Chapter Text
In the middle of a snowstorm, at an ungodly time of the night and for the hundredth time today, the man takes out a cigarette from the inner pocket of his coat, leans somewhat forward and makes a cover with his hand as he lights it with an old, metal lighter. He breathes in quietly.
There is no one else out here besides him. A reasonable choice given the ominous weather, although it doesn't really matter as he stands out unfailingly even when there is nobody else in the vicinity. A man like him is not hard to spot in a crowd. Right now, though, in his own silence, he stands.
Snow sprinkles over the land. The dirty yellow light from the street lamp flickers. This part of the city isn’t the best maintained, considering it is where the bounds meet the neighboring town’s borders - here it is out of sight, and quite literally out of mind, not to mention how with the approaching harshness of winter there is a growing likelihood that the responsible authorities will tend to bypass this area when reviewing their mandate.
It’s a forgotten corner of the country. No El Dorado; a ghost town, rather.
Only few people live here, and honestly, if most didn’t work around, they wouldn’t either. It’s debatable whether it feels like a decent settlement nevertheless: It has the houses, some shops and the small, rundown square; considerably all the organs to make it a whole, although at a bare minimum. The west of it blends into a forest. Seemingly, there has been an attempt on creating some sort of a public park at the edge of it, but after a few meters of fence that has been messily worked on the ground, whoever walks there finds that their soles land back on the dark and moist forest soil.
In the middle of this desolation, burdened with the must of being forced to endure this middle-of-nowhere propped right against a grim forest, it is no doubt that people enter their homes, lock their doors and draw their curtains as soon as it starts to get dark.
They’re not to blame. No matter how you try to look at it, there's nothing uplifting about this place.
It’s been a couple of days since he’s arrived here. In a coal-powered train - do these really still exist? - which has this town as its end destination, ridden by a number of people no bigger than a bunch, he had stepped on its gravely ground the first time, and even breathing in the chilly mist that never seems to leave its hold on the collar of the town had brought a disdain to him. The first impression was bad, and unsurprisingly, the effect of it stayed for the following few days.
A funnily perfect place to have as a finishing point, but a pity. To have this place where your path ends, where you die, it’s simply… sad. One more idle thought spent on it, and he could almost feel a mock sympathy start in him. Meaningless lives spent for meaningless deaths. Even the train faring here turns round back each time.
Coupled with this irony is a disgusting image of this town as the perfect place to commit murder. The 'how' and the 'when' of such an occurrence would not be noticed by anyone here, and this is a perfectly normal thought for a man with a vested interest in this very phenomenon.
There might already be sorts of rumors. Who knows.
He doesn’t doubt that even when the clearly inevitable hypothetical murder case does happen, the town would swallow it whole into nonexistence. The people, again, don’t care much for what happens here as long as the end of it doesn’t touch them. It’s a ghost town after sunset everyday, most probably a collective instinct-fueled measure of safety. It’s natural to be anxious about it here, and it’s more natural to want to avoid this unknown danger everyone seems to be running from.
Hence it’s a relief to say that since the man first came to this town, every single night of his was spent with quiet, long walks on the isolated, gravely streets.
This was more of a hobby than a habit of his. Taking the time to walk around wherever he’s staying at that time has more returns than anyone would think. Aside from a couple of minutes he can enjoy the silence of the night, it is a way for him to check around the area, see if anyone other than himself enjoys this lonely and morbid hobby, usually no one does, and a quick glimpse at the nooks and crannies of the town and the streets that run around and through it.
And so it’s a surprise when he hears footsteps crushing the freshly fallen snow behind where he’s standing. He ignores the noises.
It’s midnight, for God’s sake. No one simply decides to take a walk here at this hour. Except him, of course.
It’s a starless night. The man holds the cigarette against his lips as he tilts his head up in search of some. This, too, isn’t odd here. Somehow, every single night sky in this town is a black blanket, and each morning, when you finally wish for some sun, an unending winter fog enwraps you like a gauzy curtain blown by a wind. Again, just like the day he first stepped here. All the same.
Whoever’s behind him walks around, sometimes almost featherlike, and crushes the snow under their weight as they do. They don’t approach him, just as he doesn’t approach them.
This time, he focuses on the flickering of the street lamp. It is obsolete like every single other thing in this town, paint peeled at places from the harsh weather that visits here, supposedly left to do its job with no further care after its first planting.
The man takes a drag down in his lungs, and counts the blinks of the yellow light as he does. They are unrhythmic. The sound of steps crunching the snow gets pushed to the background in his mind. He counts. One, two.
Three.
An exhale. The person seems to have wandered off towards the other end of the street - the prior silence embraces his senses once more, and he drops the cigarette butt on the ground, not bothering to crush it dim under his heel. The snow does the job.
The cold of the air is heavily contrasting to the burning warmth he was breathing in. It’s soft, luckily, thanks to the humidity of winter, but foreign. He isn’t used to a gentle cold.
A few seconds, then the crunches return. The man scoffs and lights another cigarette. The heat of it tingles on his lips. Its smoke sweetly burns in his throat.
He wouldn’t rather be here either. Work, like every other person, had dragged him here. Some documents to be found, a few deals to be made, one, or if needed, two heads severed: just the usual. But it really just had to be this shithole of a town, apparently.
The lighter makes another appearance, and the man leans over slightly to protect the newborn fire until it burns the end of the cigarette. Its warmth matters up to the second it’s done its duty, then, in a mindless flick of the wrist, dead.
It’s getting late. In his mind, he revisits what he has to do tomorrow. It hasn’t been even a week since he came here, which means there still is much to do. Planning beforehand helps, usually, although it’s hardly enough to think everything over more than roughly.
Crunch, crunch, crunch, then a stop. The man groans. For just a moment he had forgotten about the guy at the back walking in circles on the snow. A short serene silence, then the noises start again. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch…
He glances over slightly to the side and watches. He was annoyed before, about how the organization basically shoved him in this town, chewing on some excuses about how he is the only one who knows how to convince a man; about the cold, about how it is impossible to find an open place after the clock hits five in the afternoon, and now, at the seemingly unending crunching sounds.
It all happens between an inhale and an exhale.
He turns back completely. “...Who are you?”
His tone is not pleased, neither is it friendly. Looking for a piece of mind genuinely shouldn’t be this hard.
The other notices the man’s voice directed at him, and turns their head towards the source. From far away, the snow and the fog over the dark night sky hides their features pretty well, and their huge albeit light coat compliments this mysterious aura perfectly, covering them almost entirely, fitting itself perfectly around their silhouette. When their face finally turns towards the standing man; their curly, dark hair and equally rich brown eyes come clear into vision.
The stranger gazes back, almost emptily. “Why do you ask?”
The other one scoffs. The fact that he asks this question, as if he is not loitering all and around him at this time of night, and as if all the streets in this big neighborhood aren’t dead empty; like a faithful honey bee trying to land on a lonely flower - it makes him question his insolence cynically. “The same reason you approached me in this big, empty park.”
“I didn’t approach you.” An annoyingly cheeky chuckle.
“Certainly would’ve been less of a headache for me if you didn’t.” The smoking man isn’t happier now that they’re conversing.
“Dazai.”
“Hm?”
“My name. You asked.”
The man blinks, more sneering than surprised. “Right.”
Dazai does not speak further. So the man just turns back ahead, occasionally taking drags from his cigarette. The smoke he blows out rises slowly with how cold the weather is. Light hits snowflakes one by one where each layer over the smoke.
His mind trails back to tomorrow, and many other tomorrows he has to spend here. The more he thinks, the more his disdain to the town grows. Nothing to do during the day, nothing to do during the night, not one person interesting enough to strike a conversation, not that he would, but still - nowhere interesting to even wander around, nothing to spend time with, absolutely nothing special.
The worst part is, he can’t rush and speed things up. The job he does, it’s delicate, and he should act so. Mistakes aren’t allowed. Especially ones he willingly causes himself.
He notices that the curly haired man, Dazai, doesn’t say anything more. No more crunching of the snow either. He stays standing, perfectly still. Doing nothing.
Back to his thoughts: Tomorrow, he goes to that one location, finds that one guy, strikes him with a deal, which under the pleasant facade of a compromise, is an innocent ambush. Quite innocent, until his deal is turned away, and if it’s with the back of a hand, oh man, a treat. Then he has some fun.
Nevertheless, he still has to wait for command before he moves. And that old bastard at the head of the organization just loves to make him wait and wait and wait, then send him to the most absurd corners of the country. Abruptly. By giving notice on the day before.
He glances once more to the side. Dazai hasn’t moved an inch. His collar still covers the bottom half of his face and he’s snuggled to it like he’s cold. What’s weird is, that even in this freezing weather, the tip of his nose hasn’t earned its red, even pink color. The man can’t see what Dazai has under that thin coat. Nothing warm, feasibly.
The snowflakes hang onto Dazai’s curls, which thereupon melt away in a second, then to be replaced by more. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his light colored coat. His eyes are set on the barely visible scenery of the freshly snowed on park, which grants the other a clear view of his full side profile. Just a man around his thirties, somehow keenly decided on including himself to his alone smoking time and search of silent peace.
Dazai’s eyes move along with the accelerating wind, in the same direction the snow is now getting blown towards. His nose has a nice slope from the side, and his eyelashes have grown white with the snow stuck on them. Still, it’s weird that he doesn’t seem cold at all.
Another drag from the cigarette, and the man averts his eyes first before fixing them right on the other.
It must be nice living plainly, he thinks. The people of this place, the people back there before he was assigned here… It is how this Dazai must be living like, he assumes. An indifferent, sarcastic man clearly still living powered by the fire of his adolescence - what business would he have out in the streets otherwise, at this hour, when everyone else with a piece of mind is inside?
Maybe he would have less stress if he lived like him, so the man contemplates. But duty is duty, and someone has to do the things no one is willing to. Is it a noble job, no; but it’s for the better of humanity. So what if he has to average a kill every week, hopping from town to town, to blanket people's senses with buttered up offers and a pose of elegance and wisdom and catch them by the heels at their first moment of vulnerability? Someone has to do it, and that is him.
The question escapes him faster than he can weigh the consequences. A first mistake on his part.
“Have you ever killed before?”
Dazai clicks his tongue in reply. An unhesitating, short but candid answer. The man casually presses further.
“Have you ever wanted to?”
Dazai chuckles. “Such odd questions to ask someone you just met, aren’t they?”
“Not for me, no.”
Pairing his simple answer, he delves once more in deep thought, putting his weight on another leg and taking in the cold air with a light sniffle. Dazai watches him curiously, not hiding it, or even trying to, then hums thoughtfully. It’s not clear whether the man’s words make him think, or that he can’t get himself to care.
“Have you?” The man doesn’t say anything. “You must have, if you’re thinking about it.”
Dazai seems almost mocking. He could just leave, now that the conversation has gotten to the point where he might accidentally say anything he shouldn't be saying, but it’s the end of a long day, and the burning taste of his cigarette contrasts just sweetly with the cold weather. He doesn’t want to leave, so he resorts to a sarcastic retort.
“How come you don't shiver in the cold at all? That coat isn’t very thick.”
“Avoiding the question, are we?”
Dazai’s snicker annoys the man more than the question.
“Not avoiding the question, just preferring not to answer. You certainly also did have that option.”
This time, Dazai chuckles. He says nothing else after.
For a third time, silence engulfs them. Snow falls, and smoke rises. Again, they meet in the middle from time to time, and the fire of the gray smoke melts the snowflakes at first contact. Before they find time to brace themselves for their coming tragedy, every first kiss that the smoke particles place on the snowflakes; each crystal carefully and divinely crafted, provokes them to meet an instantaneous end.
Fate works in favor of those snowflakes who only graze the rising smoke. The rest die at the hand of it.
The delicate nature of snowflakes is the reason why they end so rapidly. As fragile snowflakes are, smoke, in turn, has a contrastingly destructive nature - although even without the smoke, simply anything even slightly stronger is enough to melt them back into the water they were shaped from.
This is how it is; even if the snow were steel, diamond would be more than enough to destroy it.
The man watches Dazai stretch out a hand and watch the snow land on his palm. At first the snow gathers in a pile in Dazai’s hand, but before more than a few seconds pass, the pile is completely replenished as they melt with the heat of skin and pile all over again. The flow of nature, and a play-replica of Theseus' ship, literally right in the palm of one's hand.
But then, does fate work in favor of the snowflakes, actually? The smoke breathes and lives and moves in such randomness, such unpredictability that the risk of crossing paths with it sticks to the fragile snowflake, like an unwanted mark. A first meeting of one delegate of destruction and one that is to be destroyed brings the snowflake as an image of fear. Escaping what is coming for you once is luck, maybe mercy of some origin unknown; but a second time, a second chance exists as more than a question mark in mind.
If this indeed is a world of dualities we live in, then it is no surprise that by God’s hand, a life is coupled with its taker - like fire and water, and night and day, every switch of a twoness from one another back and forth is a game of give and take in its essence. The same hand of God who gives this twoness to the living world flips a coin of one side life and another death, giving, and taking, and so on forever.
Dazai watches the heat of his palm melt the falling snow for a while. Content in his silence, the smoking man turns back towards the scenery again, wanting to slip back into deep thought. It’s good to think - keeps the mind young, moreover, he has to keep his attention occupied somehow. That one excited slip of tongue put him in a position of suspicion. It doesn’t matter who it is. Even his unwanted companion who’s in over his head could catch a hunch. There’s really no need for unnecessary roughness in his mission.
So, well, again, tomorrow: be at that place at that hour, find the man, there should be a description given to him somewhere in the pile of files he was sent here with; talk to, interest, entice him, and in so doing tempt him, and…
He changes weight from one leg to the other, once more. He’s lost focus, and this time, it’s not the obliviously loud man standing next to him. He has to force himself to think again.
So, tomorrow: if the victim’s stupid enough to accept the deal - a clean job. That would additionally mean he has to wait a few days for the organization’s plan to stay on track, which also means a week more of staying here. However, he is given permission to take more drastic measures if the man resists. Then he can finish the job quickly, and without further ado, can leave back to where the organization headquarters are located immediately.
The headquarters is not his favorite place in the world either, but it is better than nothing, at least than here. He had already gotten used to it during his years in the organization anyway. If asked, he could honestly even say he was homesick at times – however doubtable it is to call there a home. He doesn’t think that way, he is certain, and he doesn’t see any connection his heart makes with the hours over hours of work time he’s spent there.
No matter what, for the greater good, he has to take part in a sacred cause that only a select few can achieve. It’s his identity - in a way that life would have led him down this route again if he hadn't crossed paths with that retired soldier all those years ago.
It’s just further proof that the mission, his reason, has always been there. It has simply always existed.
It's something that is woven into his destiny with the sharpest needle, as the thickest thread. So, consequently, he is fulfilling the purpose of his existence by doing his duty and letting his whole being be stitched into a holiness bigger than him, but no bigger than his purpose. He doesn’t care about the lives lost in his hands. He doesn’t care about the insane amounts of time he spends on thinking, planning and executing, nor about the mental weight of the fact that his mind is an ever-turning wheel. If some sort of an elimination is needed for a cleansing, spiritual and existential, so be it. Again, someone has to do the dirty work, and he definitely is not thinking about the morals of it.
Delving deep into the back of his mind like this calms his nerves down, and he brings his almost entirely burnt out cigarette back to his lips in an inner sense of victory. If everything goes according to the plan, good, if everything doesn’t go according to the plan, it at the end still does. He’ll take what he ought to take.
He blows out the smoke at the same moment he notices the other man staring at him. He doesn’t really want to talk more, but somehow, he, Dazai, has managed to intrigue him slightly. It’s the way he stands straight up in the wind, or the way he doesn’t seem to freeze in his thin beige coat, let alone feel the cold; or perhaps the way he paid no mind to his question which must have sounded concerning from the outside.
As though reading his mind, Dazai places a playful hand to his own waist, apparently having decided to pick up the conversation where they left it off, against the other’s wish, and asks: “You didn’t answer.”
The man stays apathetic. “Answer what?”
“Have you ever killed?” Dazai repeats himself, shamelessly referencing just fifteen minutes ago with a chaste tilt of his head. “You couldn’t have been thinking of an answer all this time, have you? Because that just gives me a plain, nice yes.”
“It’s none of your business, what I am thinking.”
Dazai is stubborn to the point of wearing his patience out and it's hard not to take heed. “I’m just saying,” he replies. He’s tugging at the ends of his own sleeves like a child now. “What else could you be thinking of?”
No answer. However, Dazai stays persistent.
“Do you always come out in the middle of the night to think?”
“I don’t live here,” the other mutters.
“Then - do you do it where you live?”
The man feels like telling him that he doesn’t just live somewhere, and the only home he can think of is the small house in his cold village where he grew up. He hasn’t been there for years. Maybe a decade, or more than one. Once he had left the nest, it was just him, out of that village and now everywhere; everywhere imaginable, once he found a group of people, then continued alone, then another group - as unstable as it sounds, his pushing force was the opposite. Again, the mission, holy. He might have existed at completely different places, living an unstable life, but his reason always existed. It exists.
And so he just shrugs. Dazai grins playfully, but the simple gesture doesn't seem to satiate his curiosity.
“Tell me, am I annoying you?” It’s a rhetorical question. It’s clear he knows what he’s doing.
“No.” The man really isn’t in the mood to let the loud, irritating man enjoy the fact that he’s successfully pissed him off. He keeps his voice low. “You’re just embarrassing yourself to a man foreign to you.”
“Foreign to me…” Dazai trails off, unlike the other, not in thought, but pestering him, “Foreign to this place…”
Before he can tell Dazai to shut it, the brunette steps right next to him and tugs on his sleeve with the tips of his fingers, annoyingly enough resembling, again, a child, and grins. “So. Why are you here? What do you do that it brought you here?”
“Nothing,” the man mutters. “Work.”
“What work? Your job?”
“Nothing interesting.”
The man, now pretty much exasperated, still feels Dazai’s fingers on his sleeve. He has a surprisingly strong grip and doesn’t seem like letting go so easily.
“So, a boring job? A boring job brought you to a boring town?” Dazai’s free hand is in his pocket. He seems fairly comfortable, doing his best to keep the small talk alive. A moment of silence passes from between them, and Dazai smiles in an imitation of having his feelings hurt, “Won’t you ask me anything?”
The other shakes his head lazily, not even turning to him. “No, not really.” He, once more, grabs the half-empty packet of cigarettes from his pocket, and adds an “I asked and you didn’t answer.”
“That wasn’t a question you would ask anyone.”
“Well, are you anyone?”
The man places another stick of cigarette nestled in between his lips. He knows his kind. Men who like to appear innocent, but mysterious, hang around you with a sickeningly fake light-heartedness clinging onto them, ask you questions even a child wouldn’t ask, and never give a truthful answer to the ones you offer them. Dazai is the same. The man knows who he’s dealing with - he’s dealt with his kind many times before.
He is smart enough not to ask a passerby on the street if he has ever killed a man before.
Fine, he made a mistake, obviously jumping right into it with how sudden his question was, but it doesn’t mean there’s no bouncing back. He simply has to make use of the fault he created unwillingly. However bad self-compromise is, you have to give something to get something – the elementary law of the universe. He must turn the mouth of the trap, the question, around. Still, Dazai successfully avoids the trap laid before him under the white layers of falling snow by simply walking around it. The man isn’t sure if on purpose or not.
“I like to think I am,” Dazai answers his sarcasm, “So it’s solved. I’ll ignore your question, hm?” Oh, so, on purpose. Dazai’s hand lets go of the sleeve he was holding onto and rises unhesitatingly to the other’s back to pat him once, then twice in a friendly manner. Meanwhile, the man visibly tries not to wince as he searches for his lighter, first in his coat pockets and then in his inside pockets.
“You’re a quiet one. Should’ve guessed. Wonder what kinds of thoughts pass through your mind… you should let some of them out of there or you won’t get any sleep tonight. Or any night.” He then chuckles at his own joke.
The other finds his lighter in the pocket he searches the last, and swiftly brings it close to his lips and lights it.
Dazai gets on board with it, for some reason: “No, it won’t light in this wind. Let me.” And he creates a cover with both his hands around the cigarette. The man’s dark eyes trail up to Dazai’s face in slight irritation, but nevertheless, he brings his lighter under the cover and lights the cigarette.
Dazai brings his hands down to his sides but doesn’t step back. The man breathes in and out, turning his head aside to blow out the smoke.
It really is cold, almost nearing the familiar chill he was used to as a child. After spending so much time in the south, well, it was south for him, he’d felt himself get used to milder weathers. It wasn’t bad to let himself soften up a bit, he’d thought at that time, but now, he even finds a little bit of shame rising up in him for feeling shivery.
Dazai doesn’t seem to be struggling – hell, he doesn’t seem cold at all. If it were not for the pink color at the tip of his nose, the other might even have started suspecting something was really odd with him.
“You’re doing it again.”
It, thinking in silence.
“This isn’t something I promptly do. It happens. You’re not very entertaining.”
Dazai raises an eyebrow, his demeanor shifting slightly. There’s a hint of seriousness in the other’s tone that apparently catches his attention. The cold wind sweeps through them, carrying the drop to coldness on Dazai’s face and along with it, a sense of tension.
“So, killing me, huh? What did I do to deserve such a fate?” Again, a shameless reference to that question.
Cigarette smoke, together with his breath meeting the freezing air, mixes with the cold as the other man silently exhales. “It’s not what you did, it’s what you are.” A perfect turnaround from the mistake.
Dazai tilts his head, intrigued. “And what am I?”
Nothing in the man’s expression changes. “A disturbance.”
“And you let me stay here this long.”
“I wanted to believe that you’d leave on your own.” A careless shrug. “But you’re persistent.”
Dazai is undeterred. The corners of his mouth are back to creasing in a vexing manner, and he leans towards the other man sideways, nudging him with his own shoulder. “I’m persistent by nature. Just how I am.” A wink. “It happens.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Tell me what you were thinking about. I feel like I’m already guessing it, but I’d like to hear it from you.”
Silence. The man doesn’t think Dazai can guess what he’s thinking about.
“I might be persistent, my friend, but you are a man of mystery,” mumbles Dazai, still not quite irritated, on the contrary, with a playfully troubled placement of his fingers over his lips. “With a penchant for the dramatic.”
The man, again, decides to pay him no mind. Dazai’s words linger in the air, stuck to the falling crystals of snow, challenging the gravity of the man’s silence. The tension which both men have willfully ignored so far thickens, and Dazai apparently decides to steer the direction of his eyes directly into the other’s just the moment the man turns slightly at him to spit out something reminiscing an answer. Dazai’s gaze, once again, stays unwavering.
“Is it because you don’t want to admit to your thoughts?”
Right next second, the wind howls louder, as though nature itself is an unwilling spectator to this back and forth game of hollow sentences and threat-like statements, not quite a clash, but clearly a war of tug towards opposite sides of something unknown.
The thoughts circling inside the smoking man’s mind also accelerate and become a whirlpool of vertigo with their increasing rapidity. Dazai is interesting. Morely, off putting. He speaks without a care in the world, but as soon as the words escape his mouth, it’s a long tableau of buried characteristics and unwanted articulations on porcelain, all laid over a feast of the manifesto that is Dazai’s frightening peculiarity - of that what comes out of his mouth is of unquestionable precision.
But when it comes to him as an ingredient, instead of words and claims, to this duel of wills that they have allowed to drag on, the situation is completely reversed. Dazai, very contrasting to his words and thoughts and even questions, is a mystery, a variable that refuses to be calculated.
That’s what bothers the man the most. Because even life, as complicated as it is, allows itself to be unraveled, and every problem that can be solved, every path that has a final destination is destined to harbor the potential to be dismantled into its simplest parts for as long as it allows you to have this permission, for as long as you can pierce it open and examine its organs one by one, like a doctor and a cadaver.
Although, this process of deconstruction plays a game in itself as many much more, and as limited man’s mind is, it usually gets stuck on a single spur. In the same way that knowing the answer to a puzzle before solving it removes the meaning of the solution process, it is part of the process, and that process is simply being human.
A wildcard, that is what Dazai is. A joker you very unwillingly and unexpectedly get during gambling. And if this joker makes or breaks you - it depends on the game being played.
The wind continues its relentless assault. Then, the velocity angrily picks up. It gains speed in such a way that the man’s long, straight hair as well as Dazai’s brown curls lean towards the wind’s direction with its force. Ribbons of air move swiftly through and against everything - perfectly fitting to this cold, starless night, wind howls against their ears, mimicking a ringing.
Is it because he doesn’t want to admit to his thoughts? “No,” the man shrugs finally. “It’s because I will kill you.” His voice is small and serene. Dazai notices an accent. If he were speaking in a language he did not recognize, he could have even found this tone comforting.
“Who are you?”
This time, the man doesn’t think twice before answering. “Fyodor Dostoevsky.” If there is one thing he never lies about, it’s who he is.
“You will stain this beautiful white field with my blood?”
“I will.”
“Such pure thing as snow? Are you sure?”
Dostoevsky seems more annoyed than ever yet hides it, almost professionally. “It doesn’t matter if it’s snow or dirt or whatever. I’ve given you the benefit to linger then go away, but you’re keen on trying to get on my nerves.” His grip tightens on the half-full packet of cigarettes where his other hand nests in his pocket. From how the carton of the package collapses into itself, he realizes how many sticks he smoked just to keep him occupied from the conversation. “I won’t hesitate to follow through.”
Dazai takes a step forward, still playfully, and Dostoevsky spots a spark of fascination in his eyes. So – a man as mad as him.
Dostoevsky is intrigued, but far from afraid. When Dazai’s smirk widens, Dostoevsky posts that the pink hue on his nose is now more pronounced in the moonlight. A challenge, it is, one neither of them accepts is a fight. So, with almost matching pleased callidity, Dostoevsky adds calm:
“You should be glad it’s snow and not rain. Your blood would only create mud. It may actually mix into the earth now, who knows.”
Dazai isn’t dangerous. Dostoevsky is a skilled talker and a skilled killer. Dazai, seemingly, is a regular stick-in-the-mud.
But if and only if that spark of interest in Dazai’s eye were to seize something that it could ignite, that fire very well might be the end of Dostoevsky. Maybe merely in a roundabout fashion, but still, it shouldn't mean that Dostoevsky must underestimate him and play along more with this apparent idle exchange.
Now that he is certain of the underlying chaos in the way the other stares at him, a single spark in Dazai’s eye very explicitly means that Dostoevsky is at the edge of one of two cliffs, both several tens of meters high; and at the very first step of the thin, taut rope that binds the two edges. He’d prefer he wouldn’t be put into a position where he has to cross it.
Of course, he doesn’t admit to himself that this is dreadful, but rather an inconvenience.
A chuckle is heard from the other. “You’re thinking again. What, don’t tell me you were only trying to scare me.”
This time, Dostoevsky’s brows furrow unconsciously. A little in confusion, more in anger.
Then, his tailing “Aren’t you scared? I said I will kill you,” in irk gets answered with a brassy and nonchalant “My interest in you overweighs my fear, I am afraid.”
If something is certain, it’s that Dostoevsky definitely isn’t some sort of specimen to be examined, even to be interested in. Perception directed against him is nothing more than another rock along his path, and although he normally wouldn’t care much about what other people have to think about him, being misunderstood is a sure parameter at a building-up anger.
Again, it's a divine compromise: you have to give a piece of yourself to get something back. With the way this stranger created the smallest of sparks of danger within the wires of Dostoevsky’s mind, he has to concede the potential of this spark growing into a fire.
As the reality of the situation Dostoevsky has unwillingly found himself in slowly shapes his view on the other, he has to shamefully accept that Dazai has chosen to examine him in such a way that Dostoevsky must give him no more material to corner him, above all with this hidden wit in his gaze and the confident crease of his eyes.
It’s a barter of power against his comfort and autonomy in his anonymity. It’s evident that Dazai’s remarks hit the first cracks in this sphere Dostoevsky has around his identity, but it’s too late to contemplate whether the price of it is worth the death of his control over Dazai’s view on him.
Whatever it is, it isn’t frightening, nor is it jeopardizing. The less your enemy knows about you, the easier it is for you to navigate through what you must do, and if you are walking on a path that is not as conventional, everyone who is not you is an enemy.
The title of “enemy” is spoken very lightly here. This, Dostoevsky knows. He is no foe to humanity, in any way, there is no grudge fueling his behavior, but potential births risk. “Enemy”, against better judgement, becomes along these lines a title that is honoring. A sign of recognising power, one that challenges yours - what more?
Dazai doesn’t seem very fazed about Dostoevsky’s declaration of murder.
This is dangerous. As potential bears risk, it bears danger as well, and as a mother to both, it carries similarities of them in itself. A question of maybe. An enemy of him and what he strives for, maybe. Possibly.
Outside his psyche, Dostoevsky is unaware of what Dazai is busy with until he adds onto his small monologue from before, his following glare of danger, dressed in playfulness.
"Still, it'll be a pity. Not that mud is something that nasty, I'm all fine with getting a bit of dirt on me."
As the simplest of answers, Dostoevsky raises an annoyed brow.
"I didn't call snow pure because it's clean, friend," chuckles Dazai, which Dostoevsky cuts with a grumble of "Don't call me that."
"It's snow. Water. Just a fragment of nature. And it's not everyday you get such heavy snow around here, enough for it to pile on the ground."
"And?"
"And I don't think if I called something dirty, nature would be it."
Dostoevsky is convinced this man is sent to him as a test on this peaceful night, tonight which he is supposedly off work, and relatively, off guard. He doesn't want to indulge in this inane conversation any longer, he already has more than he would have thought, but… that spark. That one spark in his eyes.
Dostoevsky sighs. “What do you consider dirty, then?”
He really, really isn’t interested and if not for instinct, this conversation would not be something he would have taken part in willingly. Instinct, the strongest tool he had followed up to this moment in his life. This echo of his mind, of both his purpose, and therefore his own self as a reflection of it; the principles of the organization and his experiences, which he has strung like pearls on a string throughout his life, it compels him to listen attentively to the nonsense.
“Anything humans involve themselves in.” Dazai answers and looks at his face to check his reaction, then continues, his eyes staying on the other. “It’s a shame they also are a part of nature. Don’t get me wrong - I'm not one of those repulsed by people. It’s just a habit of mine, stating the obvious.”
I’m not one of those repulsed by people. A very familiar statement. I am no foe of humanity.
“The obvious, is it?”
“Indeed.” Dazai seems pleased that Dostoevsky is interested, or at least, that he acts like he is.
“Let’s say, mud,” he comments, and presses an index finger to his chin, his eyes gliding over the starless sky. “It’s the earth in pieces, mixed with its blood. Clean in itself. But then, it’s what humans were sculpted out of.”
“So what, it’s gotten dirty?” Dostoevsky guesses, almost mockingly at that.
“Yes, it has.”
Dostoevsky feels he struggles to keep that warning echo that he has to be wary in his mind. Fortunately for him, the conversation seems to start pulling him in - so, humans are dirty. Sinful. That’s one thing he can agree with. Nothing is truly pure, save for God.
Dazai speaks in riddles. Another thing he might have to be wary of.
"It's in purity's own nature to be corrupted. Even God's garden wasn't able to protect human's tendency to seek the forbidden. That's what we call instinct."
With this small addition, Dostoevsky turns to Dazai - to see the reflection of his expression in complete vision. He is interesting in the way he speaks; it’s like he’s debating with his own words, Dostoevsky thinks. Such a wise act, although underlying, doesn’t suit Dazai at all, especially in the way his eyes tighten in squints and his lips purse in thought, and all muscles enveloping them crease and fold in contribution. As though an aged, seasoned man nests under those brown and youthful curls framing his face.
Dazai’s next sentence draws Dostoevsky’s attention further: “Are you a believer?”
Dostoevsky wants to scoff.
“Why do you ask?”
This would be the absolute last topic he would want to speak about with a stranger. Coincidentally, or not, Dazai presses an assured, firm finger on it.
Dostoevsky believes differently. From other people, from the mass, from anyone. He had never felt the need to verbally articulate this individualistic relationship with religion, but then, he had also never been in a position to bring up such an intimate discussion.
Dostoevsky’s answer trails around the question with a remark. “You don’t seem religious yourself.” Then, an exasperated sigh. “I am.” There is no need to hold back the obvious.
“That’s great,” grins Dazai. “Just the man I’m looking for. Then, say, are you fine with a little bit of blasphemy?” Dostoevsky can’t help but let his expression sour. Seeing the man's light scowl, Dazai quickly waves one hand in an effort to dismiss his previous remark. “Let’s call it a debate, not blasphemy. Do you mind?”
It's almost comical how Dostoevsky’s night is developing. The Dante and Virgil of this snow-covered field where everything ends and nothing begins, they keep talking. The voice in Dostoevsky’s mind persists. He must be here now, this is more important, more right, more essential than anything could be; his presence here is more complete than he can imagine.
And what Dostoevsky does is to listen to that voice. The truest light-bringer he knows, his instinct.
Dazai, at this moment, is drawing shapes on the snow with the tip of his shoe, his hands in his pockets. For a mere second, Dostoevsky almost wants to assume that after suggesting such boldness as blasphemy, a direct invitation to it, Dazai can’t find the words to begin it. The tip of Dazai’s shoe drags through the layer of snow, in wobbly triangles, squares and circles, Dostoevsky watches in as much interest, which then gets interrupted by Dazai turning to him once more. His hands stay in his coat pockets, and in that position, he leans down a bit, trying to peek at Dostoevsky’s face from under his dark bangs.
“The firsts are always easier, don’t you think?”
Dostoevsky raises an eyebrow. “Do those shapes have anything to do with your question?”
“Could be. You can make anything your element, no? We’re having the simplest case of alchemy here.”
Dazai uses such big words with such inequally childish gestures.
“It’s a discussion.”
Dazai grins. “Alchemy.”
Dostoevsky shrugs, then takes a step back to lean against a tree. “So, ‘the firsts’. Tell me about them.” When he lays his back against it, a bit of snow elegantly falls down on his head from the branches with the gentle impact.
“An example: imagine a child. A child is a blank human. Even the most intelligent child of God has to start from somewhere. Start to think, that is.”
Now that he says that, the shapes in the snow are reminiscent of a child’s drawings, uneven and skewed, and it’s almost like Dazai had been thinking of his own words as he drew them on the ground. Starting off a discussion of all that is deep and holy with children’s drawings… First as a sight, then in obvious words, Dazai actually seems to induce a bigger cloud of thought with what he has right in front of him.
Dostoevsky blinks. Dazai continues, placing just another brick towards what he’s trying to get at. “I think I can safely assume that you know your holy script, friend.”
At this question Dostoevsky’s eyes darken very slightly. Ironically, he thinks, Dazai takes a first step into the more dangerous territory. “I do.”
“Surely. I trust you’ve read it a number of times as well?”
“I have.”
“Okay… What have you noticed about it?” Dazai stops himself, shakes his head and chuckles, slightly awkward, “I asked the question wrong. I mean - not everything’s laid out clearly for humans to understand. What has reading make you think?”
Dostoevsky crosses his arms over his chest, almost in thought. “I know what you imply.”
“Do tell.”
A mindful hum from the man with crossed arms. “God’s word is more than a set of rules to follow. Reading isn’t sufficient. True prayer is to notice. To discern.”
“To notice, then what?”
“To notice, then… Humankind is selfish. Action needs fuel, so does convincing.”
Oh, the beautiful snow. A layer of shelter over the roofs, a blanket on the ground, a sprinkle of cold on their hair and cheeks. To stand under the snow in this bone-chilling weather, one has to have a good reason. A fuel for the determination.
Dostoevsky continues: “Humankind, it does not reach further than necessary if it’s not worth it. Under God’s watchful eye, the most humans can do is ask for what they cannot reach.”
“And there needs to be a reason, you say.”
“The fuel… the reason. Man only prays in the name of love. One loves what he notices in order to reach for it.”
Dazai’s eyes glint dangerously, pleasantly. “Very good.” He has the shadow of an intrigued expression on his face. “Tell me. Tell me about where you think everything starts.”