Work Text:
Forty three.
This is the forty-third week, the forty-third chess move between them, and Dazai squints at the board from his spot lounging invisible in the tree bending over his shrine, nine tails swaying lazily beneath him in the wind.
The raven-haired man who’s played chess with him all this time leaves his offering - a single apple, gleaming red, on the golden plate. This week, he doesn’t make a prayer.
This week, he offers an apple, he doesn’t pray for anything, and his chess move is stupid.
Dazai narrows his eyes at the board. He studies it, listening to the man push himself up from his position kneeling by the shrine, vaguely aware of him. He sways as he does it, balancing with one hand on the structure.
Of the forty-three weeks he’s seen this man, he’s learned seven things about him. One, he speaks more than four languages, one of those not being Japanese; two, he plays chess excellently; three, his offerings rotate between apples, wine, and cheese. Four, he’s partially disabled; five, he can’t stand the rain; six, he grew up in Russia.
Seven, his name starts with an F.
Dazai still hasn’t figured out his full name - somehow, it’s unknown to him. He could barely find a single story about him in town.
The man steadies himself, pushing off of the wood to stand straight, and adjusts his coat. Dazai studies the board, and watches the man’s gaze skim over the shrine before beginning to turn away-
“What kind of move is that?”
The man turns. Dazai blinks back into himself, and- ah. He’s appeared in human form, then- though he isn’t sure why he chose to keep the tails and ears. Not even trying to hide it.
The man tilts his head. “Hm?”
Dazai picked up the apple, somewhere between the branch and standing here, and he tosses it up before catching it. “What. Kind of move is that,” he repeats.
A glance at the board, and back at Dazai. He’s mildly surprised the man isn’t praying Dazai won’t cast some curse on him - the stories made up about him in town were outrageous. And a little partially fueled by Dazai’s own antics.
“You should be able to tell that,” comes the reply, flat and slow. Dazai’s eyebrows raise.
“You won’t win the game like that.” Dazai stares at him. He feels some kind of adrenaline thrumming under his skin, and despite his impeccable control over his extra limbs and their show of his emotions, three of his tails lash, playful and interested.
“Who says I won’t?” The man’s full attention is on Dazai, now, and his violet eyes glint the shade of pomegranates when they tempted Persephone.
Dazai’s gaze narrows. “You know you won’t.” He abruptly switches tack. “ Why did you make that move?”
A slow smirk curls across the man’s lips. He takes a few steps forward, until he’s only a foot from Dazai. “Perhaps the game I’m trying to win,” he murmurs, low and dangerous, “isn’t the one on the board.”
Thrill. It sparks down Dazai’s spine, on the cold fingertips that lift up to touch his cheek. His breath catches slightly, all the implication in the man’s words running through in heat beneath his skin.
“And you’re so certain you’ve won?” he asks, barely a breath.
Violet eyes skim Dazai up and down. He feels alight, on fire, watching this man’s every move and caught on every word.
“Maybe I would have won with a different move,” he says, voice curling on the syllables with his accent, “but would I have caught your attention?”
Dazai feels the same way he does when he’s downing pills, when he’s tying rope around his neck - dancing on a knife’s edge, alert with the thrill of near-death. He stares, and it takes several moments for his mind to work again. “…We’ll never know.”
The man smiles. “We could, if I saw you again.”
Dazai swallows, and meets his gaze. He tilts his head, ear twitching. “Maybe I’ll make you work for it again.”
“I look forward to it. Though, I do hope it doesn’t take another forty-three weeks.”
Gods. He’s been keeping specific count too. That’s unfair, the way he says things like that. Dazai watches as the man spins on his heel, striding away from the shrine.
Dazai looks down at the red apple in his hand. He notices, catching in the gleaming color, a slip of paper tucked between his palm and the fruit, unnoticed by him earlier.
Inked cursive, neat calligraphy. Fyodor Dostoevsky.
“Fyodor.” Dazai takes a bite of the apple, slipping the paper into his pocket. His name tastes almost as good as the fruit does.
‘Til next time, then,
he thinks, magic shimmering over his form as he returns to his perch.
And by then I’ll know more about you.