Work Text:
Dazai remembered how he first started practicing alchemy, mixing countless substances according to the instructions in parchment scrolls. He had tried in vain to discover the true recipe for the Philosopher’s Stone, though he nearly managed to turn iron into gold without it—albeit his lips had instinctively whispered something at that moment. Osamu quickly realized he would not achieve everything without magic. Obtaining scrolls that described spells was difficult during the persecution of mages, but Dazai was saved by his vast network of connections, which eventually led him to the home of a rather peculiar man—someone everyone seemed to know of, yet no one truly knew. He was more of a vivid image, an urban legend without clear features. However, Osamu was certain that standing before him was someone entirely real.
Dostoevsky knows an innumerable multitude of spells. He can effortlessly turn a person into stone, transform iron into gold, move objects by sheer force of thought, and perform countless other feats beyond the reach of ordinary people. Fyodor has devoted nearly his entire life to magic, shrouding himself in mystery and managing to escape the persecution of the Catholic Church, which dismissed his existence as mere myth due to an overwhelming number of contradictions. Only a handful of people know that Dostoevsky is a real person, and they would never utter a single unnecessary word to the wrong ears. Fyodor is willing to spend vast amounts of time teaching Osamu, having grown starved for company after countless years of seclusion. Of course, Dostoevsky will not reveal a single detail about his own life, nor will he engage in conversations on unrelated matters—such things are simply unnecessary.
Dazai tried his best not to get caught by the Catholic Church, doing everything he could to conceal his magic, but in the end he was burned alive, just as befell all who practiced sorcery. Osamu would forever remember how, beneath the hood of one of the inquisitors in that crowd, black hair reaching exactly to the shoulders could be seen. And when a stray gust of wind lifted the hood, Dazai saw those amethyst eyes. There was no doubt—it was Dostoevsky. How ironic that the very man who wove magic into every aspect of his life and could not imagine living without it was now among those burning others for it. Osamu certainly had not expected such an end. The unbearable pain lasted only for the first couple of minutes; after that, the nerve endings burned away, and all sensation vanished.
Dostoevsky cannot allow himself to become attached to anyone. He destroys all those close to him with his own hands, so that he will never have to grieve their deaths. Fyodor is prepared for an eternity without attachments or regrets—because it is necessary. Of course, it hurts when he himself hands over to the Inquisition the very person he once taught, but it must be done. There is no other way. God is not on the same level as humans; he must not harbor affection for mere mortals, no matter how gifted they might be.
***
Dazai couldn’t quite remember how many times he had been reborn, but he knew for certain that in every lifetime he searched for Dostoevsky, for he needed to question his former teacher about countless things. Time, after all, flows rather quickly, though there is always enough of it to adjust to a new way of life. Osamu could no longer recall the spells he had once cast long ago. But he did remember Dostoevsky’s face vividly, and never stopped searching for it, not for a single moment. Of all his former skills, Dazai was left only with the ability to nullify the powers of others. The modern world was nothing like the medieval one. Here, there was no persecution of magic—people didn’t even believe in it. Yet even the mere mention of the “Demon Dostoevsky” was enough to stir unease. At last, after so many centuries, he had been found.
Dostoevsky did not regret what he had done—or rather, he kept convincing himself of that. He never died, carrying with him memories of events from centuries past. All this time, Fyodor had hoped he would never come face to face with one of Dazai’s reincarnations, though he always watched them from the shadows. Dostoevsky had no desire to explain why he had handed Osamu over to the Inquisition back then. But it seemed that a confrontation was inevitable, no matter how he looked at it. Fyodor did not deny that he remembered Osamu, yet he spoke neither of the past nor of any plans for the future.
Dazai understands that he is being openly ignored, with not a single word spoken about the past. It’s as if Dostoevsky himself has built a wall that no one can breach to get close to him—and he only ever does what he permits himself to do. He avoids any sort of physical contact and refuses to even hear mention of love. It’s unusual, yet Osamu keeps trying in vain to uncover the reason. Dazai expects betrayal once again and, of course, does not trust Fyodor. But despite this distrust, he continues to try—attempting at least to embrace him, to bury his hands in that soft black hair. Dostoevsky won’t allow it; he’ll step back, slap his hand away, and never permit himself anything excessive.
Fyodor struggles to restrain his desire for closeness with Osamu—for even the slightest tender touch—but it is forbidden. It would only lead to a bad end, for Dostoevsky would never trade his immortality for love, no matter how much he might wish to. It is wild, unpleasant, yet the strict boundaries cannot be crossed. Fyodor does not want to lose either Dazai or his immortality, but in the end, he knows he will have to make a choice. He stops himself from embracing Osamu, from pressing his lips to his… Dostoevsky had heard enough about love, yet he certainly never yearned to experience it himself. Fyodor drives a knife into Dazai’s heart—after all, a god must not harbor love for a mortal.
***
Their next meeting takes place when space has long since been conquered, when humanity has access to an incredible array of technologies, and when contact with other civilizations has become commonplace. Dazai likes this era, though it took several reincarnations before he finally got to witness it. Dostoevsky, for his part, has adapted perfectly to this new world, manipulating the system for centuries and becoming almost the ruler of Earth itself. He is far too important a figure for Osamu to be granted an audience with him—but Fyodor isn’t the only one who knows how to circumvent the system. They meet in a small, empty room, completely subject to Dostoevsky’s will. He hasn’t changed at all over the long years, except that the fire once in his eyes seems to have faded, replaced now, perhaps, by weariness.
Fyodor had achieved such heights that he was revered on Earth almost as a god, his own view of himself fully accepted by the world. Yet somewhere along the way, Dostoevsky failed to notice when life had turned into one long, tedious chain of events, with nothing left to strive for. Fyodor had grown tired of waiting for another encounter with Osamu. He had already come to regret killing his beloved back then. In the empty room, only a quiet “I’m sorry” is heard. It seems Dostoevsky had never before apologized so sincerely. The years hadn’t changed Dazai at all. He was still the same, with the same personality—only now without the desire to die.
Dazai had been expecting something more like “Leave” or “Die,” not what he actually heard. The years hadn’t touched his appearance, but they had changed his character. Osamu had come here ready to speak his mind about a bastard like Dostoevsky, but now he found he couldn’t even remember what he’d intended to say. Fyodor didn’t avert his gaze to the floor; instead, he looked straight into Osamu’s eyes, as if to show that he wasn’t ashamed of his past actions—though he did seem to recognize they might have been somewhat wrong. Osamu wouldn’t allow himself to say everything on his mind, because Dostoevsky now gave off an entirely different impression than before. He didn’t maintain his personal distance; he simply embraced Dazai, burying his face in his shoulder. Osamu didn’t regret at all the unimaginably long time he had spent just to reach this moment—and he was ready to spend the rest of eternity with Dostoevsky.
***
Dazai is reborn and learns that the god who had once manifested himself is already dead. Osamu frantically searches through the room, having struggled just to get inside. “Forgive me that in this life, you will have to search for me all over again,”
the note reads.