Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I need to get out of here.

Dazai could think of nothing else. It was only weeks after he left the Port Mafia, the third week locked up in a safe house in a foreign country, and, most agonizingly, the fifth week after he had to cradle the body of his best friend while he bled out.

But he could not think of that.

Every time his mind took him back to that night, he felt his entire body fighting to survive. His mind would spin dizzyingly when his heartbeat and breathing would start feeling fast and shallow. He would feel like he was about to pass out, being forced to sit down on the floor and cradle his body back and forth until it passed.

Besides the panic attacks that plagued him, he had also not slept in days. Whenever his eyes closed themselves involuntarily, he would wake up in a cold sweat, his eyes wet with tears and his throat sore from screaming.

You could say that it was not going great.

Dazai was not used to feeling this way. But to be fair, he was not used to feeling anything. Ōgai Mori had made sure of that. Since he joined the Port Mafia all those years ago, he had tasted almost every psychotropic drug the doctor could lay his hands on.

Fluoxetine, diazepam, alprazolam.

Dazai still knew exactly the doses he was supposed to swallow. Not that he ever did it correctly.

Sertraline, citalopram, lithium.

What hadn’t they tried to take away his anxiety, depression, mood disorders? (Dazai grimaced joylessly at the memory of Mori suggesting ‘mindfulness’.)

Alcohol, sex, his own blood.

In the end, it did not matter, Dazai was as numb as he could be.

However, this changed when the prescribed drugs slowly started leaving his system. Suddenly, he felt everything. The grief, the anger, the guilt… and it was a lot. He was nauseous all the time, dizzy, and feverish. Some days he was unable to get out of bed, not showering or eating, but sleeping or staring at the ceiling blankly. The grey, old, and windowless apartment he was staying in also did not help with that. Other days he was desperate to escape his voluntary prison cell. He would be tense, feeling like he was about to burst out of his own skin - ready to leave this part of his life behind as well.

Today he wanted to escape.

His plan was not that great. He knew that lock of the only door in the apartment was a simple one. No fancy keycards, code pads – he was stuck in here voluntarily after all. However, the tricky part was, that Dazai had nothing to pry the lock open with. Santōka Taneda knew that Dazai’s favourite pastime had everything to do with suicide, so there were no sharp (or even remotely pointy) objects in the apartment. Dazai could almost sigh at the thought. Getting your sins removed from the world to become a good man was awfully boring.

But there was still hope. Three times a day, a bald man with a thick eastern-Europe accent would bring Dazai meals and check if he was still alive. (Was his name Ivan? Or was Dazai just overgeneralising?) In the few weeks that Dazai had spent here, he had tried to commit suicide twice already. One time he had found the cupboard full of cleaning supplies. Naturally, he had chugged every bottle of anything that remotely smelled like bleach. The bald man had found him in a pool of his own vomit the next morning. The second time Dazai thought he would be able to drown himself in the dirty bathtub. It was rather awkward when the bald man had to lift a naked Dazai from the freezing bath and dry him off.

Dazai lived a terrible paradox. The guilt that threatened to kill him, was also what kept the suicide attempts from being legal.

After all, he had a promise to keep.

Nevertheless, whatever the weird relationship was that Dazai had formed with his bald headed companion, it would mean his exit for tonight. He wanted to jam something in between the lock when his Russian friend opened the door. The lock would stay open, Dazai would go out and then fetch something proper to open the lock with at his will.

Dazai checked his watch. Dinner would almost arrive.

He quickly seated himself on the one chair of the tiny dining table. A few moments later, there was a rambling of keys. The bald headed European entered the apartment slowly. He eyed Dazai suspiciously before giving a single nod as greeting.

“Hi!” Dazai flashed a toothy grin while he jumped up to greet the man in English. “How are you today?”

Only a grunt left the man’s lips. He walked forward and placed a brown bag on the table where Dazai sat. Dazai blinked a few times at the greasy bag but recovered nevertheless.

“This looks great. Thank you so much!” He exclaimed.

The man turned around to leave again. Showtime.

In some kind of movement that Dazai swore he could not repeat, he threw his body on the floor, while also tripping over both the chair and the table. The scene was pure chaos, to say the least. Dazai lay motionless on the floor until two strong arms picked him right up and put him on his feet.

“Oops!” Dazai rubbed a sore bump that was already forming on his forehead. He timidly patted the skin around his eye. Fuck, he might even get a black eye from this – but at least the distraction seemed to be working.

“Heehee! I’m so clumsy.” He patted his eastern-European friend on the back and pushed him toward the door. “I’m fine now, though, thanks. I will see you out.”

Ivan-or-maybe-also-not-Ivan looked somewhat perplexed but nodded nevertheless. Dazai had a strange feeling that the man might not like him that much. Dazai walked to the door with the man, pushing him outside. Even though the man usually closed the door on his own, Dazai now stood in the door opening while waving the man off.

“Bye-bye now!” Dazai exclaimed and looked at his watch.

“See you in nine hours!”

Dazai knew the man would watch him close the door, even though his confusion. Right before Dazai shut the door, he sneakily tied a rubber band between both door handles so that the latch would be pushed open. (He had found the rubber band during his search for poisonous cleaning liquids in the cupboards.) He gave a final happy wave, closed the door, and listened for disappearing footsteps.

When he heard that his bald headed friend was not coming back, he knew his stupid plan had succeeded.

He waited for twenty minutes before exiting the compromised door himself.

He was out.

Chapter Text

Dazai made a mental to-do list when he left his voluntary prison. In the nine hours until his friend came back, he should get something to open the door whenever he pleased. (He felt like even a paperclip or bobby pin would be enough to pry that lock open.) He might also get supplies to properly kill or hurt himself, but most desperately of all, he wanted out of his head.

He needed to forget everything – even for just a little while.

Recreational drugs were unfortunately not an option, as he was penniless in a foreign country. (Too bad, soviet ketamine sounded like music in Dazai’s ears right now.) To a bar it was, then.

Dazai walked down the stairs of the dank apartment complex and rolled his eyes at the brutalist architecture that threatened to swallow him. Everything was old, dirty, and made of concrete. Although the atmosphere matched his mood, Dazai thought it was hideous. He trusted his memory to make a mental map of everything he passed. Street signs did not help, everything was written in the Cyrillic alphabet Dazai was yet to master.

The streets of Russia were cold and dark. There was almost no one around for him to see.

He was systematically walking around the blocks surrounding his apartment complex when he found an old and dirty-looking bar. He hesitated for a moment before entering, wondering if he even wanted to enter a bar where he wouldn’t want to be found dead. (For Dazai, that was saying a lot). In the end, he just shrugged. Getting drunk was more important than finding an aesthetically pleasing bar. He just hoped Ivan was not there. 

He opens the dark wooden door and is greeted by a waft of cigarette smoke. It fills his lungs. Dazai takes a step back, feeling the panic rise inside his body.

“Fuck.”

When the world starts spinning overwhelmingly around him, Dazai closes his eyes.

It was my fault.

He looks down at his own bloodied hands and sees the final puff of smoke that left his best friend’s mouth.

It was my fault.

His hands are freezing, still desperately clinging onto the lifeless body of Oda Sakunosuke.

It was my fault.

There’s so much blood. He’s choking on his own breath.

My fault.

Tears are running down his cheeks as the memory threatened to overtake him.

My. Fault.

Seven minutes later, Dazai is sitting on the front step of the bar. His breathing is uneven and heavy, his head between his knees. He is covered in a cold sweat and very tired. He is shaking all over. It would be better if he headed back to the safe house. He clearly was not ready for the outside world. 

A voice snaps him out of it.

He lifts his head slowly, meeting two dark eyes that were almost entirely obscured by a furry hat.

“What-” Dazai blurts out in Japanese, before realising that the stranger most likely does not speak it. Dazai is covered in bruises, sweat, and tears. His skin around his right eye is throbbing.

It apparently does not matter anyways, as the man just sighs and steps right over Dazai to enter the bar.

That was rude.

After another minute to collect himself, Dazai decides to follow him. He fights the urge to flee the bar when the smell of smoke fills his nose again, but at least this time, he was prepared. He quickly finds the stranger in a corner of the bar, sitting alone at a small round table. Dazai walks up to him.

“Hello! What did you say to me?” Dazai manages to say in broken Russian. He really needed to practice more, but why even bother, if you are supposed to be locked up for two years?

The man looks up and there is not a single emotion in his eyes. They stare at each other for a while. Dazai, who has seen enough to not get uncomfortable easily, was slowly getting uneasy from the dead eyes boring into his. He recognised that look all too well. Now that the furry hat was off, Dazai notices the man has black hair, wears a buttoned up vest and a… a cape?

A cape with a fur collar. Okay? Interesting.

A thick woollen coat hangs over the chair next to him.

“You’re Japanese.” The man speaks English, although with a lighter accent than Ivan-or-not-Ivan.

“Am I now?” Dazai cocks his head to the side when he answers-without-answering. “What did you say to me before?” Dazai had moved to English as well. 

“I said-” The man gestures lazily with a white gloved hand. “-You were in the way.”

Dazai nodded. He guessed that he and his panic attack were indeed in the way. So far for Russian hospitality.

“Nice hat,” Dazai commented. “I usually hate hats, but in this weather I can see why it would be nice to wear one. Russia is really cold now, huh?”

The other just grunted in response. “It’s an ushanka.”

Dazai took another good look at the man. He seemed to be doing well enough with the fur cape, expensive rings around his fingers, and the nice clothes. He bet this man could pay for his drinks tonight. Nice.

“Do you speak Japanese?” Dazai asked.

“Not fluently.” The man answered. He sounded bored of the conversation already. 

“I’m not fluent in Russian either, as you could probably tell.” Dazai flashed a (what he thought was a charming) smile.

“Okay.”

Dazai huffed a sigh. Usually, his charms worked on men like these. (He had apparently forgotten that there was a bump on his forehead, a black eye slowly forming on his face, and a general lack of personal hygiene.)

“Aren’t you interested in what I’m doing here? Now that you’ve figured out that I’m so very exotically foreign?” He asked finally, a pout almost forming on his lips.

“No.” The man’s answer was hard and stern.

There were a few moments of silence while Dazai calculated if his plans to get this man to pay for his drinks would even work. “Can I sit with you?” Dazai asked as he was already pulling out the chair across from the man.

The Russian just grunted and took his phone out. It was one of the blockiest of Nokia phones that Dazai had seen in the last decade.

He laughed as the Russian texted something, his slender fingers quickly pressing the buttons. 

“What is that phone? I’m surprised it still works.”

The Russian looked up irritated while he let the phone slip into his pocket again. “Do you always ask so many questions?” He asked Dazai.

“Only when I’m manic,” Dazai answered truthfully. “When I have a depressive episode I don’t talk for days. Fascinating, right?”

The man blinked a few times before letting out a big sigh. “You’re not going to leave me alone tonight, are you?”

“No,” Dazai said grinning. “But-” He added. “-How about we make it interesting?”

His grin grew even wider. It looked almost wolfish. A new plan had formed.

“I bet I can drink more than you,” Dazai stated cockily. “The loser has to answer one question the other asks truthfully.”

“Are you sure you want to set that wager against a Russian man like myself?” The man eyed Dazai suspiciously, however, he finally looked a bit more interested in Dazai.

“Oh, I’m sure.”

It was not a bluff, it was a promise.

“Very well.” The Russian spoke. "You should know, however, that I never lose a bet."

"Neither do I." Dazai stated.

That was when Fyodor Dostoevsky called over the barman to order a bottle of vodka.

Chapter Text

When the first half of the bottle of vodka had steadily vanished, Dazai thought it was time to take his plan, and therefore the conversation, to the next level. He had decided, there and then, that he wanted end up in that man’s bed. (Maybe it was the alcohol. It probably was the alcohol.) Still, he would do everything for a lasting distraction, of course. Everything to feel normal.

At least for a while.

“What is your name?” He asked the Russian while he filled the small glasses with vodka. They both drank immediately, without showing any sign of discomfort when the liquid burned their throats. Dazai’s head was already spinning.

 “I’m not telling you yet. What is yours?”

“Funny for you to ask.” Dazai fished a battered looking counterfeit identity card out of his pocket. “Would you believe me-” He squinted his eyes as he tried to read the name. “-If I said it is Alexei Nikolajevitsj Jeltsin.”

“No.”

“Good,” Dazai couldn’t help but smirk mischievously. “Then it’s Alexei Nikolajevitsj Jeltsin.”

It was the first time that the man’s lips almost curled into a smile as well.

“You can call me Photius.” He said after staring a bit too long at Dazai’s fingers, which tucked away the identity card expertly. Dazai noticed, even with the buzzing of his intoxicated brain.

“What kind of name is that?” Dazai asked.

“One of a saint.”

Now the Russian filled the glasses. They drank.  

“Ah,” Dazai exclaimed as he put the small glass down again. “A piteous man, I see.”

The man, who felt the grotesque need to go by the name of a saint, nodded. He groped around his neck and pulled a necklace from underneath his shirt. There was a cross on it, but with two additional markings. “Are you religious?” He asked.

Dazai grimaced painfully. “If I were, it would not end well for me.”

“If you are not, it will not end well for you either.”

“Ironically enough-” Dazai retorted stoically. “-That means it will not matter whether I believe or not.”

 “I suppose that is true,” The Russian man started. “But tell me, why were you sitting in front of the bar in only a sweater, covered in tears, almost pulling out all your pretty hair?”

“Oh, so now you are interested in me?” A dramatic sigh left Dazai’s lips as he rolled his eyes. He twirled his fingers around a brown lock of hair. “Thank you for the compliment on my hair. It’s less frizzy out of the humid climate.”

The Russian clucked his tongue. “You’re not answering the question.”

“I answered another.”

Both were silent for a while. They drank two other shots. An hour had passed since Dazai had sat down next to the Russian man. Dazai knew that he would have a terrible hangover tomorrow.

“How old are you?” Dazai asked eventually.

“Take a guess.” The saint said.

“See, you’re not answering me either.” Dazai began in a whiny tone. But then he looked the man up and down, maybe for the tenth time that evening already. “Your clothes scream sixty and senile, but your face looks slightly younger. Maybe around fifty-five?”

“That is not very kind.”

“I do not like to lie.” Dazai retorted, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile that was anything but honest.

“Oh, but you are a walking lie. Are you not?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, oh mighty saint?” Dazai’s dark eyes were slits as he cocked his head to the side. “I bet you want me to confess all my sins to you.”

“Hmm,” The man hummed. He filled the shot glasses again. The bottle was almost empty.

“Well,” Dazai steered the conversation toward demographic information again. “You should tell me if you are older than thirty because that would be gross.”

“Gross, how?”

Dazai leaned in across the table. The Russian man immediately sat back in response. It looked like a reflex.

“Well, according to my, very legitimate, Russian identification I am barely nineteen. It would be indecent for someone above thirty to end up in bed with a teenager.” Dazai spoke – the sarcasm was almost dripping of his voice.

The saint’s eyebrows shot up. If his eyes would look less empty, he’d actually look surprised. The gloved hands that were resting on the table twitched ever so slightly.  

“I don’t think that’s a smart idea.” The saint answered.

“Oh my, don’t tell me you’re even older than thirty?” Dazai wrinkled his nose in fake disgust and sat back on the chair.

“No, that’s not the case.” The saint said. Almost unnoticeable, but Dazai thought the other seemed uncomfortable under his dead exterior.

Dazai hummed in response. He jumped up, walked the two meters to the bar, and asked the barman for a tall glass. The alcohol made his body feel heavy and warm. It was a welcome feeling. He grinned as he spun around and sat down at the table with the holy saint again. His grin grew even wider as he poured the last fourth of the bottle of vodka in the tall glass and drank it in one go.

“I won,” He declared proudly. He was almost slurring his words, he was certain. But years of hiding his intoxication with Chuuya in front of Mori had trained him well. After all, he was not allowed to drink with his long list of antidepressants.

“Tell me,” Dazai continued. “Why is it not a good idea for me to end up in your bed? Don’t tell me it is religion. That would be so boring. Is it because I’m a man? That would also be very boring.”

The Russian man protested – but only slightly. “I could have another drink. You haven’t won yet.” He seemed tired. 

“I can guarantee you I will always take one sip more than you. So let’s not waste our time and answer my question truthfully.”

The Russian monk looked at him for a long and hard time, but Dazai looked right back. He leaned forward again to whisper in the saint’s ear. “I’m not bluffing. I will die before I let you win.”

“You’d probably end up dead.” The Russian man almost barked the answer out.

Dazai sat back slowly, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Well,” He grinned. “Good thing I’m off my antidepressants and more suicidal than ever.”

Now it was the saint’s turn the look surprised. No one said anything for a while. It had been a weird conversation after all.

Dazai was the one to break the silence, of course. “Do you have bobby pins at your place?” He asked shamelessly, ignoring what was previously said and without breaking eye contact.

The Russian seemingly needed a second to recover, but seemingly came to a conclusion and answered nevertheless. “No,” He said slowly. “But I do have paperclips.” 

It almost looked as if the saint could read the sinner’s mind.

“Otlichnyy,” Dazai answered in Russian this time. Great.

This was getting more and more interesting.

“Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

“Photius and Alexei, huh? We really do not suit our names.”

It was 11 PM. Dazai was cross-legged sitting on the Russian man’s bed. It was weeks after their first meeting in the bar. Ever since Dazai went home with the stranger that night, he had developed the nasty habit of overstaying his welcome.

The room they were in was cold and bare. There was nothing personal on the grey walls, no pictures, not even some form of art. The only thing that showed that the Russian man had somewhat of a personality, was the big cello in the corner of the room. Dazai had almost begged the other to play for him, but he had refused every single time so far.

However, Dazai was expertly good at breaking people, so he was sure the time would come that he’d hear the other play.

They had not had sex yet as Dazai had anticipated, but he had gotten a nice handful of paperclips that he solely used to see his Russian saint. Dazai had slept there most nights now, but always made sure to wake up and go back to his voluntary prison to accept Ivan’s soggy food. He always had nine hours to escape, walk the twenty minutes to the Russian man’s apartment, sleep, and go back the next morning. Every single time he promised to sleep on the couch or the floor, but somehow he always ended up in bed with the Russian again.

The other did not seem to mind.

Although both of them would not admit it vocally, they enjoyed each other’s company. They both knew that the other was hiding something. Fascinated by each other’s secrets, they constantly lied to each other, or spoke the truth in such a way that the other thought they were lying.

It was their own mental game of chess.

Dazai was desperate to find out what the saint’s secret was. It was a good distraction.

And, although Dazai would die before he’d admit it, sleeping in the same bed as him also kept the nightmares away.

“My real name is Fyodor.”

Dazai’s train of thought was interrupted by the Russian.

“Fyodor,” He repeated with a big, genuine smile on his face. “You can call me Dazai.”

“Dazai.” It sounded foreign and new on his Russian tongue.

A shiver went up Dazai’s spine.

“That’s me.” He breathed.

He had not been called by his name for months now. It felt good.

He patted the empty bed next to him, inviting the other in.

“You’re not even going to pretend that you’re sleeping on the couch tonight?” Fyodor asked. He rolled his eyes.

“Hmm,” Dazai hummed shamelessly. “I don’t think that’s necessary anymore.”

“I see.”

Fyodor got into bed. He wore a matching pyjama set, all made of silk. It should have looked ridiculous (and maybe it did), but Dazai thought it looked nice on him. It was also the only time he saw the other without his usual white gloves. Dazai's pyjama consisted of a t-shirt (he had borrowed it from the Russian saint, but Dazai knew that he was not going to give it back), a lot of bandages, and his boxer shorts.

Soon Fyodor started building the usual wall of pillows and blankets between them, so that Dazai would lay on one side and Fyodor on the other without any possibility of touching each other. Not even ‘accidentally’. He then switched the lights off.

Too bad.

Dazai sighed dramatically. Twice. Maybe three times. A maximum of four-

“Zatknis.” Fyodor said. Shut up.

Dazai laughed softly.

He was silent for maybe two minutes. “Fyodor?” He said softly, although he knew the other would still be awake. Both of them seemed to be plagued by bad sleep. “Fyodor!”

“What?” The answer sounded muffled, as if the other had buried his face in pillow or blankets already.

“I want to try something. Do you trust me?” Dazai asked.

“No.”

Dazai laughed softly again, before slowly starting to climb over the wall Fyodor had formed.

Fyodor, apparently catching on to what Dazai was planning, started to protest. “No- No, you really shouldn’t. I mean it, Dazai. No.”

But it was too late.

Dazai had already flopped over the mountain of blankets, right on top of Fyodor. He quickly wiggled himself underneath the same blanket as the other.

“Dazai!” Fyodor’s voice sounded panicked. He didn’t move a muscle.

Dazai, for the first time since they had met, touched Fyodor’s fingertips with his.

“It’s okay.” He tried to console the other.

“What-” Fyodor was stuttering. “Why-” He sat up and quickly switched the lights back on.

Dazai blinked warily at the sudden brightness and smiled apologetically. “Sorry, is this too much?” He asked, feeling suddenly a bit shy. Then he saw something was wrong.  

“Why-” Fyodor’s face was white as a sheet. There were beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

Dazai frowned confusedly at the question. Yes, he had tried to kill himself again five days ago, but he had seen Fyodor two times since. Three, if you counted now.

But then, it slowly started clicking into place. The gloves, the darting backwards every time Dazai wanted to get close, the time Fyodor had said that Dazai would die if they were to have sex.

“Oh.” The sound left his mouth as a sigh. “I understand.”

It was an ability – a rather morbid one.

Dazai slowly moved until he was sitting next to Fyodor, who was still looking like he saw a ghost. He grabbed the other’s sweaty hand, gave it a small squeeze, and then interlocked their fingers.

He watched the Russian saint closely.

“Is this okay?” Dazai’s voice was almost a whisper now.

Fyodor nodded his head slightly. He looked as if he was about to cry.

Dazai let go of Fyodor’s sweaty hand but grabbed him carefully by the wrist now. He moved the Russian’s hand up until the other’s fingers were touching his own cheek. He leaned in on the touch. Fyodor’s fingers were trembling.

“I- I thought it would-” Fyodor took a shaky breath. “I thought I would kill you.”

Dazai said nothing but crawled onto Fyodor’s lap. Either of his legs locking Fyodor in the middle. Fyodor’s hand was cupping Dazai’s cheek now.

The sinner and the saint stared at each other for a long time.

And then, very slowly, Fyodor’s hand started moving on its own.

It softly traced the shape of Dazai’s face. From his cheek, to the sharp line of his jaw. A thumb traced his bottom lip, an index finger followed the shape of his nose. Fyodor seemed mesmerised by Dazai’s features.

“Vasha kozha teplaya.” Fyodor whispered. Your skin feels warm.

Dazai could not help but smile a bit. He started moving again, switched the lights off, and laid down. He was on top of Fyodor, their chests pressing against each other. While Dazai started tracing Fyodor’s collarbone and shoulder through the soft fabric of his pyjamas, Fyodor’s hand had moved to Dazai’s hair. Then his other hand started slowly tracing the muscles on his back.

They were silent for a while. Dazai had almost fallen asleep, content with the warmth of another human body and the softness of Fyodor’s touches.

“What’s underneath all these bandages?”

Fyodor’s question was a whisper. His fingers had traced the bandages on the back of Dazai’s neck, right below the nape of his hair.

“Leave them on. Please.”

“Khorosho.” Fyodor said softly in Russian. Okay.

“Maybe one day I’ll tell you.” Dazai muttered.

Fyodor hummed quietly in response.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since Fyodor Dostoevsky had seen Dazai. He did not like to admit it, but it made him somewhat restless. First, he had thought of the other as annoying.

Dazai’s English had a weirdly foreign accent. Dazai’s endless questions also bothered him significantly, especially because Dazai did not let go any personal information about himself. Dazai was also frustratingly happy. But then sad. But then happy. But then empty. This emptiness was something that Fyodor could recognise, at least.

Still, everything had changed when he had found out that Dazai could touch him.

Fyodor had not been touched in years. His touch was sinfully deadly – at least, it was supposed to be. He, Fyodor, was sinfully deadly.

But not to this mysterious stranger who went by the name Dazai.

It (or rather him) intrigued Fyodor more than it should have done.

He had figured out that Dazai was most likely also an ability user. Someone who could block or nullify other abilities.

But why was he here? What were his plans?

Fyodor did not know and he hated not knowing.

That was why he was on his way to Dazai’s apartment complex. Fyodor wanted to know exactly why he had not seen him in a few days. Was he done with Fyodor? Was he gone? The thoughts almost unnerved Fyodor. But not quite yet. Him being gone would be easier.

It would get those thoughts out of his head.

Ever since Dazai had touched him, he could think of nothing more and he wanted nothing more. Dazai’s touch was warm, soft, novel, thrilling, exciting. Fyodor wanted more – and only Dazai could give him that.

And, when Fyodor wanted something, he usually got it.

It followed only naturally that when Dazai had not shown at his house for a couple of days, he thought he would show up at his. He and his rats had found out the address within hours.

So, there he was, knocking on the door of the weird Japanese man. But there came no answer. He knocked again. And again. “Dazai?” He started calling out. First softly, and looking round before he raised his voice. “Dazai!”

He heard frantic clicking noises before the door swung open.

“Oh, Fyodor! It’s you!” Dazai exclaimed happily. “Come in, I guess-”

“Did you just pick your own lock to open it?” Fyodor asked the other.

“Yes! I somehow lost the key so now I have to pry it open every time I lock it. Crazy, right?” Dazai took a step back to let Fyodor in.

They both could tell that Dazai was lying.

“Yes. Crazy,” Fyodor agreed before he looked Dazai up and down. He sounded happy, sure, but he looked far from it. He looked sick. His skin was a pale white and he was once again covered in beads of sweat. Besides his usual bandages, there was now the additional one on his hand. It was stained red on the side of his palm. Dazai’s hair was greasy, his eyes glazy, and his mouth was forcing a smile.

“You look awful,” Fyodor said.

“You’re always so incredibly rude.” Dazai sighed. “I know you’re probably new to this whole flirting thing, but usually you are supposed to say nice things.”

Fyodor entered the small apartment. It looked like the one he was currently staying in himself, but more run down.

“That’s what you get for calling me sixty and senile when we first met.”

Dazai sat down on one of the two chairs at the kitchen table. He grinned. “Touché.”

“Where have you been?” The Russian saint asked Dazai.

“Why, did you miss me that much already?” Dazai fluttered his long eyelashes in Fyodor’s direction.

“No,” said Fyodor. Maybe. A bit. He waved the question away with his hands. “Well-” He looked at Dazai expectantly. “Tell me.”

“It’s quite a boring story, actually. I am more interested in what you have been up to-” Dazai started, but Fyodor interrupted him.

“Dazai. Just tell me.”

Maybe it was Fyodor’s harsh tone, but this was all the convincing Dazai needed.

“I cut my hand on this fucking tin can and it wouldn’t stop bleeding.” Dazai looked and sounded tired. “I just wanted to eat some stupid crab.” He almost sounded like a whining child. “Do you know how hard it is to come by crab here?”

He dramatically threw his arms in the air. “I finally found it in some stupid tin can, but then it sliced me open!”

“I see.” Fyodor said calmly. “What happened then?”

“Well then-” Dazai grimaced. He looked dark and cynical. “That triggered, like, the thousandth meltdown I’ve had in weeks.”

He looked at Fyodor. Fyodor would almost call his expression helpless.

“It was the blood. The blood on my hands. It reminds me-”

Apparently, this was all Dazai could manage to share. He had snapped his mouth shut and was staring at his hands.

“What was his name?”

“Odasaku.”

That is when Dazai completely breaks down. He slips off the chair onto the ground and starts helplessly rocking his body back and forth. “I killed him.” Tears start falling down his cheeks. “It was my fault.” He hiccups and sniffles. “It was my fault he was killed-” He suddenly looks like a boy, a teenager. “I tried to save him so many times.” 

Dazai’s monologue went on for many minutes, repeating the same sentences over and over. It was an endless word stream drenched in guilt.

It was my fault. I tried to save him. I killed him.

When he was finished, he was silent. Empty. He stared at his own hands. Unmoving.

Fyodor had not said anything, but had joined him on the cold floor.

He carefully grabbed Dazai’s uninjured hand. It felt weird to reach out to someone to help them, instead of hurt them.

Dazai’s hand was cold but soft. They sat like that for a little while. Until the saint had slowly warmed up the sinner’s hand.

Fyodor moved again, letting go of Dazai’s hand, but wrapping both his arms carefully around the other. He felt Dazai tense up at first, but after a while, they both relaxed in the embrace.

Fyodor did not know for how long they had sat like that.

“Can I do anything for you?” He whispered in Dazai’s ear.

“Yes,” Dazai mumbled, his voice muffled as it was buried in Fyodor’s shoulder. “Distract me."

He lifted his head up to look Fyodor in the eye.

"Kiss me.”

“But I never-” The Russian started to protest.

Dazai laughed softly. Fyodor actually started to like the sound.

“Stop being such a virgin and just kiss a man when he asks for it,” Dazai demanded.

“Fine.” The saint agreed.

He let go of Dazai’s shoulders and hesitated for a single moment.

Come on, Dostoevsky. It’s just a kiss.

“What are you waiting for?” Dazai asked, a smile on his lips.

“Zatknis.” Fyodor mumbled. Shut up.

But then, he did lean in and carefully placed his lips on Dazai’s. He felt Dazai’s mouth curl into a smile and was about to pull back, afraid of being laughed at for doing something wrong. Dazai’s bandage free hand moved to Fyodor’s hair – and, immediately, every plan of pulling back was long forgotten.

Their lips started moving. It was not the best kiss Dazai had experienced, but it was nice nevertheless. It was a bit clumsy. Sloppy. And very wet. Maybe it was a bit gross.

But Fyodor tasted sweet, his hand fit perfectly in Dazai’s, and, practice makes perfect, right?

Dazai pulled away contently, finding himself staring into the eyes of the Russian saint once more. Fyodor was actually blushing. Cute.

Dazai laughed. A good laugh, not a cynical one. “Okay, but if my best friend Ivan shows up, you’ll have to hide somewhere because I am not supposed to have company.”

The Russian looked confused for a second.

“I’ll explain later.” Dazai said.

“Fine.” Fyodor shrugged, a hint of a smile on his lips. “How about you kiss me now?”

Dazai grinned and gladly leaned in again.

He was well distracted.

Chapter Text

“Oh, but it drives me insane knowing you’re a virgin.” Dazai was actually slamming his head against the apartment wall.

“Why is that now?” Fyodor asked without much interest.

They were in Fyodor’s apartment with a few hours to spare before Dazai would have to go back. They had enjoyed each other’s company for a few months now. Fyodor was playing the cello in a chair the middle of the room, trying to ignore Dazai who was… well- slamming his head against the wall while whining about sex. 

“Having sex with you would make you mine forever. You never forget your first!” Dazai was practically pouting at this point.

“No, it wouldn’t. There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin and just because we would have sex, it would not make me your property.” Fyodor sighed. “You are surprisingly closed minded.”

This was not the first time that Dazai had asked about sex – or tried to instigate it. But Fyodor had never been quite ready. Or interested. But the last couple of weeks, Dazai noticed that something in the Russian had changed. He seemingly wanted more. There was a hunger and a neediness in the way the other touched, kissed, and treated Dazai that was not there before.

So, maybe – just maybe he was ready now?

Dazai walked away from the wall and paused right behind Fyodor’s chair. He bent down to whisper in the Russian’s ear.

“I feel like you’ll think very differently of my ownership once I’m done with you.”

Dazai heard Fyodor’s breathing change only slightly as the other looked up at him, the cello resting against his legs.

“Is that a threat?” The Russian asked. He looked amused.

“It’s a promise.”

Fyodor hummed contently in response. He picked up the cello to start playing again, but Dazai had other plans. He started peppering kisses all over the exposed part of Fyodor’s neck.

The Russian could not help but lean in to the touch.

When Dazai started softly biting and lapping at the skin, Fyodor could not supress a shiver that shot through his entire body.

“Dazai?” Fyodor asked.

“Hmm?” Dazai answered, still busy lapping at Fyodor’s exposed skin. His hands tried to open the first button of the vest the Russian wore.

“Why do you think you’ll have ownership over me?” The Russian saint muttered. “You’ll be mine once I’m finished with you.”

Dazai activities haltered for a moment.

“Oh?” Dazai walked around the chair so that he was facing Fyodor. He took the instrument (the cello, that is) from Fyodor’s hands and placed it carefully on the floor. Before the Russian could express any protest against how Dazai had handled the cello, he had placed himself on Fyodor’s lap. His lips were only an inch from the Russian’s when he whispered.

“Is that a threat?” Dazai repeated the question from before.

“Of course,” Fyodor’s answer send a shiver down Dazai’s spine.

They started making out. Fyodor had gotten better since their first kiss due to significant practice. He now knew how to drive Dazai absolutely insane. He bit Dazai’s lip softly when he pulled back to catch his breath. Dazai looked alive, his cheeks flushed and his eyes twinkling. He grinded down slowly on Fyodor’s lap, earning a hiss from the Russian saint.

Dazai kissed the corner of Fyodor’s mouth. Then his jaw. Then his neck.

“Should we move to the bed?” He whispered against the bruising skin.

They kissed all the way to Fyodor’s bed, both busy with getting each other and themselves undressed.

When they fell onto the bed, Dazai managed to be on top of Fyodor again. He pressed a kiss against Fyodor’s jaw, before he started rummaging in the bedside drawer.

“What are you looking for?” Fyodor asked. His breathing was fast and his cheeks red.

“Condoms. Lube. You know- The stuff.” Dazai was still rummaging in the drawer.

“I don’t have those.” Fyodor said dryly.

This put everything on halt for a moment. Dazai sat up in utter astonishment and could not help but stare at his bedpartner. “Why do you not have condoms and lube?” He asked in pure horror.

“Dazai, how many times do I have to remind you that I cannot touch anyone?”

Dazai blinked a few times. Right. Virgin.

“Good thing I always bring my own.” Dazai exclaimed. He jumped up to retrieve a strip of condoms and a tiny bottle of lube from his coat pocket.

“Why do you have condoms and lube on you at all times?” Fyodor asked. Now it was his turn to look mortified.

“Every day I go out I hope to get my ass fucked or fuck someone else’s ass.” Dazai stated.

“But you only go out to see me.”

“Correct.”

“Chudak.” Fyodor mumbled. Weirdo.

Dazai fake coughed and a mischievous smile spread on his face while he climbed on top of Fyodor again. “Now, where were we?”

Fyodor sat up and busied himself with getting undressed. His trousers were lost somewhere in journey from the chair to the bed. Dazai eyed him hungrily while he undid himself of similar items of clothing. When they were finished, both were left in only their underwear. Dazai stared at the sight before him. Fyodor’s skin was pale, but on some places dark bruises were already forming. The silver neckless with the weird orthodox cross Fyodor wore laid on top of his chest.

Dazai bent forward again. He lapped and bit at the saint’s chest. He picked up the tiny cross and used it to slowly make circles, first round, and then on top of one of Fyodor’s nipples. The saint visibly shivered.

“This feels so wrong.” Fyodor stuttered. He had covered his face with one of his hands. “I shouldn’t be doing this. But-” Fyodor said. “I like it.”

“Then why do you look so good while doing it?” Dazai answered. But still, he let go of the necklace and instead used his mouth to play with Fyodor’s nipple. He did not want his saint to experience a religious meltdown.

Both were steadily growing harder in their underwear. Dazai experimentally grinded down again and was rewarded with a soft moan coming from Fyodor’s mouth. Then he did it again. And again.

Dazai moved so that he was sitting on the bottom half of Fyodor’s legs. He bent down again, leaving trails of kisses on Fyodor’s thighs. He occasionally bit down softly, resulting in the Russian to squirm and gasp.

“Can I take them off?” He finally asked the Russian, his fingers teasing the waistband of Fyodor’s underwear.

The saint nodded. His cheeks were a bright red.

“You sure?” Dazai double checked.

“Yes. Take them off.”

So, Dazai took them off.

Fyodor’s erection sprung free from the underwear. Dazai carefully grabbed it and stroke the base. Dazai then placed his lips on the head of Fyodor’s cock and started sucking and licking around it gently. He dipped his tongue into the slit occasionally and it wasn’t long until he took it in his mouth entirely, bobbing his head up and down. He switched between fondling the balls and stroking the shaft. The lewd noises filled the room.

Fyodor was panting and moaning softly. His hands were in Dazai’s hair, pulling the locks feverishly.

“God.” Fyodor moaned (Dazai took a mental note to tease him endlessly with his godless behaviour afterwards). “Fuck. Yes, God. Yes.”

When Fyodor started moaning Dazai’s name, Dazai frantically picked up the pace. It did not take long before Fyodor seemed to be on the edge. His back was arching from the bed.

“Dazai- I think I’m-” He interrupted himself by moaning loudly. “Oh, God. Oh – fuck.” He groaned.

With a final moan that sounded like music to Dazai’s ears, the Russian saint came sinfully in Dazai’s mouth.

Fyodor was panting heavily, staring in disbelief at Dazai who swallowed the warm, bitter-tasting cum. Dazai licked his swollen lips and smirked devilishly, making sure to keep eye contact with Fyodor who was still coming down from his high.

The sinner (or was it the devil himself?) opened his mouth to speak.

“How about I give you a show now?”

Chapter Text

“Give me a show?” The saint asked confusedly.

“Yes?” Dazai said earnestly. “To get you in the game again.” He nodded towards Fyodor’s softening member. “You did not think we were finished, right?”

“I-” Fyodor started, but he seemed too dazed to form any coherent answer.

“You still have to make me yours, oh mighty saint.” Dazai winked. “Don’t you forget.”

He was stripping down his own underwear now, smirking when he saw Fyodor staring. When the Russian tried to sit up again, apparently ready to lay his hands on Dazai, the latter placed a hand on Fyodor’s chest to push him down again.

“No.” Dazai stated firmly. “No touching yet. You can watch.”

The saint groaned in response, but settled down on the bed once again.

Dazai grabbed the tiny bottle of lube he had brought and squeezed a generous amount on his fingers. He sat at the foot of the bed, making sure he was comfortable, but making especially sure that Fyodor had a good overview of the situation. He warmed the lube up by rubbing his fingers against each other.

He spread his legs. His slick fingers circled his entrance in slow motions. Then he carefully pushed his middle finger inside. He gasped softly at the familiar feeling before moving the digit back and forth slowly. The feeling of Fyodor’s eyes burning on him worked wonderfully. He gasped and whimpered while fingering his entrance until he felt he was ready to add another finger. Then the second digit was pushed in.

“Fuck,” Dazai whispered under his breath. “Oh- Yes.”

Every single part of Dazai was overheating. His face felt flushed and he had trouble keeping his eyes open to watch Fyodor. Dazai’s mouth was open, soft pants and moans escaping from it.

“Dazai-” Fyodor said. He sounded desperate.

“I want to touch you.”

Dazai removed slid his fingers out to give his erection a few hard strokes.

“No.” Dazai blurted out. “You can put one of these on if you want to make yourself useful.” He threw the strip of condoms vaguely in Fyodor’s direction. Then he pushed his fingers back in.

When his fingers where finally deep enough in to brush against his prostate, Dazai could not help but moan loudly. “Fuck.” He was almost ready now.

“I- I don’t know how to put them on.” Fyodor stuttered.

Dazai grinned, and probably would have laughed if he was not fingering his ass. “Read the instructions, you fucking virgin.” He almost yelled.

“They’re in written in Kanji! I don’t know how to read that yet.”

Dazai said nothing, but removed his fingers again. He got up and crawled forwards on all fours. His knees were shaking and he was out of breath already. He took the condom from Fyodor’s fingers and ripped the packaging using one of his hands and teeth.

At the same time, Fyodor had neglected his orders to watch. The Russian was all over Dazai. He was kissing, biting, and lapping every piece of skin he could get his mouth on. His hands were restlessly roaming Dazai’s body.  

When Dazai had managed to get the condom on the excited Russian, he sat back again. “There were illustrations on the packaging,” He told the saint.

“Sorry.” Fyodor looked at him sheepishly. “I panicked.”

Dazai burst into breathy giggles and Fyodor could not help but laugh along with him.

“Where were we?” Dazai said after a while.

As a way of answering his own question, he went to sit on Fyodor again. He softly grabbed the Fyodor’s erection and looked sternly at the other. “It’s been a while for me-” He started. “And you seem way, way too eager to take it slow.”

Fyodor just nodded furiously along. He looked practically bursting with excitement. His hands were massaging Dazai’s hips, the thumbs drawing circles.

“So, let me set the pace. Okay?” Dazai asked.

“Yes.”

Both men were holding their breath when Dazai slowly placed the head of Fyodor’s cock near his entrance. Then he slowly moved his hips down, so that only the tip was in. Dazai hissed at the stretching sensation. Fyodor seemed to be using all his concentration to not thrust in fully yet.

Dazai took Fyodor’s erection in bit by bit, both men whimpering from the sensations, until he was sitting down on it completely. Dazai sighed contently at the feeling of being completely filled and looked down at Fyodor. He still seemed to try very hard to lay still.

“You okay?” He asked the Russian.

“Yeah-” The other breathed. “It feels so good. It’s so warm and tight and you take it so well-” The saint rambled on.

“Stop it. You’re going to make me blush.” Dazai grinned. “I will start to move now, yeah?”

“Yes, please.”

Dazai slowly started moving his hips up and down. “Oh, God.” He moaned. He started picking up the pace, finally letting go the last of his self-control.

“Oh my- Dazai- Fuck.” The words out of Fyodor’s mouth were just a rambling of nonsense. The Russian tried to buck his hips, trying to match Dazai’s rhythm. “Fuck, it feels so good.” He groaned.

Dazai smiled. He had placed one of his hands on Fyodor’s chest again, the other on the Russian’s hip. Dazai tilted his head back in bliss when he felt Fyodor hitting his G-spot. “Yes!” He started yelling while frantically bobbing up and down. “That’s it- there- oh my, fuck. Oh, oh my god.”

Fyodor grabbed Dazai by hips, pulling him down. They both moaned loudly when Dazai grinded his hips into Fyodor. Dazai had thrown his head back in ecstasy.

“Wait.” The Russian pushed Dazai to the side and rolled him over until he was on his back. Apparently it was Fyodor’s turn to be on top.

“Oh?” Dazai asked and raised his eyebrows.

Fyodor just smirked. He bent down, leaned forward, and smashed his lips into Dazai’s. They feverishly started making out. Tongues twirled around each other until Fyodor clearly dominated in Dazai’s mouth. The other just let it happen contently.

Fyodor’s hand snaked in between their bodies until he had found Dazai’s erection. Dazai’s cock was already leaking. He stroked it lazily and immediately earned a load moan from Dazai.

“A little sensitive, are we now?” He muttered against Dazai’s parted lips.

“Sorry, did you not just cum three minutes into a blowjob?” Dazai retorted sarcastically between huffs of air.

“Now, are you going to fuck me or what?”

Fyodor could not help but grin at Dazai’s snappy comments.

“Because you ask me so nicely.” He answered, before slowly inserting his erection into Dazai again.

Fyodor did not waste any time, but slammed deep into Dazai immediately. And again. And again. Dazai whimpered in response. Soon Dazai’s hands were on Fyodor’s back, nails scratching at the surface of the skin. Dazai arched his back and hooked his feet behind Fyodor’s hips.

“Fuck. Oh God, yes Fyodor. Fuck, yes.” Dazai’s eyes were closed and his mouth was open. Only this sight was almost enough to make Fyodor lose control.

The Russian was slowly nearing his orgasm, but he wanted Dazai to finish first. He kept thrusting in and out steadily, but freed one of his hands to feverishly stroke Dazai’s cock. This apparently drove Dazai over the edge. His continuous stream of incoherent swears got louder and louder, until he was practically screaming into Fyodor’s ear.

“Fyodor- I’m going to-” Dazai moaned loudly. Fyodor felt a warm liquid covering his hand and chest, he gave a few last strokes to Dazai’s cock to let him ride out his high before focusing on his own orgasm again. Dazai’s entrance was clenching rhythmically around Fyodor’s cock. He groaned, bit down in a part of Dazai’s shoulder that was not covered and thrusted in and out.

Then he also came. His yell was muffled by Dazai’s shoulder. He rode out his orgasm, slipped out of Dazai and laid down next to him.

“Wow,” He said.

“Yeah.” Dazai agreed.

Then no one said anything for a little while. Their breathing and heartrates finally steadied themselves, their flushed bodies cooling down.

“Tell me.” Dazai said after a few minutes. “How did the religious virgin get so good at gay sex?” He rolled over on his side to look at Fyodor.

Fyodor blinked a few times, trying to not let any hint of shame creep into his voice. “I may have done some research.”

Dazai wrinkled his nose in fake disgust. “You can also just say that you watched a lot of porn.”

“Zatknis.” Fyodor muttered. “Ublyudok.”

Shut up. Bastard.

“Teach it to me, then.” Dazai said, now resting his chin on the saint’s chest.

“What?” Fyodor asked. He started playing with Dazai’s hair, his mind obviously elsewhere.

“Teach me Russian!” Dazai explained.

“No, you’ll only use it against me in bed.”

“Wow,” Dazai actually looked genuinely surprised. “You know me so well already.”

Fyodor laughed softly.

Chapter Text

Months and months had passed since the sinner and the saint’s first meeting in the bar. They had spent those months talking, keeping secrets from each other, and finding out secrets from each other. Fyodor had learned to write, read, and speak Japanese, while Dazai had perfected his Russian. Both knew more from the other’s background than they cared to admit.

However, besides their continuous mental game of chess, there was also a lot of kissing involved. A lot of sleeping with tangled limbs. A lot of kissing, making out, and having sex.

Still, there were three big, big problems.

Firstly, Dazai’s voluntary exile almost came to an end. He could go back to Japan if he wanted to. He could start anew, find a job that helped instead of hurt people, like he had promised his friend all those months ago. But, that would mean leaving Fyodor behind too.

Secondly, Fyodor just had dropped some big news on Dazai. He had asked Dazai to stay in Russia with him and his rats. He had told Dazai that they would be able to do so much together – to achieve so much together.

And thirdly, but most disturbingly, Fyodor had told Dazai that–

That–

He loved him.

The words were still spinning through Dazai’s head. They made Dazai nauseous, immediately triggering his fight, flight, or freeze reflexes. 

I think I love you.

 “Oh, but see,” Dazai started. He sounded desperate. He wanted to be understood. He did not want to hurt the Russian saint he had come to like. 

Dazai had known that this could not last.

It was supposed not to last.

Why couldn’t Fyodor see?

I think I love you. Stay here with me.

“But see-” Dazai continued. “That’s where this all goes wrong.” He took a shaky breath. He could barely look at Fyodor, but forced him to do so anyways.

Fyodor could feel the walls that he had desperately tried to tear down being built up by Dazai again.

“I can’t do this. I won’t love you.” He finished. His voice was barely a whisper.

Dazai swore he could hear Fyodor’s heart breaking.

Fyodor swore this broken heart would kill him.

“If this is about Oda-” Fyodor could not finish his sentence before being interrupted.

“Don’t- Please don’t say his name.” Dazai had interrupted him. He had sprung up from the bed and was pacing back and forth in the bedroom of Fyodor’s apartment.

Fyodor stayed silent, feeling how the sharp edges of his broken heart were cutting up his insides. This was not how he had expected the conversation to go. At all. “You’re never going to be happy, huh?” He asked Dazai, looking at him sadly. A bitterness threatened to creep inside his bones.

“How can I even think about being happy, when I have his blood on my hands? I should not be happy.” Dazai’s voice started to sound desperate and panicky. “I have a promise to keep.”

“You can stay with me. Work alongside me. Be happy with me. Together we can make my plan work.” The Russian saint did not want to beg, but he could not help the desperate undertone creeping into his voice.

“You’re not saving anyone, Fyodor. You know that.”

“I can save you.” Fyodor disagreed.

“I don’t need to be saved by you.” Dazai gritted his teeth. “I need to save myself.”

He waved impatiently with his hand.

“I can’t ignore my best friend’s last words.” He continued in a whisper. “It’s been the only reason that I have stayed alive these months.”

“Yeah?” Fyodor asked. His voice sounded monotone. Tired. “The only reason you stayed alive?”

“I don’t mean it like that.” Dazai was frustrated. With himself. With Fyodor. Even with Odasaku, although he would never admit it.

How would he, Osamu Dazai – infamous mafia prodigy, half of the double-back duo, heartless dog – be able to save people? How would he be on the good side? How could he be loved?

“I think-” Dazai started. “I think I need to love myself before I can let anyone love me.”

“I can wait. I can wait for you to be ready.” Fyodor pulled Dazai from his thoughts.

“Fyodor, you don’t have to wait.”

“I want to wait. I will wait.” The saint stated firmly. “I want to wait until you are ready, Dazai.”

“Okay.” Dazai sounded unsure. “But don’t wait too long.”

“Waiting for you will never be too long.” Fyodor looked very sad. “Because you are the only one.” His voice died away.

The only one who can touch me.

The words hung tensely in the air between them.

“I know.” Dazai said softly. “I’m sorry.”

He sighed deeply and sank next to Fyodor on the bed.

“Can you forgive me?”

“No.” Fyodor answered. “But you can make up for it when the time comes.”

Epilogue

Somewhere in Japan, the sinner had stolen something important. He carried it around proudly. The ushanka sat on top of his brown curls. It felt like a crown.

“You know I’ve always loved this hat right.” The sinner stated to a seemingly empty alleyway.

A saint-like figure stepped out of the shadows. “Zatknis.”

Years had passed since the two had laid eyes on each other. Much had changed. Both demons were after the same thing now, but for entirely different purposes.

The sinner wanted to protect. The saint wanted to destroy.

“You understand that I have to kill you now, do you not?” The saint’s words were harsh as ever.

“Yes.” The sinner stated. “Can I atone for my sins first, oh mighty saint?”

“No.” 

When the sinner awoke in the hospital days later, he knew the saint had been unable, or unwilling, to kill him.

There was a bouquet of white roses on the bedside table of the bed. The card placed next to it read greetings from Russia. He turned it around to reveal the scribbled Cyrillic handwriting.

“Start making up for it.” The note read.

The sinner smiled contently.

“I told you, you wouldn’t forget your first.” He whispered to himself.