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They say it’s supposed to feel like going home. Like returning to that place you left behind in childhood, where lights had more color and the snow bit with kinder teeth. They say winter and all its wonders are cold only to make up for the warmth it brings to your chest.
To Fyodor, though, standing amongst the crowds of a busy holiday market, all he knows is that these are the same lights they use for the autumn festivals, and that the tip of his nose went numb four minutes ago.
Wonderful, indeed.
Still, he supposes, there is a charm to such a quaint little life. Frost-coated stalls offer handmade ribbons and cinnamon-scented sweets, items he pretends to take interest in as he passes between the booths, boots crunching against the snow beneath each step. There’s a fondness in the air, held tight by little gloved hands clinging to parents and older siblings, by couples that swing interlocked fingers together between them, by shoulders touching and voices calling familiar names.
And yet, amongst the Christmas Eve crowds, there is only one face worth looking for.
A young man with soft curls reflecting the lights swinging above his head. A thick brown jacket buttoned up to his neck— but not high enough to hide the embrace of pale bandages around his throat, not warm enough to keep away the red tinge of chill upon his cheeks. A blue scarf rests decoratively across broad shoulders— broader than they were when Fyodor first met him, a waif of a thing in the Mafia’s clutches— a brilliant young man waiting to bloom into a monster. A pawn sneaking its way to the other side of the board. A nightmare learning to file his teeth. A prodigy. A wraith.
A demon, just like him.
Or, Fyodor supposes, that’s what they called this man before he proved that demons can crawl their way out of hell, that there’s a way to fall up.
And, looking at Dazai Osamu from across the marketplace in a country neither man has any reason to be in, one can almost convince themself that he’s human. If Fyodor were so simple, he might have believed it himself.
Of course, it’s not a charade Dazai can keep up for long. He pauses by a booth, lifting a carved wooden nutcracker, and laughs when the stall owner tries to sell it to him; it’s not with a smile that reaches his eyes. Still, all the same, no one says a word as Dazai plays his part.
Humanity, Fyodor thinks. So in love with illusion.
For a moment, Fyodor watches as lights play tricks across Dazai’s face, candlelight-flickers dancing over the slopes of his cheeks. He’s without that garish face bandage; Fyodor wonders if it’s a disguise meant to mark him as something other than the Mafia’s runaway pet.
As if the Mafia could find him here. As if anyone would ever reach the missing executive before Fyodor.
Because Fyodor knows Dazai the way fire knows wood. The way the sea knows a distant shore. The way the earth knows each snowflake as it melts upon its surface, as gentle as a kiss goodnight.
And, so, when Dazai pauses at the next stall, tilting his head to read the sign for mulled wine— eyes brightening as he translates in his mind, the same way they did when Fyodor first spoke with him— it only feels natural to drift across the space and take the position at his side.
Brown eyes lift. There is no surprise in them— after all, the wood knows fire, too.
There’s a lift in the corner of Dazai’s mouth as he glances across Fyodor’s form.
“You picked a festive place for a potential murder,” Dazai says, not bothering to lower his voice as he addresses Fyodor with a practiced Russian tongue. He slips into another language as he addresses the stallkeeper. “One cup, please.”
Ah, Fyodor thinks as he listens to Dazai speak. German. Fyodor had stopped looking at country boundaries halfway through this chase.
“Would you rather if I had interrupted your tour of Vienna? Or, perhaps, you were waiting for me on the train through Prague?” Fyodor tuts, returning the conversation to the more comfortable Russian language. “You’ve been dancing your way across Europe, Dazai, and I am not foolish enough to believe you’ve taken yourself out of hiding tonight by pure coincidence.”
Dazai huffs something that could be laughter as he pays, ignoring Fyodor’s words. Steam curls up from the cup, cradled in his hands to thaw the chill.
“Perhaps I just really needed a good drink,” he says, turning back to Fyodor once the stallkeeper has moved on to the next customer.
“Is it worth the risk of the Mafia tracing your path?” Fyodor asks.
Dazai tips his head to the side in a way that paints his smile as lopsided. “They’re not the ones trying to track me, though, are they?”
Fair enough. The Mafia called off their searches a year into Dazai’s disappearance. By then, he’d fled the country, and Fyodor had already set his own people in place, keeping an eye on all possible routes until the bandaged man could be found. Two months ago, Fyodor finally received a report matching Dazai’s description, detailing his escape into an entirely different continent.
And, well. Fyodor’s not one to turn down an excuse to travel.
“You don’t make yourself an easy man to find,” he says. Somehow, without agreeing upon the company, the two walk alongside each other to the next set of booths. “You’ve managed to fit in with the ordinary people.”
Dazai takes a sip of his wine. “And you, somehow, have managed to stick out even more.”
Despite the harsh words, Dazai holds out his cup for Fyodor to take. The spice when Fyodor drinks hardly compares to the thrill he feels when his and Dazai’s fingers touch as he passes the cup back— the mint-cool wash of No Longer Human, just for a moment, flooding into Fyodor’s blood like a forgiveness and repentance all at once.
They turn a corner into a denser part of the crowd. The people passing treat them as a unit, pushing by until their shoulders nearly brush.
Nearly. A space Fyodor could live within if only Dazai could open the door to let him inside. Its existence twists through Fyodor’s gut and chest, an ache for something stolen— something misplaced, something his spirit knows is rightfully his.
But, for now, he keeps the distance that Dazai creates. Even if the air chills when Dazai turns his head, distracted by the chime of bells unseen in the distance. One hour closer to Christmas.
As one, the crowd stills and listens, counting the tolls. Even the children at the toy stall pause, dolls and miniature figures held in place with grubby hands as young faces turn towards a foggy sky. The bells continue with a brighter chime than the ones Fyodor grew up with.
He’s heard a hundred bell songs; he’ll hear a hundred more. By this point, it’s the people around who are far more interesting to watch. Like the couple at the candle stand, whispering little wishes to one another. Like the food vendors on the other side, their goods going cold as they listen.
Like the man beside him, chin turned upward, his face toward the sky.
Brown eyes, though, watching Fyodor.
“Those are church bells, aren’t they?” Dazai asks in a low voice as the bells near their end. “Aren’t you meant to show some more reverence?”
Around them, the crowd comes back to life.
“Churches and bells made by man’s faulty hands,” Fyodor says. “And, yet, they all behave as though it’s a miracle.”
Dazai watches him, a moment too long for Fyodor to fully comprehend. “Isn’t it?”
It’s not a question that seeks an answer, and Fyodor responds with an incline of the head, directing them back on their chilly path. This time, though, moving against the crowd isn’t an option; the people converge around them, tugging them along, forcing them close enough for Fyodor to hear Dazai breathe.
“I’m surprised you can handle this weather,” Fyodor remarks, eyes on the clouds of Dazai’s breath. This kind of cold would be notable back in Japan. In Yokohama, the winter never stays long enough to matter, and it shows in the grimace on Dazai’s face when the wind nips at his cheeks.
“It’s… certainly an inconvenience,” he says, shoving his free hand into a shallow pocket, the other still clinging to the fading warmth of his wine. “Can’t travel with many layers when you’re on the run, you know.”
“I wouldn’t,” Fyodor answers plainly. Compared to the winters he grew up with, the cold here is almost polite. It lacks conviction— too damp, too forgiving. Even the snow seems unsure if it wants to stay. Still, he plays through a mimicry of Dazai’s actions, sinking one of his own hands into his pocket— not seeking warmth, though. Something softer than that.
Something unnecessary in a winter like this. He had almost laughed when he’d seen the stall at the opening of the market, tourists and travelers gathered around to trade their money for thin scarves and futile hats and—
And a pair of gloves. Carefully woven together, crafted with the kind of gentleness that captures warmth between each stitch.
Too large for Fyodor’s hands, and a shade of blue he’d never wear. A shade that matches Yokohama’s skies, that matches the ice of a nullifier’s ability,
That matches a scarf draped around a bandaged neck.
“Take them,” Fyodor says, pointedly looking away from whatever mask Dazai may choose for this moment. “You may have use for your hands still in the future.”
The right place for a quip, a tease, one of those non-flirtatious innuendos Dazai’s so fond of. Fyodor flips through the script, but loses it when Dazai only answers with something dangerously close to sincerity.
“You’ll need to hold my cup, then,” he says. Fyodor glances his way; there’s a new redness in his cheeks, and Fyodor’s not certain it’s all entirely from the cold.
But Fyodor holds his tongue as he takes the half-emptied wine from Dazai’s hands, trading him the drink for the garments. He doesn’t steal a taste, doesn’t waste his time distracting himself when there’s something so much more delicious in watching Dazai dress himself in something Fyodor has chosen.
Perhaps a jacket next time. A coat or cloak made of Fyodor’s favorite fabrics and colors. Maybe he can even talk Dazai into a suit, one that would only look right when standing beside Fyodor.
For now, though, the gloves will do. Even more so when a group of schoolchildren rush past, one brushing against Fyodor’s side, tilting him off balance— offering him into the gloved touch of Dazai’s hands on his shoulder, steadying him as though he’d orchestrated the event.
“Honestly,” Dazai says, “one would think you’ve never stepped foot in a place like this. Too frivolous for you?”
“Too human,” Fyodor answers with criticism instead of complaining when Dazai pulls his hands away from him. “Or do you think otherwise?”
Dazai hums. “I don’t know enough about humanity to say.”
Fyodor laughs; it’s better than pretending to disagree.
“Still,” Dazai continues, “I suppose the most human thing is to believe in something greater than us, isn’t it?”
“That implies they know what they believe,” Fyodor says. “Unless you count their fables and false retellings.”
Dazai laughs, something sharp and amused around the edges. “Ah, yes. I forgot. Only you know God’s design.”
“I know it’s more than what they’ve created for themselves.” They pass a booth decorated with ornaments, winged figures and glowing halos glinting from the glass. Fyodor indicates toward them with the hand still holding Dazai’s drink. “His body was like topaz, his face like lightning, his eyes like flaming torches, his arms and legs like the gleam of burnished bronze, and his voice like the sound of a multitude. And yet, humans have chosen to pray to childish faces with eyes that match their own. They cling to mirrors rather than messengers of heaven, pretending there is something precious in imagining their guardians could look like them. Am I to play along with such foolish wishes?”
“I’d be more likely to indulge in your philosophies,” Dazai says, a teasing lilt in his words, “if you weren’t the biggest hypocrite in imagining oneself as something divine.”
“Imagination and knowledge,” Fyodor responds, hardly stung by the barb, “are two very different things.”
And, whether or not Dazai agrees, the sound of his responding laughter feels like something Fyodor’s earned.
“You’re ridiculous,” Dazai says, and Fyodor only answers with a smile of his own.
They turn a corner, the pathway widening to make way for a seating area and a chapel with open doors from which escapes the sound of off-key carolers within. The end of the market; the end of excuses to walk side-by-side and pretend any part of it was a coincidence.
Dazai, though, continues to place one foot after another. Continues to guide them past cheerful families and snowy stone paths until they’ve stepped into the safety of the chapel, winter’s wrath kept outside by a vigil of candles and warm bodies.
Dazai takes the pew in the back, sitting like it’s no question if Fyodor will do the same. Fyodor doesn’t bother pretending otherwise. He’s comfortable enough in places like this, after all, even if the wooden bench is cool beneath his legs.
The wine’s chilled, as well, when Fyodor steals another sip, imagining he can feel a spark of warmth in his chest from the diluted alcohol. He passes it to Dazai without a word, and Dazai drinks with a grimace of his own at the loss of heat in the drink, setting the cup aside once it's finished.
“You still look cold,” Fyodor says, voice hushed beneath the choir’s hymn.
Dazai offers a smile. Wine clings to his upper lip. “I always do.”
No, Fyodor thinks, looking at the hidden suns in earth-brown eyes. You don’t.
Because Dazai looks so right beneath the flicker of a candle’s flame, the curves of his face carved as if they were meant to capture the shadow and the light all at once. Because the softness of his hair matches the gentleness of the tablecloth upon the altar. Because the shade of his eyes matches the color of an infant Savior's painted in the nativity scene by the door.
“Do you believe people can be redeemed?” Fyodor asks, watching every shift of Dazai’s face. Fyodor has his spies, his channels. He knows about Dazai’s escape from the Mafia; he knows about the request he made to find somewhere he can do something good.
But a man drenched in blood and shadow, a monster wearing human flesh— is that something the Bible planned for?
Dazai doesn’t flinch. “Only if they want it badly enough.”
“And do you?” Fyodor asks before the answer is fully stated. Here, at last, Dazai’s eyes widen, staring ahead— at flame, at wine, at salvation. He laughs, but it’s too quick a thing to be sure, and Fyodor moves closer until their thighs are touching, as if he can drag honesty from Dazai by proximity alone.
“Are you trying to find a mirror again?” Dazai’s hands fidget in his lap, tugging at the ends of the gloves— not quite pulling them off.
On the chapel windows, snow carefully taps. Another possible storm. Another terrible thing to be caught in if one doesn’t watch their step.
Fyodor reaches, the back of his hand brushing the bare skin visible between glove and sleeve, the fragile space of Dazai’s wrist.
“A mirror reflects what stands before it. Incapable of changing its nature on its own,” he murmurs. “Do not degrade yourself by pretending you could ever be something so meek.”
Dazai barks out laughter, harsh enough to draw the eyes of the couple in the pew in front of them. He cuts off the sound, but the sting of it lingers.
“You almost sound kind,” he says.
Fyodor’s grin sharpens. “Then you have truly been alone too long if you find my companionship to be nice.”
A flicker over Dazai’s face. He lets out a breath, heavy enough to fog between them. “I don’t think I know what it means to not be alone.”
Such a martyr. It’s almost endearing— if only the words were as false as Dazai so clearly hopes for them to be.
For all their faults, though, Fyodor’s never once lied to Dazai.
“Because misery is inevitable for men like us,” he says, drawing his hand back into his own lap. “Destined for a life of solitude, no matter how we beat against such a fate.”
Dazai’s mouth twists as though he can taste the sourness in Fyodor’s words.
“The difference between us,” he says, “is that you chose your loneliness. Mine has only ever been inflicted.”
“If that’s easier for you to believe,” Fyodor replies, “then I will not aim to turn your head from the fantasy.”
“And here I thought you could be decent for one evening,” Dazai sighs. “My mistake, I suppose, for believing in a Christmas miracle.”
“Your mistake is in pretending you know how to believe in anything at all.” Fyodor turns away, focusing his gaze on the altar in the front of the sanctuary, ignoring how Dazai groans and sinks lower into the bench. “Belief in something greater is for the humans, Dazai. Isn't that what you said?”
From his lower position, Dazai leans his head back and stares up at Fyodor. “And what is it you believe in, then? Yourself?”
The carolers fade into an ending song— silent night, holy night.
What does Fyodor believe in? A God and a purpose written into his own skin— not something greater, but something unknown. A challenge to accept? A role to fulfill?
All is sleeping; alone watches
His eyes shut, briefly, picturing lives this skin can no longer call his own.
Only the dear, holy pair
He believes this life is the one that may matter most so far.
Lovely boy with curly hair
He opens his eyes, and he believes— for a terrible, awful second— that he’s risen so high because something far beyond him knows how easy it would be to fall because of Dazai Osamu.
“Aren’t you a genius?” Fyodor breathes. “You and I aren’t built for things like belief.”
The final note. The final song. A polite applause as the audience leaves.
Dazai and Fyodor stay put, allowing the room to empty around them. Without so many bodies, the cold settles back in, sneaking in through open doors to curl around thin frames, to press kisses to bare faces and wind-chapped lips. Fyodor stares at the candles, watching as a rogue wick gives out, slanting the room a few degrees closer to darkness.
“The safe house you’ve chosen,” he asks. “Will it keep you warm tonight?”
Dazai’s breath catches. He shifts, and Fyodor can’t tell if it’s to move closer or farther away.
“Fyodor—”
“It’s just a question,” Fyodor says, because the way Dazai whispers his name is already an answer. “Don’t respond to something that wasn’t said.”
Dazai pauses, and Fyodor’s not foolish enough to believe it’s because he’s considering a new response.
“It’s warm,” he says, at last. “I won’t need to look for anywhere else to sleep.”
Fyodor nods. “That’s good. It’s colder than you’re used to, after all. Come, we should go. The storm will only increase, and you wouldn’t want to be sick while in hiding.”
Fyodor stands before Dazai does, turning to face the doors before they’re closed.
“Fedya,” Dazai protests— and why he would do something as silly as that, Fyodor doesn’t allow himself to consider. “If things were different—”
“They are not,” Fyodor says. Simple. Nothing more than a fact. “Do hurry. The paths will be busy if you wait.”
Again, Dazai pauses. This time, though, he only breaks his silence with a sigh as he stands and follows Fyodor back outside.
A sharper wind. The blur of snowfall over lights that feel so much harsher than before. More artificial. More temporary than the prophesied star they claim to mimic.
“It’ll be quicker if you exit from those gates,” Fyodor says, indicating a lesser-used path away from the market. He doesn’t know where Dazai’s staying; he didn’t make it his business to know anything Dazai’s truly kept secret. It’s far more fun to play along with the strings Dazai leaves loose on his own.
Far more painful, too, if Fyodor was willing to put a word to the feeling.
“You’re staying in the city?” Dazai asks.
“Yes.” From this angle, standing in front of Dazai, Fyodor can only see his own breath fog now. “It is a warm room, too.”
Warm and large and terribly empty.
And that emptiness, perhaps, is what leads him to turn his head one last time, to take in Dazai’s features in the fading lights as stalls slowly shut down for the evening. He’s obscured, for a moment, by the snowfall— and, then, suddenly, he is all Fyodor can see. Red nose and cheeks. Snowflakes melting in his hair. Wearing gloves that fit just right.
And with eyes that rise to greet the heavens, eyes that descend to match gazes with Fyodor’s.
Eyes that—
“Could deprive nothing of their warmth,” Fyodor breathes. He knows Dazai hears the words; he knows Dazai doesn’t understand them. He turns away before Dazai can ask for the meaning. “I’d pray for your Christmas, but I doubt it’s a gift you’d accept.”
“And I doubt a demon’s prayer would mean much to God, anyway,” Dazai says.
He’s wrong, Fyodor thinks. Those prayers burn the loudest.
Just like Dazai’s footsteps as he walks the other direction, fading into celebrations that neither of them could fit into.
Pausing, just long enough for Fyodor to hear him call back one last time.
“All the same, Merry Christmas, Fyodor,” he says. “I hope it’s not the last one we share.”
“Seeking a rival for your future days?” Fyodor asks, turning to watch Dazai watch him.
“No,” Dazai says. “It’s just that— you’re so much gentler in the snow. I wonder what it would be like to know that side of you more often.”
Ah. Of course.
Dazai always says something to throw Fyodor off the script. He always knows how to have the last word.
And Fyodor doesn’t fight him for it, watching with careful eyes as Dazai continues on his way. Disappearing into ice and cold. Disappearing from his vision.
Until the snow melts and, someday soon, they may meet again.