Work Text:
Is it really possible to feel this tired, Fyodor thought. Surely not, yet here he was.
At least he managed to lock the door of the safehouse before collapsing. Typically, lying on the floor would send his brain into a (very overdramatic and bothersome, if you ask him) panic, but the exhaustion that had settled deep in his bones made any and all thoughts of wanting to move useless. The cool wooden floor squishing the side of his face was both humiliating and oddly comforting.
What was there to do? He should eat, seeing as he hasn't for… who knows how long. But eating right now would require suddenly gaining more energy than humanly possible.
Tea sounded nice. However, again, the process of acquiring and consuming tea sounded far beyond his limits.
Fyodor was well aware he had work to do. Well aware he should get up. Well aware there were dozens of things he should be doing but wasn't. Or rather couldn’t. Moving felt impossible. Thinking felt impossible. Would he be able to use his ability if someone were to break in? Would he even be able to speak to the intruder? All these thoughts occurred to him but only distantly, like they were behind a foggy window he couldn't open. He couldn't even muster up the energy to really spiral into his usual self-deprecating thoughts, which is rare to say the least because he’s really good at that.
All this after just a regular day of work? How pathetic. You are meant to be an instrument of God’s will. Are you really betraying Him for a ‘rest day’?
That would probably be what he’d think if he could. But again, the thought only seemed to blow through the wind in front of him, never sticking.
All that was constant was sensation. The fatigue, the cold, the floor, the dull ache in his joints, the sound of metal rattling at the door… What?
A quiet, hissed “damn it” was heard before the door swung open and hit Fyodor’s back.
Groaning softly was all Fyodor’s dry throat managed as he weakly curled in on himself.
“Uh… Why are you on the floor?” The oh so familiar voice hit Fyodor’s ears and, God, did it sound like an angel coming to his rescue. A funny thought, really, seeing as the man in question behaves not even close to how an angel does, especially not around Fyodor.
“By the way, you should probably invest in some better locks, I opened your door with a paperclip. Or at least some kind of security system. I honestly expected more, I even brought a taser!”
Dazai. Oh, Dazai…
Honestly, he makes Fyodor feel more like a lovesick highschooler than any “divine instrument”. Which is completely irrational not only because affection should be the last thing on his mind (and also because the last thing Dazai said was that he brought a taser for visiting him), but because Dazai is by far his biggest mental and physical threat. Yet, when he’s around, the world seems so far away. Like his disappearance would feel like the ground falling out beneath him and a piece of his very soul is missing and— Geez, calm down, this isn’t a rom-com. Well, it kind of is but I’m not really supposed to break the fourth wall like this.
“Okay, but seriously, why are you on the floor?” Dazai asked, closing the door again and stepping around to see Fyodor. And upon seeing Fyodor— his disheveled hair and clothing, eyebags like he hasn’t slept in a century, and unhidden exhaustion in his whole, dangerously thin frame— some would describe the expression on his face as concern or pity. Fyodor would describe it as a look that could make him forfeit all his possessions and drop to his knees (in WORSHIP, not glug gluggin it. maybe that too but ykwim ok SORRY i’ll stop breaking the fourth wall) in an instant.
“Tired.” Fyodor mumbled. “Why are you here…?” The words felt jumbled in his mouth, his accent was definitely not helping here.
“I dunno, I was bored.” Of course he was. Fyodor’s eyes finally gave up on staying open, fluttering shut as he sighed.
“Hey! I said I’m bored, don’t fall asleep!” Dazai exclaimed childishly. He crouched down and poked Fyodor’s cheek with his finger, garnering no reaction. Truthfully, he was right to find the situation strange. He’d never seen Fyodor any less than put together, let alone exhausted enough that he’d let himself be touched so casually. Sure, he can’t kill Dazai, at least not easily without his ability given his lack of physical strength (and Dazai’s taser), but Dazai was everything Fyodor wanted to rid the world of. Since getting Dazai out of the world would be a bit of a lengthy process, wouldn’t he at least want to get him out of his house? Well, in any case, Dazai’s not complaining— he’ll gladly stay and irritate Fyodor if he can.
…
Obviously he’s only here to irritate Fyodor.
Anyways.
“Mind if I make some tea?” Dazai asked, sarcastically polite, already on his way to where he assumed the kitchen was.
“Yes.” Fyodor answered. His eyes were still shut, voice still too dried out to produce his infamous, silky ‘evil-voice’, as Nikolai lovingly calls it.
“What?” Dazai stopped in his tracks.
“I mind if you make tea.”
As much as a warm cup of tea sounded heavenly, Fyodor would rather not have Dazai rummaging through his kitchen. He didn’t really feel like reorganzing everything in there, that would be a significant loss of precious energy. Plus, the plethora of medications Sigma forced him to get and Nikolai ‘encourages’ him to take are in the kitchen. He doesn’t even want to think about what would happen if Dazai got his hands on a bottle of nortriptyline…
“Ugh, fine then…” Dazai sighed dramatically. He stepped back over to Fyodor’s still body on the floor, and in one fell swoop slid his hands under Fyodor and picked him up in a bridal carry, earning a very amusing squeak-like sound from Fyodor.
Dazai carried him to the nearby couch that looked entirely unused, and set him down with unsettling gentleness.
“Shut up, it was annoying looking at you on the floor. Now, do you have any food around here?”
Fyodor only looked up at him, uncharacteristically befuddled. Eyes rounded, dry lips slightly parted, dark hair splayed out on the couch cushion. Dazai squatted down to Fyodor’s eye level, and reached a hand out to brush away the hair that had fallen into his face.
“Do you always look like a scared cat when youre tired?” Dazai mused, not expecting an answer.
“... There is a box of crackers in the top drawer, left to the fridge.” Fyodor whispered. His expression remained the same, still looking at Dazai as he grinned and left for the kitchen.
Fyodor was under no delusion that his reaction to physical touch was out of the ordinary and illogical to say the least. He’d never had a good relationship with it. All it had ever brought upon him was pain and discomfort and death. Usually he’d push someone away if they touched him. But when his guard is down, and there’s no cruel monster to shove the hand off, all that’s left is the underlying fear. Not the screaming, adrenaline-rushing fear, but the fear of what’s to come. Dread. The fear that a hand will soon punch, and a foot will soon kick. The fear that this safety and softness is a prelude to horror.
So if Dazai thinks he resembles a small, skittish creature, perhaps he’s right. Perhaps that is what Fyodor Dostoyevsky is deep down.
However, when Dazai returned with the box of crackers; when he sat down on the couch, complaining about how little food Fyodor has; when he carefully lifted Fyodor’s head onto his lap, not quieting his own rambling for a second; when he carded a hand through Fyodor’s hair, not a care in the world for who they are and who they work for…
Fyodor can’t help but think maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe nothing bad lurks around the corner. Maybe he can just be a weak, exhausted thing in his enemy’s lap for an evening.