Chapter Text
the song for this chapter
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Osamu feels ill.
Apparently, he has no idea why this is the case—or at least, that's what he'd like to believe. But he is Dazai. So, of course, he knows why his heart aches, why his body is tense, and why his brain screams at him to go to the kitchen and then the bathroom. But he is Osamu, and so he won't admit it—at least not to anyone else—that he knows. That he's aware.
And Dostoevsky is Fyodor, so of course, he senses something is amiss.
The Russian runs a hand through Dazai's hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear—a small, almost tender gesture they shared from time to time, playing the role of lovers, their affections a well-rehearsed lie. They are on their shared bed, Osamu lying down, while Fyodor sits beside him, a book in hand.
Fyodor could almost smirk.
Osamu could almost cry.
But Dazai? He could almost gag.
"Dazai, dear? What seems to be the matter with you?" Per usual, Fyodor's tongue is sharp, laced with the slightest hint of disdain. And, as always... with an ulterior motive. Right now, that ulterior motive is pressure—pressuring the ill boy, Fyodor's lover, to answer quickly and honestly. The apprehension is evident in Fyodor's slick voice and coy smile.
And the apprehension made it clear to Osamu—today would be a mind game, just like any other day the tandem shared.
"Ha~... Curious, aren't we?"
Dazai tugged a grin at the inner corner of his lips, the playfulness a stark contrast to the turbulent maelstrom that was Osamu's mind. He was aware, far too aware, of what Fyodor was playing at with the use of his last name—"Dazai." It wasn't a casual slip. It was intentional, calculated. It was a subtle, cruel reminder that their connection, whatever fragile thread of it may seem to exist, is nonexistent. That in Fyodor's eyes, they are strangers—souls unentangled, bodies unworthy of intertwining.
It stung, but Dazai wore the indifferent expression well.
It was the cruelty he had learned to embrace from a young age, before he had ever gone into the port mafia, before he had ever spoken his first word.
He's had a lifetime of experience.
But beneath the mask of indifference, a deeper ache lingered, gnawing at him. Fyodor's reminder was sharp, a jolt to the part of Osamu that dares to hope for something more—something real, something beyond the games they played.
Fyodor was here for Dazai, sure. But not because of anything resembling affection. No, Fyodor Dostoevsky was here for Dazai because he saw in him a mirror—a distorted reflection of what could have been his other half, his equal, his match. A cruel twist of fate. It was as if Fyodor sought to understand the very soul he couldn't possess, the one thing that would always slip from his grasp no matter how hard he reached. The thought of it made Dazai's chest tighten with something darker than pain—resentment, perhaps. Or something worse, something more fragile and dangerous. A longing, quietly suffocating, that he would never, could never admit.
Fyodor hums, his fingers still ghosting over Dazai's hair. "I believe you're mistaking curiosity for concern. I assure you, it is not."
Dazai doesn't flinch, doesn't let the words dig under his skin, even if they should. "How cruel," he drawls, shifting just enough to look at Fyodor through half-lidded eyes. "And here I thought you were always watching me so attentively out of fondness."
Fyodor chuckles, low and knowing. "Fondness?" He repeats the word like it's foreign, rolling it over his tongue like a drop of wine. "How amusing. Is that what you call this?"
Dazai merely tilts his head, smile lazy but sharp. "And what would you call it, Fedya?"
Fyodor studies him for a long moment, his fingers idly twisting a strand of Dazai's hair between them. His expression is unreadable, but Dazai knows that mind of his is turning, clicking into place like clockwork. "You, of all people, should know," Fyodor murmurs, his voice light, teasing, but carrying something deeper beneath. "You're always trying to name things that cannot be named."
Dazai exhales slowly, as if exasperated by the game, but the tightness in his chest worsens. "Ah, Fedya, you make it sound as though I'm grasping at something I can't quite reach."
Fyodor doesn't miss it—the faintest tremor beneath Dazai's words, the slightest hesitation, the slip.
Not a crack into Dazai's psyche. Not yet. But a shift. A slip. And that is all he needs.
"You tell me," Fyodor whispers, leaning in just slightly. "Are you?"
Dazai remains still, too still. Fyodor's fingers don't stop moving, trailing down, brushing against the base of his neck, his shoulder. It's slow. Intentional. Just light enough to feel harmless but lingering enough to make something twist inside Dazai's stomach. The ill boy doesn't react, but his fingers twitch where they rest against the sheets.
Fyodor notices.
Dazai hates that he notices.
The silence between them stretches, tense and sharp. Dazai could respond, could twist Fyodor's words into something meaningless, something laughable.
But instead—
He gets up.
He moves with a slow, deliberate ease, peeling Fyodor's fingers from his hair as if they were a mere nuisance rather than a calculated touch. His weight shifts off the bed, feet soundless against the floor. A slight roll of his shoulders, a stretch—an attempt to mask the tension.
"My, my, it's getting late, isn't it?" he muses, brushing nonexistent dust off his sleeves. "We'll have to pick this up another time, Fedya. But do try not to miss me too much~"
He leaves before Fyodor can reply.
But Fyodor doesn't need to.
He turns on his heel, strides towards the bathroom with practiced nonchalance. The moment the door clicks shut behind him, the tension he had been holding in his body releases all at once. His breath stutters, hands trembling as they reach for the sink.
Fyodor watches the closed door for a moment, fingers resting where Dazai had brushed them away. The demon tilts his head, pondering.
A subtle shift in Dazai's demeanor, a barely noticeable change. But it's all too easy to push it further. Fyodor wants to unravel more of the ill boy.
Fyodor rises from the bed, his movements slow, deliberate. He doesn't need to rush—he knows exactly where Dazai is headed. He stands just outside the bathroom door, waiting, listening.
Inside, Dazai grips the sink, his knuckles bone-white against the porcelain. His fingers dig in as if he could crack it, as if breaking something would quiet the noise inside his head. He looms over the basin, eyes locked onto his reflection in the dim light. His breath is shallow, measured—but his eyes betray him. Wild. Feverish. A touch too honest.
If only he could sever these feelings. Rip them out, sever them, strangle them before they spread. Before they consume him whole. How many times has he told himself to stop? How many times has he ignored the warning signs—Fyodor's touch lingering just a second too long, the way his voice curls around his name like a noose? How many times has he willingly stepped into the trap, knowing full well that the door would lock behind him? Pity He is Dazai. Selfish. Masochistic.
The worst part is the awareness—of everything. His own pulse hammering against his skull, the blood rushing under his skin, the way his organs shift with every breath, the way the bandages itch like a second layer of unwanted skin. He wants to claw himself apart, to strip himself down to nothing, to not exist just long enough to forget what Fyodor is doing to him.
And yet, he won't let himself stop.
Because some part of him—some disgusting, wretched part of him—wants Fyodor to feel it too. Wants him to ache. Wants him to love him, even if that love is twisted, even if it's just another mind game, even if it's nothing at all. What a sick joke. Another form of self-destruction, just more refined, more insidious. And Dazai, ever the fool, plays along, knowing full well he's the one with the knife to his own throat.
The urge to destroy himself. The need. The temptation.
He knows Fyodor is waiting just beyond that door, watching, calculating.
It makes it all the more thrilling to the ill boy.
His grip tightens. His nails scrape against porcelain, the sensation grounding, anchoring him just enough. His body is tense, his breath uneven, but he swallows it down, forces the chaos back where it belongs.
His reflection stares back at him—hollow, inhumane, unreadable.
Dazai straightens, exhales sharply. Then, with all the ease of a man untouched by suffering, he pulls a smirk onto his lips.