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Standing silently in place, he peered at the stone, he'd been there for hours and was still having trouble processing it. His eyes roved over every letter on the tombstone meticulously burning it into his memory.
Dazai Osamu, it read.
Dead.
The whole thing was natural really, a completely expected event. Yet the air of disbelief lingered. He recalled a moment from mere days ago where the now deceased man had laid in his embrace and longingly gazed upon him.
“Fedya I can't stay for you. It wouldn't be fair and I won't allow myself. You know that too, don't you?”
He remembered the words Dazai had spoken to him. Remembering how at the time he'd opted not to answer, instead reaching for the hand of the man he'd swore not to love and raising it to his lips. Now that he thought about it, the particular remark had been quite rude. It's not like he believed he was entitled to any sort of course altering action from the other.
Dazai had known as much, but maybe he foresaw the deeply humiliating sight of Fyodor grappling with the futility of regret. He wouldn't disrespect the dead by putting it past him, after all the man had always been able to present scarily accurate insight, always in the strangest of manners—even by Fyodor's own standards.
The worst part of it all was the jarring silence. In life, Dazai was like a burning star; incredibly captivating, impossible to look away from. How could a presence, once so loud, suddenly become muted?
It was…difficult. To come to terms with it. To say it out loud and will away the bad taste in his mouth.
It's in the limbo of acceptance and denial that he realizes he had neglected to consider the aftermath. To consider he'd be left in its wake. As the lone variable that needn't be counted or contained because his fascination lied solely with the man currently in the ground before him.
Perhaps he should feel a bit of pride at that. Pride that his lover had trusted him to maintain the status quo in his absence.
Instead bitter resentment crawled its way up his throat. He felt abandoned. Eyes never leaving the stone, his lips tremble as they part, the desolation creeps onto his face.
“I would have gone with you, if only you'd asked.” A simple truth, spoken too late.
“I wonder ангел, did you feel the loneliness I feel as you fell? Were you frightened at the prospect of eternal solitude? Were you eager?” He whispers solemnly like the wind would carry his message and relay the response.
“I can’t help but ponder, though I suppose it no longer matters, does it?”
Fyodor breaks his stare with the unresponsive tombstone, and pulls out a chain from underneath his cloak.
He grasps a small silver ring attached to it, lifting it closer and placing a gentle kiss to the cold metal.
“Wait for me моя любовь, I shall finish what you’ve begun and return to your side.”
The man casts a final glance at the grave, before retreating into the night—leaving in his place a carnation as red and dark as a bleeding heart.