Letters from the Underground // fyozai

xiii. fire

Dazai's presence is etched into the walls and floorboards deeper with each passing day.

It started concrete; a futon to his name in the linen closet, his scent on Fyodor's shirts, sometimes a second mug in the sink. And now, the fact of his presence ironically manifests in absence. In the way that Fyodor's bedroom grows larger each night. The way it seems to be the one room still clinging onto its void.

All efforts against it were futile, for even despite his bedroom door now remaining open throughout the night, the light still shies away from the threshold. Even the temporary warmth Masha provides when his stars align is never enough anymore.

The irony follows Fyodor wherever he goes, his only solace on such vacant nights remains Dazai's Bible, and the pressed white lily he now uses as its bookmark.

And then one night, as he sat in his black hole, the warmth approached in a miracle, until Dazai Osamu was leaning against the doorframe of his morgue, hand concealing a flat box enough for it to be unidentifiable from where Fyodor is. Not that much of him can be seen anyway, with the only light in the room coming from the bedside lamp.

Fyodor is mentally preparing himself for the encounter to come when Dazai's free hand knocks once on the open door, as if to snap him back to reality. All he trusts himself to respond with is an inviting nod, composure luckily prevailing despite everything. He thumbs at a petal while watching Dazai walk in.

The subject of the flower hadn't been brought up for the nine days of its presence, not out of avoidance—in fact, Fyodor does not really know what had deterred this talk. Perhaps he simply had nothing to say for it. Well, nothing suitable, at least.

And does one blame him? What is there to say for a gift such as this, given for what it carries and not its simple, physical weight? When it wraps itself in such voracious possibilities that it would be foolish of Fyodor to grasp for a certainty? And how does one speak of a gift delivered in secret, left for one to fathom in the most private of moments?

Dazai's face catches the dim light when he sits across from Fyodor on the bed, and crosses his legs as Fyodor puts away the Bible. He grins, prying open the wooden box until it unfolds revealing hand-painted wooden chess pieces, each in respective foam inserts wrapped in cardinal silk.

The box itself seems to be a vintage ornament-work, with edges of intricate floral carvings. Fyodor traces the pieces, takes the white Queen in between his thumb and index before he speaks, still inspecting it, "You stole this?"

His question lacks bite despite its conviction, yet Dazai still gasps dramatically, "Wahh! you think so lowly of me. I bought it!"

Pfft. He can almost hear the half-lie in his pulse. "Did you, now? That's surprising."

"Of course I did! Only the money was stolen~"

Dazai's sleepless nights have been quite noticeable lately. Sometimes he would go out for hours, only coming back once he had exhausted himself enough for immediate slumber. But this is the first time that he comes to Fyodor during one of them.

In fact, this is the first time Fyodor sees him step into his bedroom.

What he found quite peculiar though, is that even when Dazai was alone in the apartment, the only time he'd been in this room—according to the triggers Fyodor always leaves to indicate an entry—was the day the flower was delivered, despite the fact he knows Dazai has combed most crevices in the rest of the apartment.

Really, what holds the power to repel a Demon's hellish curiosity? Is it respect? The gratitude to Fyodor for housing him?

He seems to be in a particularly good mood as he carefully arranges the pieces on the board.