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It is a cold night.
Illuminated—though faintly—only by the crescent moon’s glow and a faraway lamp, these alleyways are a washed out, murky blue. The shade that is associated with bad health, or dusk’s ocean waters with waiting predators, etcetera etcetera. Beneath the overcast of color, he’s able to see the fog that his mouth creates with every breath as he walks; inhale, right foot forward, exhale, left. The gravel and snow underneath his boots is bothersome when he so often indulges in things like silence. Fyodor guesses he won’t need that much longer, though.
Fyodor has always been rather excellent at picking up presences.
He slows as he approaches winter’s evidence dyed in crimson, Fyodor’s gaze shifting to find the source. It takes a second to register the body clad in priest attire, fallen to his side. His ankle looked odd, as though the murderer had fractured it and tried to set it themself. His eyes flicker back to the head of the body, where most of the blood seemed to be coming from.
One step forward. He crouches, one knee dipping into melting snow. Fyodor feels it soak his clothing, and pays it no mind as his hand dances over the man’s face. Light, like a feather’s brush. He felt no desire to touch the dead so intimately, not really, but couldn’t help the curiosity that settled somewhere in his ribs. He felt as though the choice in victim was no coincidence—that is to say, of course, the murderer might not have known the man, but it was due to his position that he died—and so he held the glaring red of a target symbol on his back. This was Fyodor’s fault.
A quiet shift. Fyodor sighs, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. He stands in his full height, and doesn’t turn anything but his head in the direction of the sound.
“Dazai,” Fyodor says without raising his voice. Regardless of their current physical distance, he knows that the woman can hear him. Could possibly hear what he didn’t say. That was just how Dazai was, always has been. “Is that you, my friend?” A hypothetical, of course. He knows it is.
From here, Fyodor can hear Dazai’s approaching laughter. Light, airy, and practiced to sound genuine. He has no doubt that those who think themselves close to her would believe it. Perhaps Fyodor wouldn’t doubt its sincerity, if only there wasn’t that strange undertone in the sound. Like knives on a table. They’re not being wielded, but they’re there, and it’s that which gives Dazai away. Despite knowing better, Fyodor can’t help a smile of his own.
“I’m surprised, honestly,” Dazai calls out. Fyodor smiles wider as he detects the lie straight away, caught in the lilt of her voice. “I was hardly noticeable that time, don’t you agree?”
“As subtle as the shore's erosion. Been there a while?” Fyodor's eyes roam over the folds of the corpse's robes. Splatters of blood like crumbling paint, an adequate decoration and final touch of death's hand. Hardly noticeable, what with the dimness of the alleyway, and the color of the clothes themselves. Intentional. There was a message here.
Dazai's steps suddenly falter, and Fyodor's gaze shifts left, head turning to the side just for a moment.
Ah.
The smile she offers Fyodor is not unkind. He can see the remains of her distress on the curves and ridges of her teeth. Always carrying the taste. Had felt it on his tongue, lifetimes ago. She's illuminated very faintly by a streetlight lamp.
Her hand—thin, bony, almost nothing revealed beneath the loose bandages. Between her fingers, a dagger of which Fyodor can identify as stolen. It was much too pretty to be Dazai's. She would kill herself on the blunt edge of a pipe. Never something as intricate.
Something like; what is that worth?
“You know I don't mean to be cruel,” Dazai says, voice soft. Her eyes are dark, blank and out of place with the plastered smile on her face. Like dressing up a doll with the wrong clothes.
Fyodor almost prefers the nasty sneers, jutted bottom lip and a twitching brow. The flicker of something in her eyes. To make Dazai feel anything at all was always a pleasure. Gratifying. Even if it was often at the risk of his own well-being, placing his body before her knife.
Cut, he thinks. See if you like what's inside just as much.
Being loved by Dazai doesn't come without a price.
Fyodor returns the smile, though he imagines his is more genuine. Softer, where Dazai's mouth forgets the shape of a smile unless it's forced on there by something that really amuses her. Like corpses and drowning and her father's part in her gender identity.
Things like that.
Slowly, Fyodor smooths down his coat. Dazai's eyes, sharp like a fox and even deadlier, trace over the movement. Like an appetizer being set on the table, Fyodor steps forward.
He expects the instant flash of movement, really. Calculated it to be just far enough from the corpse that Dazai won't look at it. Let her think he was an ironic, yet cordial man. Why should a lady view such things? He knows she would dramatize it. He will cater to her whims for just a few minutes.
Fyodor knows many, many things. He's died for it. Died for it last week. Last February. A few years ago. Came back, came back, came back. Nothing new. He still finds it amusing to die at work, specifically. Oh, the loss of life no longer means anything to him.
Dazai has moved her piece to checkmate. Her hands are around Fyodor, and he can feel her smile more than he can see it. Her nails are sharp. How funny; when he kissed her last time, they were but nubs and a waste of bitten skin. A habit that she's broken free of? No, perhaps these are purposeful.
It takes a brief second for him to register it. He tilts his head, and doesn't move. Softly, he says, “Your gift.”
“My gift,” Dazai agrees, all too amiable.
“It's very dirty. You'll dirty my hands?”
“Haha. Haha, haha. You're already dirty.”
Fyodor tuts quietly.
“I assume it's a priest.”
“Your last job,” Dazai agrees. “Have you seen me around?”
“Ohh. Oh,” Fyodor smiles, like he hadn't realized. “See, I thought it was because of the religion.”
“The religion,” Dazai snickers.
“Mm. You're killing people in the positions I've taken on. I was a priest last, so you've killed a priest once I'm out of the position. You're so interesting.”
Dazai hums a soft tune instead of answering. Digs her hands into Fyodor’s stomach. He knows better than to react. Doesn't give her any satisfaction.
Oh, but he really wants to, sometimes. Just to see how she reacts.
“So flattering,” Fyodor continues, staring straight at the edge of the streetlight’s halo where Dazai had once been under. “Do you wish to kill me?”
Dazai makes a vague noise, letting Fyodor go. “Something like that,” she says, cheerful.
“Something like that,” Fyodor echoes, dry. Weird. The joints of his knees suddenly ached. Dazai moves slowly, edging to the left side of Fyodor’s vision, and blinking at him. Dark, hollow eyes void of much empathy. The black is a ring around a blown brown. Her skin is a gorgeous shade of taupe, dull yet so very Dazai-esque. Perhaps she's failed to take her medications again.
The woman doesn't blink once. “I wish you were dead,” she says.
Fyodor actually smiles. “You know I've tried, sweetheart.”
“You're not allowed to call me that anymore,” Dazai says, smug. Shifts, light on her feet as she positions herself in front of Fyodor. She hardly looks real, in the washed out blue of this alley. It certainly doesn't do her justice. Not like the sun and crowded meadows do. Sunflowers and bright things.
He supposes her element has always been in the more macabre, however. Would love her with blood on her teeth. On her clothes, her hands.
Fyodor doesn't respond to that. Says instead, “Are you walking me home?”
“Only tonight. I hope to kill you in your sleep.”
“You'd be doing me a favor. How generous. Come, then. For tonight, you can walk beside me.”
Dazai falls right into place beside Fyodor, and her hands stay behind her back. How frightening. Her steps were silent.
He really wouldn't see her coming, had he not already held the expectation of seeing her around every corner he sees up ahead in any city, country, continent. The consequences of fumbling a girl prone to psychosis. Ah, well.
Fyodor matches his steps to Dazai's. She's always walked a little slower. He doesn't know if it's to extend the time they have together.
She won't be coming back. The next time he sees her, he'll probably meet her blade and face some technical issues with coming back. He doesn't really like the sight of the new one she has on her. He's not generally wary of them, but just this once…
Dazai won't kill him tonight. That's alright.