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One romantic dinner, that had been Dazai’s request.
Fyodor had acquiesced, preparing everything carefully. When Dazai had returned, the table was laid, five black candles flickering in one line down the center of the table, assorted Russian dishes Dazai wasn’t familiar with set around them. And two tableplaces, one at each end.
Dazai had stifled a grin, letting Fyodor pull his chair out for him. Undoubtedly, there was a catch-- they wouldn’t be them without a catch, of course-- but he let himself indulge, taking his seat across from Fyodor.
As their usual dinners went, Fyodor bowed his head and his lips moved silently, hands clasped. It intrigues Dazai, but he didn’t dare interrupt, instead taking in the dishes Fyodor had prepared. It was mildly surprising that Fyodor had any cooking ability at all, but Dazai should have known better than to underestimate him.
He lets Fyodor fill his plate, watching his hands move deftly.
“I’m pleased, Fedya,” Dazai murmurs, beginning to pick at his food.
Fyodor gives him a wry grin. “What were you expecting?”
Dazai shrugs, taking a bite. It’s delicious, rich and expertly prepared. Fyodor watches him chew with dark eyes, as if appraising his reaction. Dazai says nothing, instead sweeping his gaze over the candles. It’s all horribly domestic, sickeningly sweet. He’s poised in anticipation for the twist, giddy excitement and heady fear swirling in his bloodstream.
“Do you like it?” Fyodor asks. He still hasn’t eaten any of his own meal, seemingly more interested in Dazai’s approval. A delightful front.
Dazai takes another bite, humming an approving moan, overly lewd. Fyodor’s eyelashes flutter imperceptibly, gaze fixating on his lips once again.
“I bought wine, too.” Fyodor’s fingers close around the bottle, uncorked to decant in anticipation of Dazai’s arrival, and he leans forward, pouring deep red liquid into Dazai’s glass.
Wrinkling his nose, Dazai takes the glass. “I hate wine.”
“I know. Drink.”
Dazai remains still, waiting for Fyodor to finish pouring his own glass. And then he nods his head, gesturing with his chin as if to say, you first . A pleased smile slides across Fyodor’s lips before he brings his glass to his lips, taking an indulgent sip.
Only then, satisfied that there’s nothing in the wine, does Dazai take his own sip. It’s acidic and overly sweet, and he swallows with difficulty, glaring at Fyodor all the while before lowering his glass. As he reaches to set it back down, the glass slips from Dazai’s hands, crashing to the table. It splinters and shatters, crystal shards sprinkling the tabletop, glittering in the candlelight.
“Ah,” Dazai says, staring at the slivers. His vision is spinning, and he stares at the food on his plate, a quarter or so gone now.
“Ah,” Fyodor repeats, sipping his wine. He doesn’t move to eat, instead pillowing his chin in his other hand. “Do you think I’d be so amateur to spike the wine, Dazai? I’m displeased that you think so little of me.”
Dazai puts his hands on the table, fingers skimming the glass shards. They poke and stick at his fingers, tiny droplets of blood beading and staining his fingertips red. He braces his weight against the table, looking up at Fyodor through his lashes. His eyes are dark, and he watches Dazai struggle to keep upright.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” He says, voice shaking. Little dark spots appear at the edges of his vision. He tries going through his mental catalogue, trying to figure out what Fyodor’s given him. A weak enough taste to be disguised by the food, a strong enough dose to affect him within five minutes of ingestion… It’s hard, with his mind fogged, barely able to keep his focus on Fyodor’s smile. “I guess,” He says, panting slightly, “I just wanted to believe you wanted a nice romantic dinner as much as I do.”
Fyodor’s smile is tinged with pity, as if Dazai’s said something adorable. “You more than anyone should understand being careful what you wish for, Dazai dearest.”
Dazai clumsily shoves his plate out of the way to avoid planting his face in it, instead laying his head on his arms on the tabletop. His body feels heavy, almost pleasantly so. He wonders what Fyodor has in store for him, excitement coursing through him as he closes his eyes.
“Is this what you wanted, Dazai?” There’s the sound of Fyodor’s chair pushing back against the floor, and then his steps rounding the table, the sound echoing in Dazai’s skull. Cold fingers descend into Dazai’s hair, scratching at his scalp gently. “Satisfied?”
Dazai hums his agreement before drifting off.