsky the time to think on how to prompt him on a tour of less accessible of them. They have their plans and their contingencies, but nothing beats thinking side by side.
Dazai tries to reach out a time or two, to simply touch hands or maybe to intertwine their fingers for only a moment — conscious of Dostoyevsky’s boundaries and wanting to push them at once — but Dostoyevsky avoids him without making it look obvious; a sure sign that he is very intentional with it.
Dazai could pout about it, if he was feeling up to an argument. He could smile and touch and drag Dostoyevsky too close if he was feeling up to ending their little date for the day. He could bring them somewhere more private, where there will just be the two of them and Dostoyevsky’s reluctant hypocrisy. For the moment, he does none of it.
It isn’t like a sight of two betas together would scandalise anyone in Japan , even if the fact that the both of them are men would raise an eyebrow or two. Dazai stopped paying attention to it years ago, when it became clear there’s no interest in provoking a lukewarm reaction, not in most circles.
It isn’t like Dostoyevsky cares about the Japanese public, is the funny thing. And it isn’t like his G-d is any less present in private. But whatever helps him sleep at night, Dazai thinks; Whatever helps to keep him in Dazai’s bed for it.
A slide of fingertips on the shoulder to redirect Dostoyevsky down the street into a charming little cafe that would be open this early. A detour, sure, but it is close and it has some good coffee. Dazai feels like a cup of caffeine to calm the mind right now.
It is also an excuse for an acceptable touch. Not that he thinks too hard about it.
Dostoyevsky stiffens for the briefest of moments before complying, and does not pause his monologue about new developments in literature.
A soft bump of a foot against a foot as the two of them sit down at a cosy booth.
Dazai has never been a particularly tactile person — not like Chūya or Ranpo-san or Atsushi-kun — even if he has gotten better at understanding his needs. Maybe it’s the lack of instinct, maybe it’s his life experience, maybe it’s just him; it doesn’t particularly matter. This is enough.
He never bothered to find out if Dostoyevsky is. With each passing day, he wonders more and more if a flinch means distaste or overwhelm.
It’s something to investigate.