Chapter Text
Beer and Russia's freezing temperature.
Those are my only two thoughts.
Not exactly the most productive things to exert my mental energy on, especially considering my current predicament, but what else am I supposed to focus my energy on? The scenery? The frostbite slowly creeping into my fingertips?
Fucking hell, it's currently cold enough to freeze any man's testicles, and to make me think of something warm.
A drink, maybe. A glass of warm beer, the kind that'll numb everything just enough to make me forget how utterly ridiculous this situation is. I could use one right now, just a few sips of it in order to make the cold a little bearable.
Just a few sips couldn't possibly hurt... anything to ease the sting of this miserable place.
Two years.
Two whole years I'll have to endure this miserable place, wasting away while I wait for Ango to crawl through the bureaucracy at the pace of a snail on sedatives. Couldn't he speed it up a little? Does he want me to freeze to death? If I had a bit of luck on my side, the two years would instead be one, but I guess luck has a funny way of laughing in my face. At this rate, I'll turn into an icicle long before I see Yokohama again.
I let my head fall back onto the bench, the metal armrest cold against my nape. I sigh, the kind of sigh that escapes from your lips when you're too tired to care anymore. But then, a thought—if I'm stuck here, I may as well find a bar. After all, beer isn't going to magically appear in my hands. I sit up and rummage through my pockets, already knowing what I'll find—or rather, what I won't. My fingers brush against lint and loose change, but there's no phone. Right. Not that I forgot to buy one, but I didn't exactly prioritize it, did I?
I lean back with a groan, closing my eyes for a moment as the absurdity of it all sinks in. No phone, no map, just me and the Russian cold. But then again... why rely on technology when there are locals who might actually know a thing or two about where a nearby bar is located? With a bit of charm—or shear desperation—they might even find it amusing enough to point me in the right direction. I sigh again, but this time with a faint smirk tugging at my lips. No phone, no problem. All roads lead to beer, if you're persistent enough.
I pushed myself up from the metallic bench, stretching my arms above my head with a stifled moan. The cold air clung to me like an unwelcome guest, gnawing at my bones despite my best efforts to ignore it. My eyes wandered across the desolate street, searching for anyone I could approach. But, of course, fate—or sheer misfortune—had other plans. Not a soul in sight. With a resigned sigh, I shoved my hands into my pockets and began walking, my back slouched against the unrelenting chill. Each step felt like wading through ice, but I kept my movements casual, nonchalant. No point in letting the cold know it was winning.
And then, there they were.
Seated on a chair outside a modest-looking cafe, engrossed in a fat book, was someone who stuck out like a sore thumb. Tall, slim, with an air of effortless androgyny. Their dark purple hair fell to their shoulders, contrasting starkly with a white ushanka perched on their head. But their outfit? Funky didn't even begin to cover it. It looked like they'd raided a closet blindfolded and thought, yes, this will do. Who just carries around a cape like that? Gee, these two years are gonna be a hell of a ride. I groaned quietly, the sound dripping with annoyance. This is who I have to talk to? Really? Out of the entire population of Russia, this is the first person I find?
I slowly approached the person, and they noticed me immediately. It could've sent a chill down my spine, if I hadn't already been prepared for it.
"Что такое?" they spat, their voice laced with irritation. While I understood the question—what did I want—I found myself too distracted, too busy observing them to answer right away.
They clearly caught on. "A foreigner? How quaint. What is it you want?" Their English could have been considered perfect, if not for their accent, but I made no comment on it. Their tone, though—it bothered me. There was something about it, sharp yet controlled, rude in a way that didn't make sense, at least not to someone who didn't know how to listen for subtlety. It wasn't the kind of rudeness you can explain easily without sounding mad. It made my skin itch, I didn't trust it.
"Ha," I said with a faint chuckle, my smirk never faltering, "I was hoping you could point me to the nearest bar. You see, I'm in the mood for a drink or two~"
I stared at the person in front of me, not quite a man, not quite a woman. My gaze was pointed, urging them to hurry, though I wasn't sure if they'd even notice. For some inexplicable reason, the air between us felt dense, thick with something unspoken. The tension was so palpable I could almost feel it pressing against my chest, a tightrope waiting to snap.
I assumed we were both seeing the same thing—a stranger, untrustworthy, and oddly off-putting. No words were needed; the silence between us spoke volumes.
Then, breaking the silence with almost deliberate slowness, the Russian spoke, their voice slicing through the tension.
"So, that's your desire? How predictable," they said, their tone sharp and calculated, cutting through the cold air like a blade. "There's a bar... if you can follow instructions."
I tilted my head, letting their words hang in the air for a moment. "Predictable? I prefer 'practical.' After all, who doesn't crave a little warmth in this frozen wasteland?" My tone was light, almost flippant, but my eyes didn't leave theirs. Something about this person made my instincts flare up in warning, like a low hum of static electricity just beneath the surface.
Their gaze didn't waver as they continued, "Turn left at the end of this street. Then take the first right. Walk straight until you pass a small bookstore—don't stop there—and turn the corner to your left. The bar will be just ahead."
"Quite the detailed guide," I mused, a smirk tugging at the corners of my lips. "Are you always this accommodating to strangers, or am I just special?"
They tilted their head slightly, the movement almost imperceptible. "Special?" Their tone dripped with disdain, though there was an odd calmness beneath it. "Hardly. I simply dislike being questioned unnecessarily."
"Well, aren't you charming," I quipped, taking a step back but not yet leaving. "Since we're exchanging such pleasantries, I feel compelled to ask—do I get a name to match the voice that's so eager to dismiss me?"
For a moment, silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken tension. Then, they relented. "Fyodor Dostoevsky."
The name fits them. It carried an edge; an air of calculated menace wrapped in civility. I repeated it under my breath, testing the weight of it. Trouble. This person is trouble.
"Fyodor," I said aloud, as though tasting the name. "Good to know the name of the first person I've met in this frozen hell. I'm Dazai. Osamu Dazai, to be exact."
Fyodor's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer than necessary, as though dissecting the syllables of my name, peeling back its layers in search of something hidden. "Dazai," he echoed, his accent curling faintly around the word. "A fitting name for someone who doesn't know when to leave."
"Ah, you wound me," I replied, clutching my chest dramatically. "But now that we've been formally introduced, you can't exactly say I'm just a stranger anymore."
Fyodor's lips twitched, but it was unclear whether it was the beginning of a smile or a sneer. "A name doesn't change what you are. And you are still a foreigner lost in the cold."
"Not for long," I retorted with a grin, slipping my hands deeper into my coat pockets. "Turn left, then right, then past a bookstore. Sounds simple enough. I'll manage."
I turned to leave but paused, glancing back over my shoulder. "If I freeze to death out there, though, I'll be sure to haunt you. Consider it a thank-you for the directions."
Fyodor's expression didn't shift, but his voice carried a faint, mocking lilt. "I'll look forward to it."
As I walked away, the echo of their words lingered in the air like the taste of something bitter you can't quite place. I couldn't shake the feeling that Fyodor Dostoevsky isn't someone you meet by chance.
Not that I planned to let him become a passing thought.