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"Dazai-kun, imprisoning me here is meaningless," Fyodor shook his hands bound by iron handcuffs, the chains making a "clanking" sound. "The Book is no longer in my hands, and nothing is left of the Rats in the House of the Dead."
"Fyodor..." Dazai Osamu stood at the door of the room, his eyes looking at those deep purple eyes with a complicated expression.
Fyodor did not hide anything and looked directly at his former enemy, whom he had fought to the death with, waiting for Dazai's next words.
But Dazai opened his mouth, said nothing, then closed it, only silently looking into Fyodor's eyes. There was an emotion in his eyes that Fyodor could not understand. This was the first time Fyodor could not see through this man's heart.
In fact, Dazai himself did not know where that special emotion in his heart came from. He could not find a reason, nor an outlet. For that man who had always left him at a loss, the only thing he seemed able to do was to look into those purple eyes.
The distant sound of bells vaguely rang out. Dazai could not remember how long they had looked at each other, nor when he had left.
The setting sun spread across the sky with the evening glow. In everyone's heart, it seemed everything had settled. Fyodor was dead, the Great Commandment had stopped, the pages of the Book had been obtained, and Dazai had been temporarily dismissed from the Agency for his past crimes and prison escape. However, for someone who did not want to work, this was always a good thing.
Everything seemed to have returned to its proper course, but an unknown emotion had arisen in Dazai's heart. This emotion made him secretly hide the root of all trouble — Dostoevsky.
"Ahhh ya ya ya!" A figure bumped into Dazai, who was staring at the setting sun in a daze. "Oww, oww, oww, that hurts!"
"Ranpo-san?! Are you alright?" Dazai saw clearly the person sitting on the ground.
"Oh? It's Dazai," Ranpo brushed the dust off his clothes and stood up. "I'm fine, but Dazai, you..."
The hand Dazai had extended to help Ranpo trembled slightly, but quickly returned to normal.
Ranpo sighed. "Although I am your senior, I can't give you advice on this matter. You can't hide someone forever. Mori from the Port Mafia has already started searching the empty houses in Yokohama. You..."
"I understand, Ranpo-san. Thank you." Sure enough, he couldn't hide it from this detective's eyes, Dazai thought silently to himself.
"Dazai, everyone at the Agency is waiting for you to come back!" Ranpo patted Dazai's shoulder and walked away with his back to him. His light-hearted tone was as if nothing had happened. Dazai knew this was a reminder not to abandon the justice he had always upheld for the sake of a criminal.
The justice he had always upheld? Dazai suddenly remembered what Fyodor had once said. "People... are sinful and foolish to the extreme." Yes, humans are sinful and foolish. He had never denied this sentence. Humans always engage in endless struggles to satisfy their own selfish desires for status and money. Even his only dear friend died in this never-ending struggle.
But...
Fyodor's days in captivity were not actually bad. Apart from the two chains embedded in the wall that bound his hands and feet, the rest of his life was almost no different from usual. He even ate better than usual, and there were some philosophy books for his entertainment, even though for him, reading these books was boring and meaningless.
Dazai came almost every day. Apart from the meaningless staring contest on the first day, they later spent their time playing chess or chatting about trivial matters. It seemed to have returned to the days in Meursault. But the difference was that the distance between them had grown closer — not just physically, but the closeness of two hearts.
When Dazai was not around, Fyodor often stared blankly out the blurred window. He was not locked in a basement; this was just a small house in the suburbs. In fact, it would have been very easy for Fyodor to escape, but he did not. It seemed he had grown tired of that life of chase and being chased. After all, no matter where he went, he would almost always be found. He might as well stay quietly in this house and play chess with that man every day.
Both Dazai and Fyodor knew very well that this kind of life was destined to be short-lived, but both pretended not to know. Neither brought up the future. Perhaps they thought the other already understood, or perhaps they simply did not dare to mention it.
That realistic problem that both were trying to escape was bound to happen eventually. So when, after a game of chess, there was a little extra weight in Fyodor's palm, he was not surprised. He naturally took that hand. Neither spoke a word, but they held each other's hands tightly.
Dazai lowered his eyes to look at their overlapping hands. He did not know when Fyodor's handcuffs had been unlocked. He could not help but use his other hand to tousle the curly hair of the boy in front of him. Dazai's hand seemed to tremble slightly. Fyodor let out a silent, soft laugh, but there was a hint of pain in his smile that was not easily noticed.
"Goodbye, Fyodor." Before leaving, Dazai said goodbye to his former enemy for the first time.
"May we both be released from our pain soon. Goodbye, Dazai-kun." The deep purple eyes and the amber-colored eyes met. The two seemed to have returned to their first gaze — calculation, hostility... The past no longer mattered. For the first time, they looked at each other without any agenda.
After that farewell, he handed Fyodor over to the Port Mafia. Mori did not seem surprised and did not ask further questions. Dazai had always had his own thoughts. If he himself did not want to speak, no one could see through that man's heart.
The next time Dazai saw Fyodor was two months later. In fact, he had not even expected to see Fyodor again.
"Dazai-kun, although you have left the Port Mafia, this mission can only be done by you. You should be well aware — we are dealing with the demon Fyodor Dostoevsky. Only you can keep an eye on him." In the Port Mafia boss's office, Mori looked at Dazai and said.
"..." Dazai felt as if he had returned to that afternoon when he was eighteen. In fact, he had never had a choice.
"Take him back to his hometown to see the snow. That is his only condition for revealing the secret behind the Book."
Dazai smiled to himself. Of course he knew this was just another lie from Fyodor. What secret behind the Book? But Dazai still did not expose him and silently accepted Mori's arrangement.
Dazai saw Fyodor again. This meeting was different from before. For the first time, he saw that man who had always played chess with him so effortlessly looking disheveled — messy long hair, tired expression. It was clear that the Port Mafia had not held back on torture while imprisoning him.
"Dazai-kun, he is in your hands now." Mori appeared behind Dazai without him knowing when. "Don't let him escape."
Dazai did not answer. He said "Let's go" and walked toward the gate without looking back. Fyodor's ankle chains were unlocked, and he followed behind Dazai. He knew that even if Mori had handed him over to Dazai, there would still be many Port Mafia members following in the shadows. So he let Dazai do as he pleased.
They boarded a plane specially prepared for this by the Port Mafia. The spacious economy class had only the two of them. Dazai sat by the window, staring blankly at the clouds outside. Suddenly, he felt his hand being held. He did not turn his head back, nor did he pull away. He let that hand hold his, their fingers intertwining.
Perhaps finding the flight too boring, Fyodor started a conversation.
"Dazai-kun, what are you looking at?"
"The clouds."
"Does this count as a date? Perhaps a honeymoon?" Fyodor said, unable to hold back a soft laugh.
"Eloping, I suppose." Dazai glanced at the person beside him. He had endured torture from the Port Mafia, yet joked about it as if nothing had happened.
"Dazai-kun, you're so romantic." Fyodor seemed even happier. He leaned closer to Dazai's face and gently kissed his neck.
Dazai's eyelashes fluttered slightly. He did not push him away. He felt the warmth of the person beside him. The hand holding Fyodor's tightened slightly.
The plane shuttled through the clouds. Dazai looked at the reflection of that figure through the glass. The outcome of this journey had been decided long ago.
Fyodor put on his cloak again and set foot on his homeland. Dazai stood beside him, quietly looking at the vast expanse of white snow.
"Let's go, Dazai-kun. I'll take you on a date." Fyodor smiled and took Dazai's hand.
Dazai's heart trembled. This was their first time holding hands outside. Even though he knew there were many people sent by Mori secretly watching them, on this land where no one knew them, he still held that person's hand back.
St. Petersburg's winter was submerged in a vast expanse of white snow. The biting cold was something Dazai, as a Japanese, had never experienced before. The cold wind blowing in his face was as cold as that person's heart, but the warmth in his hand was the only lingering heat in this snowy world.
Fyodor led Dazai by the hand as they walked along the streets of St. Petersburg. Dazai wore a cotton hat of the same style as Fyodor's. Snowflakes fell on their intertwined hands, as they exchanged their body warmth.
"Would you like some black tea, Dazai-kun?" Passing by a café, Fyodor tilted his head and asked the person beside him.
"You still love black tea as much as ever." Dazai looked somewhat unimpressed, but he took Fyodor's hand and stepped toward the café first.
Drinking a cup of hot black tea in the freezing weather was indeed a good choice. Dazai finally understood why this Russian man was so obsessed with black tea.
"A game of chess?" Dazai seemed uninterested in Fyodor's suggestion. He rested his chin on his hand and looked indifferently toward the door, where several of Mori's men were secretly watching them.
"The last game, Dazai-kun. This is a good opportunity. Perhaps we can have a proper farewell before deciding the winner." Fyodor was not upset and still maintained his smile as he looked at Dazai's profile.
Since he had put it that way, Dazai could not refuse his request. He sighed and withdrew his gaze from the door.
Their games had always ended in draws. But this game — perhaps because Dazai was distracted — although it lasted a long time, Fyodor, for once, managed to corner Dazai's pieces.
"I lose." Dazai looked toward the glass door for the umpteenth time. The snow seemed to have stopped, and the sky was slowly darkening.
"No, I lose, Dazai-kun." Fyodor stood up and also looked toward the glass door. "It's time for us to go."
Dazai did not speak. He followed Fyodor out of the café. They did not hold hands again, simply walking like ordinary pedestrians on the streets of St. Petersburg. Dazai's amber-colored eyes reflected the vast expanse of white snow and the lonely figure of that person in the wind. That figure seemed a little like himself, too.
Finally, their steps stopped by the Neva River. This frozen river cut through the heart of St. Petersburg. It was the first time Dazai had experienced the Russian winter so viscerally — the land that had bred this demon was even colder than he was.
It was only around four in the afternoon, but the sky in St. Petersburg had already shifted from grayish-white to deep blue. Dazai stared blankly at the frozen river and unconsciously said, "How terrible. A frozen river like this — completely impossible to drown myself in, isn't it?"
Fyodor quietly looked at the Cathedral of St. Isaac on the opposite bank. After a long silence, he opened his mouth. "Perhaps."
"Dazai-kun, you should know what to do." Fyodor stepped onto the ice of the Neva River. The wind blew his cloak behind him.
Dazai stood where he was and watched that lonely figure walk step by step toward the middle of the river. His phone rang, but he did not answer it. Instead, he pulled a gun from his coat.
Fyodor stopped in the middle of the Neva River and turned around. Their eyes met once again. Dazai felt as if he had returned to their first meeting in the Remains of the Dead.
This farce should have ended long ago. Dazai saw Fyodor give him a bow like a stage curtain call, then mouth the words to him: "Farewell, Dazai-kun."
Dazai's hand holding the gun trembled. But the bullet, which had somehow been released from the chamber, struck Fyodor directly in the heart.
Fyodor's white inner shirt was stained red with blood. He fell backward with his eyes closed. The thin layer of white snow on the ice mixed with the bright red blood — that moment, that was the only color in all of St. Petersburg.
Suddenly, it began to snow. Snowflakes slowly fell onto Fyodor's body. The Port Mafia members arranged by Mori stood by the riverbank as if wanting to retrieve Fyodor, but the ice of the Neva River was slowly cracking where he had fallen. No one dared to take a step forward.
"Farewell, Dostoevsky." Dazai's gun fell onto the ice. And that former enemy, the one with whom he could never play chess again, fell into the crevice of the broken ice and sank forever into this frozen Neva River.