Chapter Text
1808
It’s the sound of scratching on paper that breaks through the silence.
It’s the sound of a quill on coarse parchment, of ink dripping from the pen. There’s barely enough light to see the marks left behind, the moon’s dull beams peeking through the sealed window. The writer’s face twitches in agitation, though it shifts to a grimace when another howling wind knocks against the walls, chilly air seeping into the bare room. He pulls his blanket closer, the fabric draped over his shoulders like a prophet’s cloak, but it does nothing to ease the shudders down his spine. He holds it tight with one hand and writes with another; in his haste to complete his writing, the blanket falls again.
It doesn’t matter half as much as the papers before him.
Messes and messes of sheet music spill over the wooden desk— half-completed, torn, and crumpled. Searching for the right notes, the right sounds, anything to match the desperate whispers in his head. He can hear it now, the raindrop tenderness of the melody, soft and gentle as it weaves through the air and into his lungs. He can feel how the gift of song would drift from his mind and to his fingers and from his fingers to the instrument, the keys singing softly beneath his touch as he teases something brilliant out of the piano—
He startles and pulls back.
Piano?
Tired eyes drift towards the cello in the corner of the room.
Old and battered, worn by the damp cold air of this room, the gut strings and wooden body don’t have the same shine as before. Still, the cello is his weapon— his instrument, his masterpiece. How could his mind ever betray him by conjuring a piano?
No wonder the people gaze upon him with such ridiculous eyes when they visit. What sort of musician forgets what instrument is his? He doesn’t play piano well enough to be writing music for it. Undoubtedly not well enough to be writing something as important as this.
This.
What is this again?
He shakes his head and looks back to the sheet music, expecting to return to the melody he’d been transcribing.
But notes don’t look back at him. They merge into letters, into words.
Where a song should be, he sees only a name.
He doesn’t startle the way he should. He doesn’t resent the madness on the sheets before him.
Slowly, he smiles— and that smile becomes laughter.
After all, how could he feel anything other than joy when presented with a name so dear? A name he only ever hears upon his own tongue? A name like—
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1778
Vienna, Austria
Thirty years Ago
The name is said on reverent lips, on tender breaths and heartfelt sighs. Affection caresses each syllable, and a lingering desire brushes the voice of each passerby on the street.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, though, says the name with the suspicion it deserves.
“Osamu Dazai?” He asks with a raised eyebrow. “A foreigner?”
“Just like you. Just like me,” Nikolai responds. He nods towards the grand concert hall, gesturing with his cane towards the crowds of nobility filing inside. His smile widens even as Fyodor’s hesitations grow. “You asked to see the best, and now you complain. Ah, is there ever any pleasing you?”
“I am hoping to be pleased tonight,” Fyodor answers. “We can discuss the likelihood of that after the performance, I suppose.”
Still, Fyodor follows Nikolai inside, if only to find the truth of this Dazai.
God, Fyodor’s already heard the name so often it hardly has any meaning.
The concert hall is one of the finest in Vienna, a palace of sound and light, and Fyodor allows himself a moment to take in the grandeur. Chandeliers sway softly overheard, burning with countless candles. Their light refracts through crystal drops and casts shimmering patterns onto the gilded walls like captured stars. Fyodor’s boots echo faintly against the polished wood floor as he follows Nikolai to their seats. Whispers of “Dazai” swirl in the air like a hymn, like a prayer from expectant and reverent followers.
Fyodor settles into their seats with a frown. Nikolai takes notice, his teasing grin increasing at Fyodor’s agitation.
“I would hope you trust me to bring you somewhere worth your time,” he says, glancing around as the room fills.
“I trust you to house me, yes, but that does not extend to your taste in entertainment,” Fyodor replies. Nikolai shrugs without hurt, as Fyodor had known he would. He and Nikolai attended the same academy back in St. Petersburg, though they had different studies, and Nikolai was already far more travelled than he had been. The son of a wealthy landowner, Nikolai had the opportunity to travel across Europe freely, and he’s learned to use the experiences to benefit his writings.
Fyodor has never admitted to feeling envy at Nikolai’s freedom, but it does help to have a friend in Austria.
“Would you rather waste your money on an inn when you could spend time with your dearest friend instead?” Nikolai asks. “Ah, but I suppose you’ve always been a bit formal. How’s that worked out for you?”
Fyodor opens his mouth to respond, but Nikolai waves him off, interrupting him in a dramatized tone.
“Oh, don’t tell me! You graduated top of your class with honors and high praise as the best cellist in all of Russia,” he proclaims. “How lucky we all are to be in your presence!”
“Your luck is in the fact that I still consider a wastrel such as yourself a friend,” Fyodor mutters. And, still, Nikolai smiles.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Now, pay attention. This wastrel will show you the one man who may exceed even your talents.”
“So you say.”
“So the people say.” Nikolai nods towards the crowds. “Can’t you hear them?”
Of course, Fyodor can, and it pains him to listen to such overdone praise.
“His work with the piano is unmatched,” someone behind them says.
Another voice responds. “They say he arrived from the East— no, not China, further than that. Japan, I think.”
Someone else adds another murmur. “No one knows how he came here, but does that matter when his music is so…”
The group falls silent as though words elude them.
Fyodor breathes deeply to keep from sighing too obviously.
“The people’s newest plaything,” he says. He doesn’t add that he has been slotted for a week in this very hall. “Nothing more than a brilliant toy to fascinate them for a moment.”
“I think they call him something else, actually,” Nikolai says. “Heaven’s Prodigy, I believe.”
Fyodor can’t help how he tenses, the title setting his nerves alight like a note out of place. He’d cross himself if he didn’t know how Nikolai would tease him for it, but can he be blamed? He shifts in his seat instead, crossing his arms and allowing himself to scowl more deeply.
“Blasphemy,” he says, just barely keeping his composure. Years of religious practice flitter through his mind, his instincts urging him to educate the sinless masses around him. God’s name is not to be evoked for something as simple or plain as a man’s sheet music; yet, the crowd whispers the very words Nikolai has spoken. Fyodor simmers. “I believe—”
A sound onstage cuts him off, and he turns to look just as a young brunette man stumbles to the front. There’s not much to note about him but the state of disarray he exudes. His shirt is untucked, and his jacket's wrinkled, as though thrown on as an afterthought. Gasps ripple through the audience. It’s not admiration but, rather, a sense of disbelief. Fyodor’s lip curls, still bristling over Nikolai’s comments. Is this who Heaven’s Prodigy sends to announce his arrival?
The man— more of a boy, really, with gangly limbs and fat still on his cheeks— doesn’t speak. He shuffles across the stage like someone who’s stumbled into the wrong building, his jacket hanging on his shoulders. For a moment, he stills, looking into the crowd. Then, all at once, he changes. He straightens his back, smiles— he approaches the solitary fortepiano in the center of the stage.
Whispers die in stunned silence. Fyodor almost laughs. Is this urchin playing alone onstage? No ensemble or orchestra? It’s unheard of, and surely, not even someone like Dazai could earn the honor— and, indeed, not if Dazai is the fool before them. Even Fyodor only expects to perform a handful of solo concerts while here, an opportunity to introduce himself to Vienna’s masses. But Fyodor has grace and presence. If this is truly Dazai— with his unkempt hair, his wrinkled shirt— then he has nothing more than the exotic appeal these people were whispering so excitedly about.
The man sits at the bench, adjusting his position just so. From how the piano is angled, Fyodor can glimpse the side of his face, though short waves of brown hair brush his cheeks in a way that almost seems intended to obscure the view. He lifts his arms and rests his fingers against the keys, testing a few notes here and there— his sleeves ride up as he moves, and Fyodor tilts his head to the side. Something peeks out from beneath his clothing, wrapping around his wrists and, upon further inspection, his neck.
What on earth is going on?
“It’s him,” someone behind him whispers, and Fyodor sucks in a breath. It can’t be.
But, then, the man settles. His body’s loose, at ease in a way that not even the crowd can mimic. He takes a breath— and then he begins to play.
All at once, the world becomes a storm.
His fingers— Dazai’s fingers— dance and pounce on the keys like a predator upon prey. He pulls notes like thread from a tangled skein. It’s unlike anything Fyodor has heard— wild and unbridled, a hurricane raging against the confines of the instrument. Yet, somehow, there’s a beauty in the hypnotism, a kind of madness that leaves him breathless.
Dazai’s music washes over the crowd like a wave, like a sea, like a baptism— and Fyodor knows that no one here can understand what it is they’re hearing, no one here can comprehend the mesmerization they’ve been put under. The music’s chaos and order, a paradox given life. Fyodor tries to follow the patterns and structures that should be in place for song and melody, but Dazai veers away from the known, crafting something new with each moment. Fyodor holds his breath. He stares.
He sees Dazai’s eyes and his face, and he hates him.
He hates him because Dazai smiles, smirks, and looks at the crowd as he plays. So easy, so unimpressed with his own gifts. And Fyodor hates it. He hates how it pulls at something deep within him, hates the man who dares to summon it. This isn’t divine inspiration, he realizes, as he watches Dazai’s smirk grow— it’s defiance, a rebellion against the very notion of grace.
Fyodor has always believed music to be a gift from God, a sacred vessel through which His glory can be heard. But this? This boy playing at brilliance offers no such hymn— it’s a taunt, a mockery of divinity itself. With his smile and his devil-may-care glances, he is no angel. He’s a heretic, an idol, a false prophet.
Why, then, has God given his graces to him?
Forget understanding the crowds or the man on the stage, Fyodor’s mind slips towards the more sacrilegious question— What purpose could God have for such a foolish decision?
Fyodor looks around, certain he can’t be the only one who understands the heresy occurring before him, the affront to music and God alike. The people watch Dazai with wide eyes and open mouths, hands to their hearts, as though witnessing one of the Lord’s miracles. Still as statues, they barely seem human.
“Unbelievable,” he breathes, just loud enough for Nikolai’s ears. “Are we all so content in ignoring this madness?”
“Madness?” Nikolai tilts his head, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Perhaps. But what you call madness, these people call divine.”
The fire in Fyodor’s chest flares . How dare Nikolai make such a careless comment? So flippant and thoughtless, unbecoming of anyone associating with Fyodor.
Dazai’s first song ends with a swelling series of chords, the music running into the audience’s thunderous applause. Fyodor turns towards the stage in time to witness Dazai’s bow. He stands— his smile too wide, his bow too unguarded. But even with such cockiness, such confidence, the very air in the room shifts in his direction. The walls lean in to listen as he does something as simple as breathe, and Fyodor tastes bitter bile in the back of his throat at the disgusting sight.
It’s a joke, it must be. Nikolai is fond of those, Fyodor thinks. He’s always playing some ridiculous prank in misguided attempts to make Fyodor’s cynical look at life a little less miserable.
But the crowd roars their approval as the man at the piano bows once more. He’s only one song in and already has them eating out of the palm of his hand.
Nikolai elbows Fyodor, leaning to whisper in his ear. “You’re being rude, Fyodor.”
Right, of course. Fyodor’s frozen in his seat, hands clenched tight; looking around proves he’s the only one not joining in the applause.
He raises his hands for decorum’s sake, prepared to give a few polite claps.
However, when he looks back towards the stage, Dazai’s gaze meets his.
Fyodor shivers, and his hands go still.
Those are not the eyes of a man touched by heaven. Gleaming with wicked amusement, dark flames beneath glimmering lights, Fyodor knows something no one else in this room could hope to see.
Heaven’s Prodigy is nothing more than a devil.
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Fyodor’s always been a cynic, and has known it from the moment he was born.
Well, perhaps that’s an overstatement. The most accurate age he can claim he noticed the thoughts is seven. By then, he had no problem telling others what he thought of them— telling school friends that their thoughts were simple, questioning the authority of the adults around him, going so far as to sneak away and read books of his choosing rather than the school’s. At these times, he found himself returning to books on music, memorizing the notes and chords until he could dissect any song set before him. At first, he’d made a bad example of himself, calling out his mother’s guests for sour tunes or fumbled progressions. She and his father tried encouraging him to play with the other children, ignoring the instruments' call on him. But how could he forget it when no one else understood the world as he did? How could he turn his back on the one thing that finally broke through the silence of his sheltered life? Silence, he learned at a young age, is like drowning— consuming the inside and out, suffocating with no chance of escape.
Though, if it’s silence he’s been fighting his whole life, he didn’t mean to escape it quite like this.
After Dazai’s concert, the reception hall is alive with laughter and the soft clinking of crystal glasses. The room drips with golden light, illuminating the extravagance of the city’s elite. Gilded mirrors line the walls, reflecting the colors of silk gowns and velvet coats, the shimmer of jewels catching the eye at every turn.
Fyodor stands apart from the crowd, nursing a glass of wine that does little to dull his irritation. The laughter and chatter around him grate on his nerves, a chorus of sycophants fawning over their newest obsession. He glances at Nikolai, hoping to indicate his desire to leave, but finds him deep in conversation with a striking figure across the room— a man with lavender hair on one side and hair as pale as Nikolai’s on the other. There is no doubt that this is his true reason for bringing Fyodor here with him tonight. Either way, Nikolai’s flirting leaves Fyodor to endure this farce alone.
With a sigh, Fyodor sips the wine and grimaces at its cloying sweetness. It’s no substitute for the clean, biting sharpness of vodka. Around him, the scent of heavy perfumes mingles with the warmth of too many bodies in one room, a tiring reminder of how much he hates these gatherings.
As though sensing his disdain, the laughter around him rises in pitch— a cacophony that causes his growing headache to throb anew. The wine in his glass swirls, dark and unremarkable, as he resists the urge to fling it against the wall. It wouldn’t do to make a scene— not so soon in his introduction to Vienna’s music scene.
Still, it is a rather tempting thought and one that’s only interrupted by the soft thud of someone leaning against the wall beside him.
“Do you find all this as boring as you did my songs?”
Fyodor’s grip on the glass tightens. He’s never heard this man speak, never imagined what that voice would sound like— didn’t even know he existed until a few hours ago—
And, yet, when he turns his head to see Dazai standing there, leaning against the wall as if the room's grandeur is beneath him, Fyodor finds himself less surprised than the situation deserves.
“Ah, Heaven’s Prodigy, is it?” Fyodor takes another sip of wine, buying himself time to look over the supposed genius before him. Dazai’s changed from his stage clothes, though no one could tell the difference in quality from afar. The collar of his shirt’s loose and damp with sweat, a casual defiance of the perfection around him. He smiles at Fyodor, but there’s a sharpness in the corners, an indifference that sets him apart from the crowd's powdered faces and practiced grins. Brown hair sits tousled upon his head as if he’d run his hands through it in frustration or, more likely, carelessness. Dark eyes sparkle with the same mischievous energy as his music, and that, more than anything, is what draws a reply from Fyodor’s lips, trying to push the man away before that fire in his eyes grows too dangerous. “Certainly, you must have other admirers to entertain.”
Dazai tilts his head and leans closer in an almost theatrical display of mock curiosity. It exposes the wrapping Fyodor had noticed on the stage but offers no explanation. Beneath the collar and his sleeves, layers and layers of bandages separate him from the rest of the world, an inhuman covering.
“Oh, but none of them have the good sense to scowl at me so beautifully,” he says. He looks Fyodor over, though his eyes never stray from Fyodor’s for long. “You know, no one else hesitated to share their opinion on my performance— except for you. Come on, you must have some review for me. Three words or less.”
Ridiculous. And the worst part is that Dazai keeps smiling like he knows he’s ridiculous and couldn’t care less about it.
Fyodor takes his time responding, turning his gaze away.
“Mm,” he hums, thinking, before he allows the slightest smile to rest upon his face. “You’re too much.”
“Too much…” Dazai draws out the word, clearly expecting Fyodor to finish the sentence for him. Fyodor glances back at him, but he doesn’t give in to his games. Of course, the brightness in Dazai’s eyes hardly dims. “I see. You’re a fan of guessing games, aren't you? Well, shall I try to guess at your name?”
“If it entertains your time, I suppose,” Fyodor says. “After all, everyone here already knows yours.”
Dazai’s smile sharpens. “Oh, fun. Let’s see— dark hair, big old loner, a face that looks like it might shatter if you smile… You’re Fyodor Dostoevsky, Russia’s Sacred Composer.”
With each passing moment, it seems more and more apparent that Dazai was created solely to tempt Fyodor to violence.
“As I said— too much,” Fyodor repeats. “Some restraint may serve you well.”
“Restraint? Where?” Dazai asks. So much casual arrogance bleeds into that tone, into those words. He laughs around his words, unrepentant and uncaring. “My conversations with foreign strangers?”
“In your compositions. They’re rather unorthodox, are they not?” Fyodor asks.
Dazai sighs, sounding as dramatized as everything else he’s done.
“Is that what has you grimacing so severely?” He asks, faking concern before returning to his nonchalance as he waves a hand through the air. “It’s music . You’ll kill yourself taking it so seriously.”
“Music is not a game,” Fyodor says, his voice low but cutting. “It is the language of God, a gift meant to uplift— not to mock.”
But Dazai’s smile taunts him as he raises an eyebrow at Fyodor’s words.
“But, Dostoevsky, if God gave me this language, don’t you think He already knew how I’d use it?”
The smirk on Dazai’s face could drive Fyodor mad. He wears it as though he knows something Fyodor doesn’t, an insider to some cosmic joke he’s far too proud to share. Fyodor’s grip on his glass tightens, and the urge to wipe that smirk away nearly overwhelms him. Again, that burst of violence in his veins, that desire to strike a man in a way he’s never desired before.
Can Fyodor be blamed, though? Could God hold him accountable for his thoughts? And who is God to judge Fyodor when Dazai has taken His gifts and squandered them? Questions rise to Fyodor’s tongue, demanding answers from a man who speaks in foolish jokes. How could he be so careless with such talent, so thoughtless? What fate decided for miracles to be wasted on a bandaged idiot like him? Fyodor cannot imagine a greater trick. To be given the stars and use them to light a bonfire, laughing at the chaos and pretending there is beauty within— it’s enough to make Fyodor loathe him.
“You do not deserve the blessings God has given you,” Fyodor says, a low whisper Dazai needs to lean in to hear.
“Blessings,” Dazai says, trying out the word as if saying it for the first time. “Be honest, is that what you all see? Have I convinced you all that I’m blessed?”
There’s a wildfire in those eyes and a snowstorm in those words. Fyodor’s frozen and burnt by Dazai’s nearness, kept alive and destroyed by his voice. He can’t be past twenty, and yet, he looks at Fyodor as though he understands the world, as though he’s seen the beginning and end of their lives and could tell the story with nothing more than a piano at his fingertips.
For a manic moment, Fyodor wants to ask him what he sees in him. He wants to know why, out of a room of admirers, Dazai came to him .
Something in Dazai’s eyes, too, suggests he might even answer.
“Do you—” Fyodor begins, but a familiar voice speaks over his own.
“It’s getting late, and the night is cold,” Nikolai says, taking a place at Fyodor’s side. He looks from Dazai to Fyodor but says nothing of any observation. “Are you ready to leave?”
Ready to leave? The answer Fyodor wants to give is very different from the one he does.
“Yes, I am,” he says. He pulls away, but his eyes don’t move from Dazai’s. There’s a question in that glance and an answer given to itself. A minute shift in expression has Dazai’s smile softening into something friendlier, and Fyodor wonders if it’s something anyone else will notice when he tries the trick again. Still, no time to interrogate the man now. Instead, Fyodor dips his head in a display of etiquette. “I bid you goodnight, Dazai. Good luck, as well. I do hope you’ll consider my advice.”
Dazai, too, pulls back, but it’s more than just a movement. His body opens just so— his chin turns, and his eyebrows lift. All at once, the crowd seems aware of him again, and there’s more than one call of his name. A performer, Fyodor thinks with a bitter grin. A man who can wear a mask in the middle of a room where everyone is searching for him. What would a famous musician like him need such a skill for?
“Of course,” Dazai says, his smile widening as the crowd moves to pull him away. “It was a pleasure, Fyodor Dostoevsky. Truly. You’ve made this evening far more entertaining.”
A second of a cryptic grin. A moment of that Dazai from before— the one no one saw hidden against the wall— but then, Dazai turns to face the crowd, and Fyodor can’t see him anymore.
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“Not one man knows— not one even guesses at what I can see,” Fyodor mutters to himself as he paces the room Nikolai had set aside for him. Resentment for Dazai’s existence still itches at his brain. “A fool, and they all take him to be a master.”
He pauses and laughs to himself— laughs because, otherwise, he may seek Nikolai out to start complaining to him again, as he did the entirety of their journey back to Nikolai’s home.
Though he’s one of the lucky ones with a spare bedroom, Nikolai’s apartment is modest in size, its simplicity a sharp contrast to the concert hall’s grandeur. Here, there are no chandeliers or bejeweled mirrors, only the pale glow of moonlight filtering through the curtains. Still, even this room is a far cry from the cold confines of Fyodor’s home in Russia— this space, at least, bears traces of humanity. Or, he supposes, he hopes it does. Humanity has never been a condition he’s been accused of, especially in his work life.
He looks towards the cello beneath the window, its polished wood gleaming like a sentinel in the moonlight. It seems almost alive, waiting for hands to coax music from the strings— and, yet, Fyodor doesn’t dare touch. Music is a voice he knows he possesses but refuses to wield without reason. So, instead, he turns towards his desk.
When he had first set out his things, Nikolai had teased him for the meticulous arrangement: a stack of sheet music aligned at perfect right angles, a pen resting on top as if awaiting inspiration. Beside them lies his father’s heavy tome on theology and his mother’s well-worn Bible, their spines creased with use— two close friends he’s held onto since childhood.
Aside from these things, Fyodor’s room consists of a bed and shelf, but what more can he need than this? As a playwright, Nikolai makes a steady living, though not well enough to escape the burden of thin walls and neighbors. Still, it’s in a convenient part of the city and has enough space for Fyodor to work. He’s been allowed access to the study for as long as he needs, and he intends to use it well. He doesn’t need nice things.
He doesn’t need the life he’s sure someone like Dazai has.
That man again; pride keeps calling him to Fyodor’s mind.
Fyodor clenches his jaw, the memory of Dazai’s smirk flashing before him. That look was so infuriatingly self-assured and mocking, as if the man knew secrets Fyodor could only guess at. His blood boils; his thoughts spiral. How could someone so careless, so irreverent, be chosen to shine?
If Dazai must be younger, Fyodor tries to reason— perhaps twenty. Then, Fyodor could easily attribute his arrogance to his youth, smiling at the folly of someone untempered by hardship. But, even at twenty, a simple five years ago, Fyodor had not been like that. The son of a small Orthodox Christian family in the countryside of Russia, he had been raised to treat his talent with solemnity. It was never a triumph but, rather, a responsibility. A divine calling but never allowed to be a distraction.
From a young age, listening to his mother sing hymns while she worked, Fyodor knew that music was more than a craft; it was a form of prayer, a language through which man could commune with God.
Tonight, though, as he lowers to his knees and reaches for the crucifix he always carries, his hands tremble. No words come to his lips. How can he pray when his heart burns with envy, when his soul sinks with bitterness?
Anger grows within him, but he can’t bring himself to speak his sin. How can he confess to something for which he feels no remorse? He shuts his eyes and sees that terrible smile. He tries to listen to God’s voice, but he only hears the crowd saying that damned name— Heaven’s Prodigy, Dazai Osamu.
If that’s divine, what does that make Fyodor? A footnote? A forgotten tale?
His grip tightens on the crucifix until he feels the edges biting into his skin and the draw of blood across his palm. The pain’s as sharp as it is grounding, an anchor against the tempest within.
“God,” he whispers hoarsely, “is this your will? To give one man wings and the other chains? To watch one soar while the other drowns?”
The words echo in the silent room, unanswered.
For the first time in his life, Fyodor feels a fear deep within his soul— a terrifying fantasy that the silence is all he will become, and all because of Dazai.
“I beg of you, grant me understanding. Grant me wisdom,” he pleads. “Grant me the ability to see in myself what the world sees in him— and grant me those same gifts so that I may better serve you.”
For God, for the Father and Son. For holiness and divine calling—
But it’s not Fyodor they’re calling holy. It’s not Fyodor they praise.
Words come to his lips like they’ve been summoned, verses and phrases his father taught him. Begging for proof that he’s here for a reason, for a sign that he’s meant to surpass Dazai’s greatness.
“Father,” he prays. “Father, please .”
When he opens his eyes, though, the room’s unchanged. Moonlight still spills in quiet pools across the floor, the cello still stands waiting, and the crucifix in his hand is cold and slick with blood. Only the distant memory of music rings in his ears— Dazai’s notes taunting him.
“Oh,” he says into the solitude of the room. Somehow, it’s still an answer; somehow, it calms him. “Oh, I see.”
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The following day, Fyodor breathes easily as he enters the grand halls of Vienna’s most esteemed music academy. A reminder that structure and precision must matter, that he’s not crazy for questioning Dazai’s techniques.
He carries his things beneath his arms, wandering the halls to find his assigned room. He’s been asked to tutor and teach as a guest for the season, an honor he’s sure someone like Dazai would never receive. Fyodor’s not to start teaching until next week, but it feels smart to get a feeling for the building— and, if he’s honest with himself, he’s more at home here than anywhere else.
The hallways exude an air of quiet reverence. Polished floors and orderly rows of classrooms speak to the discipline Fyodor values. Here, art is more than mere passion—it’s precision, each note a carefully placed stone in the grand cathedral of music. He passes by rooms of diligent students, taking in the soft hum of their practice and rehearsals. With each step, the world settles back into its proper place.
Diligence. Discipline. Perfection. Fyodor pauses by a series of paintings depicting famed composers, taking in the severe look on their faces. They’d understand what Fyodor values, and what could matter more than that?
Continuing his walk, Fyodor starts planning his first lesson. He’s to work with the more advanced students so that he may skip the basics. If possible, he’d like to host a performance with his higher students, so starting with the more complex techniques should set them up nicely. Of course, he’d have to see what instruments they study and if they—
He pauses. Music drifts towards him from one of the common rooms—an easily recognizable, crudely played cello. The sound of his instrument of choice has him smiling.
Well, what better place to start?
As he follows the sound, Fyodor already starts making notes. It’s not flawless, but something about the melody stands out—something dark and entrancing, a shadow taking form on the edges of his mind. With some adjustment, they should be able to transform it into something brilliant.
Standing in the room's doorway, Fyodor finds the young cellist and a group of other students surrounding him as he hunches over his instrument. He’s a young man— dark hair, white ends— and his face scrunches in frustration as he plays. He’s too hard on himself, Fyodor thinks. The song has potential; it’s simply the playing that gets in his way. His bow stutters over the strings, trying and failing to coax life from them. There’s reasonable effort but no grace.
“Are you sure you tuned it before classes began, Akutagawa?” A white-haired boy asks, a violin held in his hands as he looks exasperatingly towards the other. Akutagawa glares at him, muscles tightening dangerously to the instrument.
“As if you could play any of Dazai’s pieces half as eloquently,” he spits, but Fyodor’s blood has already run cold.
Of course— of course — they’re playing one of Dazai’s songs. What else could make such a captivating spell? The cadence all at once returns to him, a memory of the night before. Arrogance and audacity and pure perfection in every note.
The boys continue to bicker, unaware of Fyodor’s observance of them, unaware of how his eyes have fallen on the bow pulling those wretched sounds from the cello. Is Fyodor so weak, so broken, that even a poor mimicry of Dazai’s work could tempt him? Is he destined to come when beckoned, be at Dazai’s call at the mere suggestion of his music?
Fyodor refuses to believe such a thought. The Lord has His tests, and this must be one of them.
“You’re putting too much work on the instrument,” he speaks up, making himself known to the students. He gestures to Akutagawa’s white-knuckled grip, wincing at the damage he may have done to the cello. “You’re pressing too hard, forcing the sound. Let the instrument breathe. Don’t strangle it with desperation.”
The group looks up, the music cutting off suddenly as though it had never been there at all. Akutagawa’s face pinkens. “I was trying to emulate Dazai’s style.”
“Passion does not make up for talent.” And who's to know if Fyodor says it with a touch of smugness? “You cannot force an instrument to carry the weight of a careless artist.”
“Dostoevsky, correct? Gogol’s friend?” A professor walks in after Fyodor, weariness already on his face. Fyodor would recognize that two-toned hair anywhere. “I didn’t have the pleasure of meeting you last night. I’m Sigma.”
“I wasn’t aware you also worked at the Academy,” Fyodor says, though not without respect. “Forgive me, I was simply overtaken by the urge to offer my advice to these students. I hope I was not overstepping.”
“They need all the advice they can get,” Sigma says in a whisper, as though murmuring only to himself. He shakes himself from the moodiness and looks towards the class. “What were you playing?”
“Dazai’s final piece from last night,” Atsushi answers, and Fyodor can’t help how he resents the bit of excitement in his voice. “Akutagawa’s obsessed.”
“Thank you for the opportunity to see him, Professor,” Akutagawa stammers, standing with a red face now. “I was wondering if we pass our exams, can we—”
“See him again?” Sigma asks when Akutagawa trails off. He sighs at the students’ eager nods, but there’s a fondness in his smile as he responds. “As fate would have it, I know of an event where Dazai has been personally requested to perform. It’s rather prestigious, though, so you’ll need excellent marks for me to be convinced.”
He sounds so indulgent that Fyodor’s sure he’s misheard. Perhaps it’s a dramatized care for the students’ sake; Fyodor can’t envision any teacher holding someone like Dazai up as inspiration or reward.
Sure enough, the young teens buzz with energy at the mention of Dazai’s name, their eyes brightening with admiration. Fyodor watches them, their faces alight with youthful awe, and the weight of their adoration settles like a stone in his chest. How could they be so blind? Claiming genius when it’s nothing more than chaos disguised as art— Fyodor has his work cut out for him with these children.
“Will he be performing anything new?” Atsushi asks. Sigma shrugs.
“I know several potential patrons will be in attendance,” he answers. “So, I’m sure he will be putting out his best.”
“Even better than last night?” Akutagawa asks.
Sigma grins. “Maybe even better.”
Better? Fyodor hates the part of him that wonders how that’s even possible.
The excitement in the room swells, pressure building like a storm, and Fyodor breaks it before he can do something stupid like ask about the details of Dazai’s next show.
“You’re all so invested in one man,” Fyodor asks. He may not be expected to teach yet, but there’s no reason to ignore the opportunity presented in front of him. If he’s lucky, he can clear the stars from their eyes before his first session; at least, it’ll make his life easier. “Is there any particular reason?”
Every eye turns to him, but it’s Sigma who betrays Fyodor with the most stunned tone.
“Have you heard him?” Sigma asks, his eyes lighting up. “Dazai doesn’t merely play the piano; he becomes it. It’s as if the music isn’t coming from the instrument but from the very air around him. He’s… unstoppable.”
Fyodor scowls. So, this teacher, too, is under Dazai’s spell. That explains the delusions of his students, at least, though it will make Fyodor’s job harder if his attempts to teach are undermined like this.
“Unstoppable?” Fyodor repeats, keeping his voice even despite his disappointment. “Or is it undisciplined? Anyone can create noise, but only a true artist crafts music.”
“Dazai is a master among artists,” Sigma argues. “The piano bends to his will, succumbing to his passion. Some say he plays like a man possessed.”
“He may be possessed, but it’s not by anything holy,” Fyodor scoffs. “Music should not be treated as an indulgence of whim.”
He’s aware he may be coming across too harshly against a potential colleague, but Fyodor can’t help it when such nonsense taints the walls of an otherwise esteemed academy. He takes a breath, reminds himself of propriety and etiquette, and wonders if he can lower his ego enough to allow an apology to clear the air. After all, it wouldn’t do to set a poor example in front of the students. He and Sigma can agree to disagree.
Until Sigma’s smile grows more patronizing, and he shakes his head.
“No matter, you wouldn’t be the first to feel such jealousy over Dazai’s gifts,” he says. “You’ve seen him once, but that’s not enough to capture the full extent of his brilliance. Come to his next event with me. If not for Dazai, come for yourself— word has it an Emperor has sent a scout to seek out his next composer. It’d be a good chance to hear Dazai’s work at its best and to introduce yourself to the city’s finest patrons.”
The Emperor— Fukuzawa Yukichi. A reference that should have heads snapping up, jaws dropping.
The students, though, continue to mutter amongst themselves about Dazai.
Little by little, Fyodor weeps for his future here.
“Music is not a spectacle,” he says, his voice low and firm. “It is a discipline, a communion with the divine. Dazai may dazzle the masses, but brilliance without purpose is merely decadence.”
I would hope another professor would see that goes unsaid.
Sigma’s smile never fades. “I’ll send the invitation your way.”
“Go ahead,” Fyodor says. “But I can make no promise of my attendance. If you’ll excuse me for now— I believe I have quite a bit to consider when it comes to my lessons.”
The hum of the practice session resumes as he walks away, the notes mingling with the faint echoes of Dazai’s music in his mind. The Academy, this bastion of control, should be untouched by the turmoils of the outside world— order, when broken, leads to a collapse of everything they depend upon. He cannot allow his resolve to falter, even if a place such as this has its weaknesses.
Anger is a sin, he knows, but so is ignorance. Of the two, he’d much rather fall for the former. Let him be the one to save this place, he decides. If Dazai is the world’s temptation, Fyodor prays for the strength to save them all.
<><><> <><><> <><><>
Nikolai knocks on Fyodor’s door and asks, in the pettiest tone, if he’s ready to leave yet. Fyodor may have turned down Sigma’s offer to attend Dazai’s next performance, but that doesn’t mean he’s safe from Nikolai’s wish to drag him to every social event this season.
And, so, tonight’s candlelit salon. Hosted by one of the upper professors of the Academy, and Nikolai invited as a plus one at Sigma’s request. Fyodor had claimed that doesn’t mean Nikolai gets to bring him along, as well, but Nikolai made the rather cunning remark that, as a future teacher at the school, Fyodor should show his face outside the classroom at least once a week.
Still, Fyodor wastes time in his room, pretending to gather his wits about him when there’s not much to prepare for or think about. His fingers drum against the edge of his desk. He despises gatherings of any sort but these most of all— places where the air grows thick with false pleasantries and the scent of expensive wines. It’s nothing more than a chess match in a room full of pawns, but even he can’t ignore the practicality of making his name known amongst them, the necessity of maintaining his position in this fickle world of patrons and prestige.
“Fyodor, we’re running late,” Nikolai whines, a high-pitched tone added for dramatic effect. Fyodor looks into the mirror once more and adjusts the high collar of his coat. Nikolai will accuse him of vanity later for pulling out his nicest jacket, but Fyodor knows everything in these meetings is based on calculation. Each detail, from the neatness of his cuffs to the shine of his shoes, can be a tool. Playing the part of a well-groomed and respectable man is no different than playing with the bow of a cello or the keys of a piano.
You’re so frail, his mother used to say before his concerts and lessons. I hope no one ever notices that.
There are a lot of things the world has yet to notice about Fyodor, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Very well,” he breathes to himself, tucking a handkerchief into his pocket and turning to open the door. Nikolai stands there, hair braided and color pinched into his pale cheeks. If Fyodor aims to appear as a man made of stone, Nikolai decorates himself the way one would a blank canvas. “Let’s go.”
<><><> <><><> <><><>
When they arrive, the salon’s already glowing with the warm flicker of candlelight, shadows dancing along the walls as the hum of conversation fills the air. Fyodor’s lips press into a thin line. The people around them flit about as though they themselves can’t recognize the carnival of egos they engage in.
Someone takes his jacket and offers him a drink, but Fyodor’s barely through the door before he feels the shift in the universe— a realization that has him stilling, his eyes wide and shoulders tense.
Dazai Osamu is here.
Fyodor doesn’t know if he’s particularly attuned to Dazai’s presence or if the man just demands that much attention, but Fyodor’s eyes are drawn to the mess of brown curls in the room’s heart, Dazai tossing his head to the side as he tells a story. Like a star in orbit, he draws the crowd around him with an ease that implies he’s giving no effort, their laughter and admiration capturing him in his own pocket world. Fyodor’s chest tightens, the mere sight of it all sparking an all-too-familiar bitterness upon his tongue. Dazai’s doing practically nothing, yet he’s already claimed every bit of attention in the room.
Fyodor doesn’t bother trying to turn away; it doesn’t matter to him if Dazai feels his gaze or senses his vitriol. Of course, Dazai doesn’t pay him any mind. He’s too busy laughing off the people trying to coax him into playing, a half dozen of them gesturing towards the piano in the corner of the room.
Can’t they see him rejecting the idea? Even as he smiles, he shakes his head and waves his arms, teasing but declining. Still, they push, and they prod, and Fyodor doesn’t know why his heart pounds so insistently at the sight.
Eventually, Dazai gives in. The critical piece of Fyodor’s mind wonders if that was his play all along, goading the room into giving enough praise to earn his music. Appeasing drunks and jokers— is that the kind of man Dazai is?
But, drunkards or not, the room falls silent when Dazai sits at the piano, commanded without a word. He rolls up his sleeves, revealing spirals of bandages wrapping up his arms, the same as the first time Fyodor saw him. He plays quickly and carelessly, fingers dancing across the keys to conjure a simple melody. Short and improvised, yet the crowd watches him with spellbound eyes, daring to applaud when he finishes not even a minute later.
Fyodor scowls at their cheering. It’s not the music they adore— it’s him . Dazai could strike a single note, and they’d all still be wrapped around his finger.
Dazai rises with that awful smirk and bows to their clapping. Fyodor turns away, looking for Nikolai to complain to again, but he’s greeted by Sigma instead.
Surprisingly, Sigma refrains from referencing their prior conversation about Dazai and simply greets Fyodor with his usual calm tone. “I hope you’re enjoying the evening?”
Fyodor allows himself a curt nod. “Quite. Admittedly, I’d choose to spend my time alone, but I found it best to introduce myself to the other faculty members present.”
“A wise choice,” Sigma says, nodding. “In fact, there’s already been some conversation this evening about curriculum changes. It’s been requested that we…”
He carries on, launching into a conversation about lessons and schedules. Fyodor follows along, his responses curt but polite. As a tutor and temporary guest, most of the subject doesn’t apply as much to him, but Nikolai seems to like this man and, as Fyodor’s only friend, he supposes the kind thing would be to refrain from scaring him off.
It’s a lucky thing, too, that Sigma isn’t looking for a reply. Try as he might, Fyodor can’t pay attention to Sigma’s words the way he deserves. Instead, his gaze keeps straying towards Dazai.
He can’t be blamed, he thinks, for the distraction when Dazai goes out of his way to be so distracting. Women cling to his arm; men offer him praise. They flitter about him like flies around fruit, weak-minded creatures trying to suck the sweetness from his skin. Fyodor’s attention latches onto him, pulled away only when Sigma asks his opinion on this or that idea. He speaks without thinking, but even looking away from Dazai for those few seconds, irritation prickles down his body. The way Dazai moves and how effortlessly he charms the room isn’t artistry; it’s theater. Dazai’d have better odds as a jester than a composer with how he laps up their attention, always smiling and always with something clever to say. It doesn’t matter who he speaks with— and everyone, it seems, takes the time to approach him—everyone leaves with dazzled stars in their eyes.
“They just don’t know how to take care of the instruments,” Sigma sighs, lamenting the poor treatment of violins, clarinets, and the like. “They put so much money into their classes, and they can’t be bothered to see the importance. Or, worse, the ones who come because of family requests. I’m sure even you will crack the first moment an irate father comes to your door demanding his son be placed in the Emperor’s courts without a lick of practice. Or do you have experience with that, Fyodor?”
“Hm? Ah, spoiled brats?” Fyodor looks back to Sigma, catching up on the conversation through the few snatches of sentences he had heard. He smiles in what he hopes is an innocent manner and offers Sigma a shrug. “Isn’t the music world filled with the lot of them? The way I see it, it’s the ones who never grow up who make their name, as unfair as they may be to those of us who’ve toiled for years with no reward.”
“I suppose.” If Sigma catches the secondary meaning, the underhanded remarks towards another guest at this party, he doesn’t point it out. “Still, I wish the children had a bit more passion these days.”
“Passion can be blinding,” Fyodor says. “And it can often lead us astray. If they know the notes and can play them well, is there really a difference?”
“Not to us, perhaps, but the audience can certainly tell,” Sigma says. “It’s the audience who decides which of us have talent, after all, isn’t it?”
An unfortunately accurate assessment, Fyodor thinks. One of the cruelest facts of life is that an artist could spend their life perfecting their craft, deepening their understanding, and weaving in every bit of knowledge they have, only to be judged by a horde of people who’ll never look deeper than the first layer they’re offered.
Even if that layer is covered in bandages and devilish eyes.
Fyodor looks around the room once more, a moth who’s smart enough to ignore a flame but still can’t help but look for its brilliance in the dark. Dazai’s crowd of admirers still stand around the piano, arguing over who is more likely to receive the greatest commission, but Dazai’s nowhere to be seen.
Fyodor’s brows furrow. Did he leave already? No, he wouldn’t do that without fanfare and dramatic farewells— and, some traitorous part of Fyodor thinks, he couldn’t leave without Fyodor feeling the change. After all, someone as grandiose as Dazai is sure to leave a crater in his absence, not a simple smudge.
Still, he’s nowhere to be found.
“I’m sorry,” Fyodor says without thinking, uncaring of whatever Sigma may have been saying now. “Did you see where Dazai went?”
Sigma blinks. He doesn’t say what’s on his mind, but Fyodor’s sure it’s nothing he’d like to hear.
“One of the guests went outside a bit ago. I heard someone asking for their jacket.” He shrugs. “Might have been Dazai.”
Definitely Dazai . Why, though, Fyodor can’t say.
“I see,” he says. “If you’ll excuse me, I was meant to follow up on a question.”
What he doesn’t say as he peels away from Sigma’s conversation is that it’s not a question he intends to ask Dazai but, instead, one he hopes to investigate for himself: why would someone as attention-hungry as Dazai slip away unnoticed amid a party where everyone claims to be a fan?
If Fyodor can discover the answer to that, can he find out the rest of Dazai’s mysteries?
The outside air bites through Fyodor’s jacket with the sharp sting of early winter. Dazai leans against the wall, though, as if he doesn’t see how his breaths cloud in the night like smoke— as if the cold is just another crowd to entertain, another thing to give himself away to. He doesn’t turn at the sound of Fyodor’s footsteps, either, and Fyodor’s reasonably sure he doesn’t even know he’s here.
At that moment, Fyodor permits himself the simple sin of watching Dazai in his unawareness. The night sky frames him— his loose waistcoat and wrinkled trousers. The softest breeze cradles his chestnut waves, kissing pinkness into his nose and ears. There’s a tremble in his lips as he adjusts the bandages around his neck and the fit of his shirt, but, other than that, he’s so… still.
Away from the crowd, caught alone in the dark, he almost looks human.
No sooner has the thought crossed his mind does Fyodor clench his jaw and shake it away. Foolishness, he tells himself. Falling for another trick.
“You’ll desecrate your own music, giving into their whims like that,” he begins if only to shut out the thought threatening the edges of his mind— the thought that curls around the recognition that Dazai could be pretty if he let his guard down more often. “It sets a poor example for those who might have otherwise admired you.”
Dazai turns, and his lips twitch into that familiar, insufferable smile.
“You sought me out?” He asks, and the excitement in his voice shouldn’t affect Fyodor as strongly as it does.
“To lecture you on ignoring the advice I gave in our first introduction,” he says. Still, Dazai smiles.
“Ah, a sermon,” he says. “How devout of you, Fyodor.”
God , the way he says his name. Teasing it against his lips the way others may flirt with alcohol or poison, a dance with something dangerous and tempting, he says his name like he knows it’s made to cut him, and yet, he can’t bring himself to let go.
“Do you intend to mock me?” Fyodor asks. Dazai takes a step closer, his silhouette softened by the moonlight, and then stills again.
“Why do you always assume the worst of me?” The words come out in misty breaths, a wall between them in the cool night air. Without the noise of the party or the roar of applause, his voice and presence seem smaller, somewhat— less a god and more a man. Unassuming. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
Fyodor takes a step back, his chest tightening at his own thoughts.
“Because you’ve given me no reason to assume otherwise.” His voice comes out more cutting than before, colder than the air around them.
There’s something fragile in Dazai’s eyes, and for a fleeting second, Fyodor can see the appeal, the emotion that pulls others in. He buries it with disgust, hot and sharp. He cannot be so weak, so easily swayed by such an obvious facade.
“And here I thought you’d give me an honest answer.” Dazai presses a shoulder against the wall. “Instead, you hide behind vague statements to justify your feelings. I’d be offended if I were a weaker man.”
You already are , but Fyodor can’t give into such pitiful taunts.
“I tried reasoning with you once, and you didn’t listen.”
“And, just as you said, you gave me no reason to listen.”
“You didn’t even want to—”
“What would you know about my wants?”
Their words strike against each other like a bow over frayed strings, dissonant and jarring.
Fyodor may not know what Dazai wants, but he knows he wishes to destroy him and silence that smug voice forever.
“You mock the very art you claim to revere,” Fyodor snaps, stepping closer. “Music is not a playground for your arrogance.”
Dazai tilts his head, his gaze unnervingly intent. “And why do you care? Do you hate my music— or do you hate that I play it better than you?”
“What I hate,” Fyodor hisses, “is that you have disguised your insolence as brilliance. You waste a gift that was made to be worshipped.”
Dazai’s expression shifts, his eyes gleaming with something that sends a shiver down Fyodor’s spine.
“And if I followed your words— played to please you, earn your favor,” he murmurs, stepping close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, “would you worship me, Fyodor?”
Dazai raises a hand to Fyodor’s chest, and perhaps, it’s meant to be teasing— mocking, condescending.
Instead, it burns .
Fyodor’s heart races, his mind screaming a cacophony of anger and insult and— and something else.
Something he refuses to name.
Something that causes his pulse to spike, his face to flame, his head to spin. Something dangerous and terrible and addicting and, God, he begs, if he could have Dazai make him feel like that again, he’d understand Heaven and Hell and—
The feelings and the words strike like a blow, and Fyodor recoils, his hand lashing out to slap Dazai’s away. His heart thunders in his chest, a discordant rhythm of fury and that darker feeling, that emotion he’s shoved to the back of his mind.
“Your words are blasphemy,” he says. “I will not be tempted by a demon.”
For the first time, Dazai seems genuinely startled. His smile falters, and he blinks at Fyodor as though he sees him anew. Silence settles between them— but no. Fyodor cannot call this silence. It’s heavy and suffocating, buzzing in his ears.
Even like this, Dazai could never create silence.
Fyodor turns sharply, his coat billowing behind him as he storms back inside. It’s over. He won this exchange.
But, before he reaches the door, he hears the haunting sound of Dazai’s laughter behind him— as inescapable as the cold.
<><><> <><><> <><><>
Fyodor leaves without telling Nikolai— without telling anyone, without wondering if it’s the proper thing to do. The gloom of the evening follows him on the way back, chasing after him even after the party’s behind him, and all he sees is the darkness of Nikolai’s apartment.
The door slams against the wall, rattling the frame as Fyodor storms inside. He barely has time to remove his shoes as he sweeps into his room, his coat whipping through the air like the fury of a storm. A better guest would take better care of their host’s home, but Fyodor hardly cares as he focuses on the one thing that might calm his mind.
The cello’s polished wood gleams under faint lamplight in the corner of his bedroom. He grabs it with trembling hands, dragging it and the desk’s chair into the center. Composing has always been his sanctuary, the one place where his thoughts can find order. He positions the bow, drawing it across the strings with practiced precision.
Tonight, though, the notes come out wrong. Jagged. Discordant. A hymn sung off-key.
He tries again, pressing the bow harder, coaxing the instrument to obey. He shuts his eyes, hoping to focus— but there, in the darkness of his mind, he sees Dazai.
Fingers dancing over piano keys, fluid and effortless. That gleam in his eyes, that sharp and knowing smile. The sound of his laughter, rich and resonant, and the sound of his voice— the mocking and magnetic sense of his presence, the way the entire world turns to face him, to listen to him, to see him—
The bow slips. The string screeches. Fyodor curses under his breath.
He plays harder, faster, as if he can drive the thoughts away with sheer force. If passion is what the world wants, passion is what he’ll give.
But, unlike Dazai’s partnership with the piano, Fyodor’s cello betrays him. His song cuts off with a sharp twang, echoing through the room like a whip cracking against the walls.
Fyodor freezes, staring at the broken string as it sways lifelessly. The silence threatens to choke him.
And here he thought God had no more ways to mock him.
Slowly, he sinks to his knees, leaning his head against the cello’s cool wood. His lips move silently, forming the beginnings of a prayer. His soul yearns for clarity, for strength, for wisdom. The words, though, feel hollow, falling into the void inside him. No divine answers appear when he shuts his eyes and folds his hands. Only the thought of Dazai.
Only the terrible realization that he’s never understood God if this is what He is like. Because this is no blessing, no trial meant to guide him to righteousness. What could this be other than punishment? A cruel, unrelenting torment sent to drive him mad. He clenches his fists, the weight of the cello pressing against his bowed head.
“Why?” He whispers to the silence. “Why have you cursed me with this?”
If you have truly chosen him— if you have taken this boastful and infantile boy as your instrument and given me for reward only the ability to recognize the incarnation— then we are enemies, you and I.
He stays there, unmoving, his breath ragged and shallow. The room, he knows, is quiet. God does not answer.
But in his mind, Dazai fills the silence. His voice. His laughter. His name.
No amount of music, no amount of prayer, could drown him out.
“Very well. My God, because you are unjust, unkind, and unfair, then I alone will stand in your way,” Fyodor says at last. “I will hinder and harm your creature on earth— your prodigy, your chosen one— as far as I am able.”
This, I swear.