Chapter Text
Dostoevsky wandered through the florist’s vibrant, dazzling corridors with the silence of death and the focus of a predator, as if he were choosing his next prey. Or rather, his next pawn in a chess game, a gift for his beloved, in other words. He stopped in front of a shelf where the color red dominated; the carnations were dazzling and enticing. He had made his decision.
~
It was an ordinary day at the agency. Everyone, except Dazai, was busy with their own work or helping others. He, however, was testing how many paper planes he could throw into the potted plant hanging on the wall just as Kunikida walked in.
“Dazai, there is a letter for you,” Kunikida said as he handed him the piece of paper.
“Aww, must be from one of my fans. You know ladies adore me, Kunikida-kun,” he replied with his usual playful tone, taking the letter. "Open when alone," it said, just simple handwriting with a red pen on a plain envelope. Though a bit suspicious, he didn’t dwell on it too much and stuffed it into his pocket to read later at his apartment.
“Is it important?” Kunikida asked, clearly uninterested but asking just in case, considering Dazai’s indifferent personality.
“Noo, not at all. Probably just a love letter as usual. Whoever wrote it, I bet the content is spicy. Definitely worth reading at home,” Dazai replied teasingly, as usual, and the blond man sighed and returned to his work, not bothering to respond.
After a tiring day of doing nothing but annoying Kunikida and making failed suicide attempts, he finally arrived at his apartment. The first thing he did was throw himself onto the bed and reach for the line of empty liquor bottles nearby. The fridge was empty, unsurprisingly, as he had spent all of his previous paycheck carelessly. Eventually, he found a half-full bottle among the clutter, took a sip, and let out a satisfied hum. Forgetting everything and doing absolutely nothing was a wonderful feeling.
After a while of rolling around in bed, he noticed a rustle in his pocket. Ah, right, the letter. He had completely forgotten about it.
He took it out and glanced once more at the red-inked writing on it. The envelope was simple and elegantly written, but the handwriting was striking, too striking to belong to just anyone. Realizing this, Dazai frowned; the handwriting was starting to look eerily familiar. He didn’t like that.
Though his mind hesitated for a moment, his fingers acted on their own, already opening the envelope with practiced ease. The paper inside was barely half-filled, maybe not even that. The same handwriting again, and the opening line confirmed his suspicions, lightning struck through his mind.
“Dazai, dear,”
He sat up on his bed and focused more on the letter, putting the liquor bottle aside completely and giving the paper his full attention. Even though it wasn’t signed, he already knew who it was from. Knowing it, and knowing the sender so well, it bothered him.
“Dazai, dear,
It’s been a while since we last met, don’t you think? I could almost say I’ve missed having you as my chess partner. You were the only one who ever got that close to beating me… But this time I’m not writing for a game, no, we can’t always play, can we? It’s time for business, not games. I believe there are some important matters we need to discuss, preferably face to face.
For that reason, I hope to see you this Sunday afternoon at our usual café.”
After rereading the paper several times, checking for hidden meanings, he finally set it aside and threw himself back on the bed. He stared at the ceiling, going over the offer in his mind. If Dostoevsky wanted to see him, it could never be a good sign, but it was undoubtedly something serious. The man never wasted time on trivial matters. He wouldn’t risk meeting Dazai without reason. Still, the fact that he couldn’t figure out what it could be was unsettling.
He sighed deeply, torn, and began weighing his options. Sunday, that was tomorrow. Should he go? Honestly, he didn’t want to waste a perfectly good Sunday on Dostoevsky, but he knew that if something happened, it wouldn’t only affect him, it would affect the entire detective agency. With that in mind, going seemed like the most logical choice. As these thoughts ran through his mind one after the other, he eventually fell asleep.
The next morning, even though the meeting wasn’t until the afternoon, he woke up early. He couldn’t sleep any longer. He spent his time tossing and turning in bed, then pacing his room, debating whether he should tell someone. It might be important, but what would he say? He didn’t want to cause unnecessary panic. In the end, he decided to handle it alone and finally left his apartment.
Although there was no set time for the meeting, he sensed he was early, it was barely afternoon, after all. He decided to sit somewhere empty and began scanning the tables. But then, at one of them, he locked eyes with the dark-haired man already seated and smiling at him. Dazai’s brows furrowed involuntarily, though he quickly and skillfully corrected his expression and approached the table, adopting his usual demeanor.
“Oh, would you look at that, I’m not late?” he asked as he sat across from the man. His eyes caught on the bouquet of carnations sitting at the edge of the table.
The man shook his head politely. “No, I came early. You know I like to be prepared.”
“How could I not... And clearly, you’re more than prepared. What’s this?”
“Flowers.”
“You don’t say. What for?”
“For you.” The man replied flatly as he handed over the bouquet. “I didn’t call you here for business — wasn’t that obvious?”
“A date? How romantic of you.”
“Not exactly. I simply enjoy your company. Is it so wrong to want to spend more time with you?”
Dazai raised a single brow in suspicion, this was the last thing he expected. The least likely possibility. Dostoevsky just wanted... to spend time with him? That was new. But the man’s unpredictability had perhaps impressed him. He took the flowers and brought them to his nose.
“Impressive. I expected you to choose a poisonous flower.”
“Come now, Dazai-kun. I don’t always want to kill you.”
“You’ve put my heart at ease, Fyodor. Hearing that from you is almost touching.” He couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle, amused. “So you just want to chat about the weather and stuff?”
“Not really... I brought my chess set. Thought we could play.”
“I could’ve sworn your letter said the opposite.”
“And I could’ve sworn you knew me better.”
“Ah, you got me.”
That afternoon had gone suspiciously well, almost enjoyable. He didn’t want to admit that he actually enjoyed Fyodor’s company. No. But when he got home and searched for a place to put the flowers, he ended up filling an empty liquor bottle with water. He figured his time hadn’t been completely wasted. With a sigh, he pulled out a cigarette and decided to sit by the window before heading to bed. As he mentally reviewed the day, he concluded that it hadn’t been all that bad, almost.
He had almost liked him.
He chuckled and brushed the thought aside, but he wasn’t very good at lying to himself. Hiding things, maybe. He shrugged to himself, put out his cigarette, and decided to head to bed, feeling suddenly drained. Maybe tensing up all day had worn him out, who knows. Pulling the blanket up to his chin, he prepared for a good night’s sleep.
But, as usual, the universe had other plans for him.
As the night wore on, his dreams grew chaotic, turning into nightmares. Blood, violence, tears; he could almost physically feel the pain. Tossing and turning in bed, drenched in sweat, he couldn’t even realize he was dreaming, let alone wake up.
It was going to be a long night for him.
~
Dazai woke up to the stabbing throb of a headache. The room spun faintly in the morning light, hazy and too loud despite its silence. He groaned into his pillow and dragged himself upright, felt like someone stuffed cotton in his head. Another night of restless dreams. A horrible headache that refused to stop.
The flower still sat in the bottle beside his bed, petals wilting but the scent strangely persistent. He glanced at it as though it might leap at him, and then turned away quickly. He felt weird, he didnt even know why. But he had things to do, he would be fine, he was always fine. Somehow.
Work was a blur. Kunikida scolded him for being late, for being distracted. Dazai nodded and deflected with lazy jokes, but there was a thin sheen of unease behind his eyes. It was as if his whole life energy was getting drained.
Then, sometime after noon, a folded envelope found its way onto his desk.
There was no signature. Dazai felt his pulse skip. He knew that handwriting, elegant, too precise. But he also couldnt deny the strange sense of comfort he brought, as if he suddenly forgot about the headache. A strange silence in his head that was almost peaceful. Almost.
He opened it, didnt even think of not doing it.
“Dazai, dear.
I hope your nights have been... vivid.
I found myself thinking of you again how easily your mind moves, how easily you fold under the right pressure.
Let’s walk under the stars tonight. I know a place where the city lights won’t find us.
8 p.m. You’ll come.
With affection.”
The headache that had plagued him all morning compeletly gone now. Not vanished, not really, but numbed like someone had placed cool hands on the fevered parts of his brain. The letter was simple, short, almoat as if making fun of him. But still, he couldnt deny it held some kind of affection... In his own way.
~
By evening, Dazai found himself walking through the outskirts of Yokohama. The city’s noise faded behind him, replaced by the rustle of tall grass and the distant hum of crickets.
Fyodor was already waiting at the top of the hill.
He stood like a phantom. The sight of him unsettled Dazai more than it should have. But something about this quiet place, this man, made his thoughts still.
“You came,” Fyodor said, soft and unreadable.
“I’m still not sure why.” Dazai tried to sound amused.
“You’re lucky I didn’t bring backup.”
“But you didn’t.” Fyodor smiled thinly. “I knew you wouldn’t.”
They walked for a while, side by side. The air was cooler up here. Fyodor said little, but somehow that was comforting. Dazai hated silence, usually. But with Fyodor, it felt intentional like a trap being set slowly. He thought he should remind himself that more often...
Eventually, they lay down in the grass, arms just barely brushing, eyes fixed on the scattering of stars above them.
“You know,” Dazai murmured, “this almost feels like a date.”
“It’s whatever you need it to be,”
“I don’t need anything.”
“Everyone needs something.”
The silence stretched again, heavy now. Dazai turned his head to glance at Fyodor, only to find him already watching.
“What do you want from me?” Dazai asked.
“A companion. A worthy rival maybe. I’m still deciding.”
“You’re just bored, you want a plaything.”
“And you’re still here.”
... Dazai frowned, opened his mouth to retort but Fyodor leaned in, brushing their lips together with clinical precision. Not passion. Not desire. But as if it was supposed to be like that. It made Dazai’s stomach turn. Not with disgust, but with something that felt too much like relief. As if all the headaches he had been having were gone now in a blink of an eye. It was off.
“What.?”
Fyodor pulled back just a fraction, his lips still ghosting against Dazai’s. “Just a kiss,” he said, so gently. “You look unwell.”
“I was fine until you did that”
“No. You werent.”
They stayed like that for a while, side by side, not speaking.
Stars blinked overhead. A breeze rolled through the tall grass.
Eventually, Dazai pulled himself away. Fyodor didn’t stop him. He simply sat up, expression unreadable.
“Fair enough. You should not stay up too late,” he mumbled.
“I never sleep well anyway,” Dazai replied, and walked back down the hill.
~
His apartment felt wrong when he returned. The headache came back.
The flower in the bottle was more wilted now, but somehow its scent had thickened in the room. He opened a window, but it didn’t help. And he could not find himself wanting to throw it away too. His limbs felt too heavy. The taste of Fyodor’s kiss still lingered on his lips.
He decided to not think about and just sleep. But something else was wrong.
He fell asleep quickly.
Nightmares were not there this time.
He woke peaceful in the morning. Though that didn't last. It had only been a night of relief. The following ones still held the same nightmares he was fearing of. He wanted, no, needed this to stop. He needed a distraction again.
He waited.
A day passed. No letter.
Another. Still nothing.
By the third night, his hands were trembling again. The headache returned like a vengeful spirit. His stomach twisted. His eyes saw things that weren’t there: Fyodor standing in doorways, the flower’s petals bleeding color, shadows crawling across the floor.
He didn’t want to call.
But he needed to breathe again.
Dazai picked up his phone, hands shaking. The number had been memorized long ago.
He stared at the screen.
... He pressed call.