(in another world, in another universe, their difference would be nothing. intellects and minds alike, breathing from the same darkness, selfishness, of doing the worst for their own goals. dazai's never seen much of a difference, good, bad, those things are so poorly put together, separated, a gray area that never fits right. from fyodor's point of view, he is solely a bad guy because he is trying his most to do good, even if it burns him with sin. dazai? dazai is a bad guy, trying his most to do good, while his tactics might pour the same darkness they share deep in their hearts - both save, or try to, in their own minds, in their own rights.
a younger dazai would find this to be exciting. everything had bored him back them, everything was too awfully obvious, his life a pit of numbness he could never climb out, and fyodor would have provided him with just what he searched. the carnage, the sin, the worst of the worst, right in front of his eyes to watch closely as their blood spilled against a wall. this dazai would rather stop the hand that touches one into their demise, take it to his lips in a kiss, and try to show fyodor there are other ways to save.
the smile is warm, it makes his heart skip a beat, even though he should always be in control of it. fyodor is beautiful, and there's no bloodspill that could make dazai think otherwise.)
[ drowning had been a natural choice for obliterating his opponent, for removing the one person who could stop him from achieving his goal. it also did not require him to use his hands, or even himself directly: no gun, no knife, no axe. that had been why, upon arrival here his impulse had pushed him to drag dazai underwater despite his own dislike of cold and wet—those two discomforts lodge themselves under his skin, always without fail. in truth, the sweet sweeping touch of water along his skin, whether cold or not, had not disturbed him once upon a time. it had only been the passing of sin onto his person that had slowly leeched the comfort, as well as the ability to view beauty and be moved by it. fyodor is aware of beautiful things, the plucking of his cello, the stained glass cathedrals, dazai's face illuminated by the glow of meursault's cells.
for all his investment in humanity, fyodor has strategically placed himself outside of it. perhaps a self-imposed banishment or, more obscure, a product of his origins and what he is, bathed in red strokes across the sky—a scene from his younger years as he peers over the edge of the bridge and the neva flows beneath his boots. to be saved is such an alien concept to him, it is not a desire nor a consideration. there lies another split difference between himself and dazai; the other, human and no longer human, had been saved. fyodor had no such fortune, as what he is would not be categorized as human.
as long as this delineation exists, can dazai truly say those words and mean them when he doesn't know what fyodor is?
(wet and cold with a bullet lodged in his flesh—that is the setting of his end. the black waters of the little neva are closing in—all goes into the water and it is finished. if his existence is to bloom in failure—then what does acceptance even matter?)
furthermore, is one person even enough when said person could not be fully his? fyodor entertains that thought for a split second, watches in the back of his mind as a myriad of pathways open but always lead to the same conclusion. the muted way he feels or does not feel; he's not smitten, he does not believe dazai to be smitten either despite prior words— it is irrational, the pieces do not connect. that is the conclusion he settles on, even as he takes his hands back and very tenderly cradles dazai's head between them.
upon his brow a light press of lips: an offered blessing, a quiet acceptance of the words i accept you as you are, too but that has to be truth that will turn into a lie because dazai knows fyodor but he does not know what he is but for now fyodor will embrace those words as a momentary truth, a brittle fact. and there is a pond, a lake, an ocean of secrets between— and it is so very lonely to be cast adrift at sea, so fyodor will not be the sea, he will be the sky and observe. ]
Thank you. [ sincerely given despite his own hesitations on the matter, fyodor can extend mercy or grace or appreciation, he is not just malice. either way, it will not matter once they're back. probably for the best dazai turned down fyodor's offer of sex before. ]
Then let us speak no further on this, and instead focus on finding the secrets of this place. I trust you to do your best, Dazai-kun, to be good, even if we're both bound for hell.
(it is true. whether fyodor is human, whether his heart beats in the same frequency as dazai's own, whether he's something else completely, those things hardly matter. none of it does, because right now, what he sees, what he knows, he accepts that he doesn't know everything. acceptance is simply that, to observe, and feel alright with what one sees. matters of perspective, matters of light and dark, for both of them, they come together, and they separate, and dazai too accepts.
the hands on his cheek bring him to a myriad of emotions - confusion, expectation, once again, acceptance. it's no surprise to him that those hands are so cold, thin, he feels the bits of skin that could gently scratch from all the nibbles and bites fyodor inflicts on his fingers, but once that kiss comes, all he can do is close his eyes and enjoy the feel of lips. it's not what he had gambled for, but it's what fyodor can give him, and for now, he's not in the business of taking more.
instead, his arm wraps around his waist, loosely so it doesn't seem like he's seeking more, and he smiles. once fyodor's words enter his ears, all he can do is laugh a little.)
Please, as if the Devil himself could deal with both of us, Fyfy.
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no subject
a younger dazai would find this to be exciting. everything had bored him back them, everything was too awfully obvious, his life a pit of numbness he could never climb out, and fyodor would have provided him with just what he searched. the carnage, the sin, the worst of the worst, right in front of his eyes to watch closely as their blood spilled against a wall. this dazai would rather stop the hand that touches one into their demise, take it to his lips in a kiss, and try to show fyodor there are other ways to save.
the smile is warm, it makes his heart skip a beat, even though he should always be in control of it. fyodor is beautiful, and there's no bloodspill that could make dazai think otherwise.)
I accept you as you are, too.
no subject
for all his investment in humanity, fyodor has strategically placed himself outside of it. perhaps a self-imposed banishment or, more obscure, a product of his origins and what he is, bathed in red strokes across the sky—a scene from his younger years as he peers over the edge of the bridge and the neva flows beneath his boots. to be saved is such an alien concept to him, it is not a desire nor a consideration. there lies another split difference between himself and dazai; the other, human and no longer human, had been saved. fyodor had no such fortune, as what he is would not be categorized as human.
as long as this delineation exists, can dazai truly say those words and mean them when he doesn't know what fyodor is?
(wet and cold with a bullet lodged in his flesh—that is the setting of his end. the black waters of the little neva are closing in—all goes into the water and it is finished. if his existence is to bloom in failure—then what does acceptance even matter?)
furthermore, is one person even enough when said person could not be fully his? fyodor entertains that thought for a split second, watches in the back of his mind as a myriad of pathways open but always lead to the same conclusion. the muted way he feels or does not feel; he's not smitten, he does not believe dazai to be smitten either despite prior words— it is irrational, the pieces do not connect. that is the conclusion he settles on, even as he takes his hands back and very tenderly cradles dazai's head between them.
upon his brow a light press of lips: an offered blessing, a quiet acceptance of the words i accept you as you are, too but that has to be truth that will turn into a lie because dazai knows fyodor but he does not know what he is but for now fyodor will embrace those words as a momentary truth, a brittle fact. and there is a pond, a lake, an ocean of secrets between— and it is so very lonely to be cast adrift at sea, so fyodor will not be the sea, he will be the sky and observe. ]
Thank you. [ sincerely given despite his own hesitations on the matter, fyodor can extend mercy or grace or appreciation, he is not just malice. either way, it will not matter once they're back. probably for the best dazai turned down fyodor's offer of sex before. ]
Then let us speak no further on this, and instead focus on finding the secrets of this place. I trust you to do your best, Dazai-kun, to be good, even if we're both bound for hell.
no subject
the hands on his cheek bring him to a myriad of emotions - confusion, expectation, once again, acceptance. it's no surprise to him that those hands are so cold, thin, he feels the bits of skin that could gently scratch from all the nibbles and bites fyodor inflicts on his fingers, but once that kiss comes, all he can do is close his eyes and enjoy the feel of lips. it's not what he had gambled for, but it's what fyodor can give him, and for now, he's not in the business of taking more.
instead, his arm wraps around his waist, loosely so it doesn't seem like he's seeking more, and he smiles. once fyodor's words enter his ears, all he can do is laugh a little.)
Please, as if the Devil himself could deal with both of us, Fyfy.