Work Text:
Dazai is a great pretender, you see. Lies and deceit are second nature to a man who's lived off the misfortune of others. He's alive. He's sentient. The drooling, the falling over, the lack of coherence—all of it is a grand, elaborate act in Dazai's ploy to get his revenge; Fyodor is sure of it.
And if Dazai insists on being stubborn, then he will soon meet his match in Fyodor.
Carrying him feels like hauling around a sack of bricks: all dead weight and prickly edges where his bones should be. Like this, Dazai's no smarter than an amoeba. He pretends his lips don't work and voices no complaints when Fyodor drops him onto the bed without an ounce of care or elegance. Luckily for him, however, Dazai gets to land flat on his back today.
Fyodor saddles up next to him, laying on his side to face Dazai squarely. He briefly considers turning Dazai over on his side, too, so that they may face each other. “Stop looking at me like that. It's suffocating,” Dazai had once said, before turning away from Fyodor on one of their many shared nights together. The silhouette of his back and neck, the skin scarred yet dreamlike, still lingers in the forefront of Fyodor’s mind.
Feeling generous, Fyodor leaves Dazai be. The man stares loosely at the ceiling. If eyes are the window to the soul then Dazai’s eyes mirror the black hole he houses within him. It is Fyodor’s greatest regret and misfortune to believe the two of them are made of the same matter, and to pursue Dazai in spite of that. Fyodor should have refused. After all, he knows better—he’s seen what happens when two black holes meet.
The nights are long and cold. Fyodor would leave Dazai naked to the bitter air if the devil could feel even an ounce of shame. Still, he shivers through thin fabric, the tin-chipped chatter of his teeth a feeble reminder that Dazai is here, present, and alive.
It’s a curious observation, but he no longer twitches in his sleep. Dazai has forged anxiety and tension into steeled will, appearing more unshakeable than the average person, but he is still only human. The weight of his own existence wears down on him and manifests when he’s at his most vulnerable.
Before, nighttime terrors would rip anguished screams from Dazai’s throat. Now, the only voice of his Fyodor hears is the one replayed from his memory.
“You don’t love me enough to want me dead, Dostoyevsky.”
“It was easier to win over your affections than I expected.”
“Feels miserable, doesn't it? That’s my greatest gift to you.”
If he could do it over, he would end it at its source: someone like Osamu Dazai should never have been born. How pointless to believe one hole could fill the absence of another; in the end, the emptiness simply multiplies.
. . .
Dazai has resolved himself to being a burden. He requires assistance with basic everyday tasks: bathing, cleansing, changing, and eating, to name a few. At his most proactive he holds onto spoons and forks with the strength of a baby’s grip for a fraction of a second before it drops with a dull clamor, and in those moments Fyodor has half the mind to wish Dazai would pick it back up and stab him with it.
It’d be something, at least. Anything. That’s the Dazai he knows, after all, not this Dazai—the one who’s too quiet and passive, with glazed-over eyes and a mouth that only serves as decoration. No witty remarks or biting quips to exchange, no quick-release venom.
This house once filled with idle conversation now feels too large. Silence has a way of compounding. It echoes down the halls, rattles in Fyodor’s ears. What used to be a given feels like divine punishment, but if God created Osamu Dazai, then He should repent for His gravest mistake.
With a sigh, Fyodor hoists Dazai onto the chair. His body leans forward, slumping onto the dining table in a mess of hair and limbs. Fyodor adjusts him so his back hits the chair, then straps him in place while he fetches breakfast.
Something easy for the palate: overnight oats with ripe fruit. Blueberries, raspberries, and bananas, all in-season. Dazai hates bananas; says they’re like eating vomit. And yet when Fyodor feeds him a generous serving of mashed bananas it goes down the man’s throat with the same nonexistent ease as everything else.
He forces another spoonful into Dazai’s mouth and observes him for any changes in micro-expression: a quirk of the brow; a furrow; something to signal his displeasure. Instead, Dazai gives him nothing.
How many hours has he spent staring at Dazai’s blank expression by now? It’s frustrating. It’s fake. It’s not the real Dazai. Just how long does he intend on pretending?
Fyodor makes a fist out of Dazai’s hand and balances a spoon in the center. He nudges the bowl of fresh berries closer to him.
“Eat,” Fyodor says.
No movement.
“Eat,” he demands again. “I know you can do it. You’re not fooling me, devil.”
Dazai doesn’t so much as blink.
“Damn it, Dazai! Eat!”
As if making a mockery of him, Dazai’s hand relaxes and the spoon falls unceremoniously to the floor.
With his fork, Fyodor stabs a berry before shoving it into Dazai’s mouth. He slices Dazai’s lip in the process and bright red blood begins to dribble down the man’s chin. Fyodor takes in the sight of him: the blood, dripping juice, and the bits of raspberry flesh mashed against his teeth. It startles him how little the desire to kiss him has faded. If anything, he’s never wanted to kiss Dazai more than right now, at this very moment.
. . .
Hydrogen peroxide. Once a common household antiseptic, its usage has fallen out of favor. For that reason alone, Fyodor agitates a fresh bottle, pops the cap, and peels back the safety seal before setting aside the bottle on the bathroom sink.
Dazai sits still and useless on the closed toilet lid, form hunched over. The cold lights accentuate how gaunt he’s become. Harsh lines etch out his cheeks while shadows build homes on top of them, creating deep valleys beneath his eyes. He’s never looked worse for wear.
Fyodor grabs him by the chin, tilting his head to observe the gash on his bottom lip. It’s not deep enough to need stitches, but still considerably deep. He runs his finger against it gently; no reaction from Dazai. The wound stopped bleeding ten minutes ago.
He scratches at it with the tip of his fingernail in a zigzag motion, lighter than a feather, at first—probably more ticklish than anything else—until he digs in deeper, pressing and pressing at the underlayer of flesh until the wound reopens and bright blood once again colors Dazai’s pale lips.
Still, nothing. Fyodor holds the bottle of hydrogen peroxide as he positions the opening above Dazai’s mouth.
It should burn. The liquid will fizz and bubble when it makes contact with his skin, tearing through cells and disturbing his recovery, however insignificant it may be.
He clamps Dazai’s lips together with his fingers and it suddenly hits him again, the urge. Before Dazai, he never cared much for swapping spit. Kissing was only pleasurable in the same way blackmail was; a person under your nose could only stray so far, and the fool at your feet was as good as yours when their eyes were closed.
But when he and Dazai collide, it’s different. For a fraction of a second he can hallucinate the sensation of feeling whole, and Fyodor imagines this is the closest to love he will ever get to experience.
Slowly, longingly, he drags a thumb over Dazai’s cupid’s bow. He sets the bottle down and gets closer until he can practically see himself reflected in Dazai’s eyes.
“If you want me to stop, then say so,” Fyodor murmurs, his lips brushing against Dazai’s. “Otherwise, I can only assume you want this.”
. . .
The tang of copper still lingers on his tongue, crisp and unpleasant. Nothing has changed. Not in Fyodor, and not in Dazai, either.
He removes Dazai’s clothes and it is neither sexy nor exciting.
Even in the past, the sight of Dazai undressing himself inspired little awe or wonder, which was entirely Dazai's fault. The man kept himself covered, bandages concealing what clothing could not, and naturally Fyodor's curiosity grew. What lay beneath the layers he refused to shed? He figured Dazai's body would be a relic of every attempt he or anyone else had made on his life. There would be a story there, a mystery to uncover: self-served desperation or redirected hatred from his mafia days etched into his very skin. Fyodor wanted to bear witness to Dazai at his most bare, to be allowed the intimacy of seeing him for who he truly was; someone not so unlike himself.
It was a foolish desire. He expected Dazai to refuse to remove his clothes so Fyodor would have to wear down at his defenses bit by bit, like some prize to be worked for, but when the time came Dazai displayed no shyness or hesitation. The careless nature to his movements removed all allure. Whether it was fueled by overt confidence or a sort of apathy due to his audience being Fyodor is something Fyodor's still unsure of to this day. Maybe Dazai had already figured him out even then.
Presently, bunched up fabric lies discarded at Dazai's feet. Fyodor drags him into the bathtub and considers if he should drown him again and finish him off. He wonders if the body will remember: if Dazai will flinch or react the moment his head falls underwater, claw at Fyodor's hands the way normal people are supposed to. Not that Dazai was ever normal. If he was, Fyodor wouldn't have acquired an interest in him.
Dazai's legs settle at the base of the tub as he sits, warm water lapping at his neck. The ends of his hair, dark and wavy, float on the surface like decaying seaweed. Fyodor runs his fingers through Dazai’s still-dry scalp and when they get tangled he moves his hand to cup Dazai’s cheek. From there he runs a finger down the column of his neck, following the divots of his bones until he lands directly over his heart. More useless decoration; people like Dazai have no use for such things.
Fyodor’s eyes trail lower. The water’s so clear he can see the precise outline of Dazai’s flaccid penis. Surely that will respond to him, won’t it? Even if his mind is gone, his body still functions.
His hands move on their own accord; muscle memory, perhaps. A biological attraction. The water soon clouds up, but there is no joy to be found.
. . .
“I love you.”
He says it just to test the way the words feel in his mouth, to see if there’s any weight or truth to them. How miserable that his own heart nods along quickly as if in agreement.
"You've won, Dazai."
Dazai lies beside him on the bed, his head nestled into Fyodor’s neck. He smells fresh and clean, his hair soft against Fyodor's skin.
"Say something," he urges gravely. "Tell me you love me, even if you must lie. You owe me at least that much."
He receives no response, but it no longer surprises him. It hasn't for some time. After all, who has really been pretending?
The silence stretches on for so long it feels almost painful. The body at his side feels warm to the touch. It moves, breathing. He can see Dazai's chest fill with air and collapse as he exhales, but there's nothing present in his eyes. No smartness from his mouth; no sharpness to his gaze. That once grating, calculating brain of his is nothing more than a calloused shell of useless muscle now.
He's prolonged this for long enough. He should end Dazai's misery and finally end his own, too.
Fyodor straddles Dazai's limp body, wrapping his hands around the man's throat. His rabbit-hop pulse feels foreign under his fingers.
He tightens his grip. Fyodor will snuff him out for good, this time. Dazai's face flushes red and the prominent veins running across his forehead begin to bulge. Soon the skin will turn purple, then blue, and he'll die by Fyodor's hands like he should have on that fateful day at sea.
Blood rushes to Fyodor's ears and he starts to hear the sound of crashing waves and gargling water, just like back then. Even Dazai's reaction is similar: little resistance, as if accepting death, welcoming it.
It unnerves him.
This is the way it has to be, though. No happiness can be had in a life lived with Dazai. Maybe in another life... No, every existence with Dazai is fated to be insufferable.
Fyodor steels his resolve and shifts his body weight forward. To his surprise, Dazai's eyes are wet and glassy. It must be a physiological response, surely. Something automatic. He's never once seen the man cry, let alone shed a single tear, and he doesn't suppose he'll have the honor of witnessing it now.
And yet Dazai's teardrops ultimately form and fall, wetting the bedsheets. Fyodor squints, confused. If Dazai has a shred of consciousness left in him then this must be painful. Excruciating, even, to be deprived of breath and oxygen.
Serves him right.
Fyodor thinks he can faintly hear Dazai's manic laughter mocking him. Back then his laughs were drowned out by the water entering Dazai's lungs, all distorted. Half-laughter, half-choking. Now it is as clear and cruel as can be.
Curiously, Dazai's mouth opens and closes, but no noise registers. Fyodor leans in closer, hovering above his face, staring at Dazai's incomprehensible lips as they continue to move.
Then, a weak voice cuts through.
"St... sto..."
Fyodor releases him immediately. He calls out to Dazai, frantic, moving his hands to hold Dazai's cheeks instead. The color gradually returns to the man's face. Fyodor waits, hoping Dazai will speak and reach out to him, curse at him, hit him, whatever it may be—but no such liveliness follows.
He rests his head against Dazai's chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart as he pretends it coalesces with Fyodor's own.
Once again, he's failed to kill Dazai.