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"Drum roll, please!"
Fyodor puts his fork down in order to gently tap his index fingers on the table's surface. The word's most nonchalant drum roll, probably.
"Very underwhelming but I'll take it," Nikolai sighs and hops to a seat on top of the table. "Beggars can't be choosers."
He holds this week's mail between his hands, ready to present it with utmost theatrics. Fyodor and their breakfast table are the only audience members of this performance, but a lack of enthusiasts has never stopped Nikolai before. Why should it now?
"Cutlery and gents, on today's mail collection we have; a phone bill that I do not feel like paying!"
On cue, Nikolai throws the first envelope behind him in a careless gesture. "Up next is a water bill that I do not feel like paying!"
Nikolai always says that. He always has his little breakfast hour revolution against the housing crisis. And then Fyodor picks the bills up from the floor and they pay them in time.
Still, it is entertaining.
"- membership for a gardening magazine that I have forgotten to cancel!"
Another envelope flies to the ceiling fan. Fyodor gets a cigarette out of his silver casing and plants it between his lips.
"Last time I checked we had no garden," he mutters with a raised eyebrow.
"Hence why I should cancel the membership. Keep up, dearest."
It's hard for Fyodor not to at least smile , lips curling around what Nikolai has dubbed 'the cancer stick'.
He tries the lighter once, but no flame jumps out.
God, he loathes it when this happens.
"And last but I certainly hope not least, we have..."
Fyodor shakes the lighter and tries again.
Still nothing.
Upon the sudden silence, he lifts his eyes to Nikolai, wondering why he had stopped talking.
Nikolai's thin eyebrows were furrowed, his whole face morphing into intense focus.
“This better not be an eviction notice,” Fyodor says.
It is supposed to be a joke, maybe. Not that Fyodor is an expert at those.
But Nikolai does not perk up in the slightest. Instead, he just turns the final envelope toward Fyodor, with a questioning frown.
“That's your middle name, isn't it?”
Ink as black as tar, spiraling in french calligraphy stares back at Fyodor.
To Fyodor Michalovich.
Dazai’s handwriting.
Fyodor has made it his mission not to forget it again.
On the next, absent-minded press of the lighter, he accidentally burns his fingers instead of the cigarette tip.
“Дрисня!”
He drops it on the table, his finger instinctively flying to his lips to soothe the burn by licking it.
Nikolai has yet to let go of the envelope, holding it with intense curiosity.
It takes tremendous effort for Fyodor not to jump across the table and snatch it out of his grasp.
Mine, this primal instinct screams.
My name, my letter, my past.
Mine, mine, mine.
Give it to me.
I need to consume it in every way possible.
“I thought you were rather secretive about your middle name,” Nikolai mutters.
“I am.”
With an outstretched hand, Fyodor requests the envelope. As he works toward opening it, Nikolai hops off the table and sits back down on the chair, appropriately.
His gaze is burning right into Fyodor’s hands, observing every movement with little to no subtlety.
Inside the envelope is a beautifully printed paper in invitation format.
Together with their loved ones,
Shuji and Chuuya
invite you to their wedding party
Saturday, September 4th of 2013
at 6 pm
Pavillon Dauphine, Paris
And as if that all was not enough to send Fyodor's jaw clenching, there is a handwritten note at the bottom of the printed invite;
Bring the actor, I want to meet him :)
The inks mismatch, to make sure that the reader's eye has no choice but to gravitate toward the note.
“He has to be joking.”
Fyodor did not exactly mean for that to be said out loud, but his mouth betrays him.
“What?” Nikolai leans over their breakfast, trying to catch a glimpse of the letter. “Who’s it from?”
Fyodor rests the invite on his lap, hiding it from view.
He has to be joking.
This is a joke, it cannot be anything else.
This is Dazai having a good laugh, and perhaps checking out a few social politics boxes so as to not feel guilty.
It is him abiding by the laws of Savoir Vivre for the first time in his life, and Fyodor just so happens to be his victim.
That is all this is.
He isn't truly inviting Fyodor to his wedding party.
Does not expect Fyodor to show up. No.
But for a second-
Just a second.
Let us say that he isn't joking.
That Dazai is serious about this.
That he wants Fyodor present on his wedding day.
Why?
And why on earth is Fyodor considering it?
Why?
why, why, why?
Fyodor had foolishly forgotten what dealing with unpredictability is like. How it feels to be unable to read through a person. An action. A motive.
A foggy glass, that does not clear up for long, no matter how many times you rub your sleeve against it.
And there is this moment. This brief, but significant moment, when Fyodor's skin starts crawling with the idea of going. Despite all of the alarms in his head ringing madly. Or perhaps because of it.
Perhaps curiosity has always been his fatal flaw.
“Tell me something,” he blinks up at Nikolai. Bright eyes stare at him back. “Do you have rehearsals this weekend?”
“Uh, no, no," he shakes his head after a beat. "I’m free. Why, what's the plan?”
Fyodor smiles at him, and Nikolai returns it without exactly knowing why.
“Have you ever been to France?”
**
A map has challenged Fyodor to a physical brawl, and it is winning by a long shot.
He's struggling, turning and tossing in the passenger seat of their car, trying to keep the map straight whilst the autumn wind is slapping it in all directions.
The flapping sounds of the paper mix with Fyodor's frustrated grunts, almost overpowering the radio's awful music program.
"I regret the moment I suggested we do this by car."
A hand comes into view from the top of the map, scrunching it down to Fyodor's lap. Nikolai glances at him from the driver's seat, barely containing a burst of laughter.
"Well, I'm having a wonderful time."
Fyodor takes a deep breath and starts folding the map away for now.
"Good. That's good."
The sunset's glow hits Nikolai's hair, lighting it perfectly gold. The baby hairs escaping from his updo tangle themselves into a halo of sorts, the sight of which could easily keep Fyodor busy for hours.
"Is this really where you spent your teens?" he asks, slightly frowning at the repeated landscape of the wineries. Miles and miles of leveled greenery, akin to a children's drawing of a farm.
"Basically."
"Middle of nowhere, no bars, no parties?" Nikolai's hand reaches out to grab his phone from the cupholder. "Not even proper signal, Christ."
A faint echo of a familiar drunken giggle ricochets within the halls of Fyodor's mind.
The smell of smoke and chlorine.
Blankets infested with white cat hair.
He blinks, after forgetting to, for a while.
"I did not mind. I was not much of a partygoer."
I found that getting high and drunk with little to no company was infinitely better.
"Oh, wow, what a shocker," Nikolai monotones. "Fyodor not being a fan of parties. Wow. That truly caught me off guard there, I can't believe it."
Fyodor's eyes slide to him again with a tiny smile.
"Your focus would be best used on driving instead of mocking me."
"You still haven't told me why we're taking this detour anyway," Nikolai glances between the road and Fyodor. "I have a hard time believing we're here for sightseeing in a town that you hate, with no sights to see."
Nikolai has started to unravel him. To know him.
How nice.
"I'm killing two birds with one stone here," Fyodor says. "One is showing you my hometown, of sorts."
It feels strange calling Meursault anything that may allude to emotional value.
"And two?"
Fyodor tilts his head.
"We can't go to a wedding empty-handed, can we?"
***
He shows Nikolai the river. From a distance. It's freezing this time of year.
He took him to the mini market. Philippe does not work there anymore, but the new guy is even easier to shoplift from.
He takes him to the park too.
It is still devoid of children but they have taken out the swings.
Not that Fyodor cares.
***
Amid the chaos and festivities, Fyodor finds himself wondering whether it’s possible to crash a wedding, despite having been invited.
It certainly feels like it.
He made sure he and Nikolai were strategically late to the event, so as not to attract any attention. It has been working wonders so far.
Fyodor has not even caught a glimpse of Dazai, let alone talked to him.
“You should have told me that the ‘former classmate’ getting married is Shuji fucking Tsushima,” Nikolai leans down to whisper anxiously. “I am severely underdressed for this.”
Fyodor blinks, taking in Nikolai’s burgundy three-piece suit without a shirt underneath the vest, not to mention the intricate efforts which he has put into braiding his waist-length hair, or his perfectly polished shoes.
“Dear,” Fyodor whispers back. “I don’t think you know the meaning of underdressed.”
“I choose to take that as a compliment.”
“It was.”
Nikolai playfully clings his champagne glass against Fyodor’s and takes a sip.
The venue is quite lovely if Fyodor is being honest with himself. A bit impersonal, and every minimalist's wet dream, but lovely nonetheless. On top of every linen-laid table, Fyodor can spot a bouquet of white lilies. They are everywhere, in fact, not just on the table. On large vases, on the lights, on the outside-
Lilies are fit for both funerals and weddings.
They symbolize rebirth.
Fyodor is not sure how he feels about that fact. It could be amusing, but maybe Fyodor is the object of that mockery.
Not on purpose, of course.
At least he hopes not.
“I wasn’t aware you even knew who these people are,” he turns to whisper to Nikolai.
“Are you kidding?" he laughs." First off, I’m pretty sure Nakahara was my queer awakening when I was 11.”
Fyodor's champagne nearly slips out of his hand.
“Eleven?" his whole body breaks to the side. "Where did you know him at eleven?”
“Fyodor, he was a child model. His face used to be everywhere," Nikolai drawls as he does whenever he discovers Fyodor is ignorant toward a very important piece of pop culture knowledge.
"I remember practically begging my dad to try every pair of shoes in Alouette just so that I could stare at the Nakahara’s poster above the register.”
Whatever sharp comment Fyodor was ready to unleash about not having an Alouette in Moscow (that he knew of) gets dissolved into an endeared smile.
“That’s actually adorable," he says and watches as Nikolai's grin broadens.
“Well my dad thought he was a girl, so everyone won something that day.”
Nikolai rarely ever talks about his parents. If at all.
Not that Fyodor is one to judge on that. This trip might have been one of the single instances in which Fyodor let anyone catch a glimpse of Meursault. Both figuratively and not.
Hence why he decides not to pry further and ruin that beautiful truce.
"And Tsushima?" Fyodor asks instead, the name tasting foreign in his mouth. "How do you know him?"
He's a genius in aesthetics, interestingly enough. I read up on him when he was doing that photoshoot for the theatre, and he became that week’s hyper-fixation," he says, and then; "Right after the card tricks phase.”
Fyodor takes a careful sip of his drink, schooling his face into a neutral expression.
“He must have been interesting.”
Unfortunately for him, Nikolai is in a talkative mood.
“Oh, you have no idea," he shakes his head. "He said he ran away from home at seventeen- no car, no money, nothing- and he graduated early before going to London."
Nikolai pauses, enthusiasm halting temporarily.
"Wait, you said you were classmates in high school. So you were there when he left, right?”
The drink trickles down Fyodor's throat rough as sandpaper.
"Sort of."
“Wicked..." Nikolai beams. "Why did he leave? Do you know? Was it a whole dramatic event in school, with gossip and rumors and everything?”
“No, not really," Fyodor mutters, eyes staring into the far-off end of the venue. "He just…left one day.”
“Very anti-climactic."
"Something to do with his father."
"So cliche."
"I apologize for my teen years not being soap oper-ish enough," Fyodor rolls his eyes.
"Apology not accepted. Look Fedya, I’m yawning.”
To prove his point, Nikolai lifts a hand to cover the exaggerated act.
A quiet smile slips onto Fyodor's lips, and he feels the need to turn and show it. That is when he notices the sudden influx of guests, closing in on the dining hall.
Loads of people. An unsettling amount of them. They're brushing paths with Fyodor on the way inside. They all strongly smell of expensive perfume.
Breathing becomes a bit challenging.
Fyodor turns to Nikolai abruptly
"Do you mind if I go out for a quick smoke?"
He more so asks out of courtesy and not for permission, but Nikolai nods enthusiastically anyway, assuring him that he will busy himself in the meantime.
The evening air hits Fyodor as soon as he steps out to the pavilion, sneaking in through every possible leeway of his suit and making him shiver all over.
Autumn in France is deplorable.
He gets the casing out of his jacket's pocket and pops it open with slightly shaking hands. He tells himself it's the result of pure tension, piled in him from the trip and the overtly crowded space.
He repeats the lie inside his head until he sounds convincing.
For a moment, there's silence.
And then;
"May I have one of those?"
Here's the issue.
Fyodor has an adamant rule of not handing out cigarettes to strangers. It gives them too much audacity to strike up a conversation right after, and Fyodor quite dislikes that.
But it just so happens that when he turns around Fyodor meets with the embodiment of a renaissance painting.
Silk white blouse against auburn hair that must shine ginger in proper lighting. A velvet choker, resting against ivory skin, with half a gemstone dangling at the center.
Sadly, Fyodor's first thought is;
I can see it.
I can see what enamored Dazai at fifteen, and what keeps him enamored today, even.
And it might not even have to do with Nakahara's looks entirely. It is more about the way his eyes blink up to Fyodor in earnest. Almost determination. A quiet and established; I don't particularly care who you are, but you have something I want, so hand it to me.
But somehow not impolite.
'Chuuya drives me mad.' Fyodor's memories echo.
It is just like Dazai to always chase after the most stubborn beings. The ones who want his company least of all. If only so he can prove that he can.
I can see it.
In slow, calculated movements, Fyodor reaches his hand out and gives Nakahara the cigarette he was about to smoke.
The man takes it with a satisfied smile.
"I'm supposed to be quitting, but you smoke Golds. I couldn't resist," he huffs, putting it on his lips. "Besides, it's my wedding day, so I get to do whatever I please, right?"
Fyodor reaches out and lights the cigarette for him.
"I certainly won't be stopping you."
At this, Nakahara's eyebrows furrow.
"Your accent..."
When he takes the first drag, Chuuya does so with his whole lungs. Unlike Dazai who used to half-ass the better part of his smokes.
He snaps his fingers, a memory having clicked into place.
"You're the Meursault kid."
Fyodor gets the sudden urge to be careful with his words. 'Meursault kid' could mean many things, from;
You're that one Russian Dazai has mentioned he went to school with.
To,
You're the one that cleaned his house after he left, whilst his father's dead body lay in the living room downstairs.
And for better or for worse, Fyodor does not know how honest Dazai has been about any of it. He does not know whether he is still such a skillful liar.
"I am," he nods. "Pleased to finally put a face to your name."
Not that I haven't seen you everywhere already.
That you haven't tainted every single inch of Dazai's life with your presence.
But you don't need to know that.
He puts his hand out for Fyodor to shake.
"Pleasure is all mine."
For a hand this small, Chuuya Nakahara sure knows how to give a bone-crushing handshake.
And the most comical part might be that he does it without aggression. If anything, Fyodor thinks it's an honest gesture. A pleased one.
How curious.
"Dazai has told me much about you."
There it is.
Much like his husband, Nakahara seems to be an expert in the art of accidental, emotional stabbing.
"All horrible things I hope."
"Horrible?"
"Good reputations are rarely ever interesting."
Nakahara smiles, puffing out a bit of smoke.
"I see."
I see why you got along.
I see why he talked about you.
I see why your picture is still on display in his office.
And among that simple exchange, there's an infinite amount of acceptance, that Fyodor could never bring himself to verbally admit.
He settles for the quiet sharing of a cigarette, and so does Nakahara.
Fyodor could grow to be fond of him if he was given the chance. If he had the patience for that. Or the will. The theory of it is strangely pleasant. Amusing, even.
Their comfortable bubble of quiet acknowledgment pops with the screeching sound of a microphone being plugged in.
Both Fyodor and Chuuya wince in response, as the staple 'Test? One-two, one-two?' echoes from inside.
"You've prepared speeches?" Fyodor asks, his face scrunched in shameless judgment.
Wedding dinner speeches are a bit too American for his liking. A bit too loud, and attention-calling, as if quiet vows on the altar are not all the declarations one would need.
Surprisingly, Nakahara has the same sower expression on him.
"I most certainly haven't."
Fyodor leans gently to peek inside the venue, where Dazai is perched on a small elevated wooden platform. There's a mic in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other.
It's undoubtedly not his first one.
This should be interesting.
"I believe you of all people should be inside for this," Fyodor says, not quite mocking, but not entirely genuinely either.
He watches as Nakahara gives a stressed sigh, drops his cigarette, and snuffs it out with the heel of his shoe, before going inside.
Fyodor mimics him and follows suit, reassuming his place next to Nikolai, where he can get both privacy and a good view of the show Dazai seems to be putting on.
"Good evening everyone," he greets.
He's dressed in all white, buttons done at least halfway, and sleeves folded to reveal his bandage-less forearms.
His words are not slurred in the slightest, but Fyodor has studied that man well enough to know when he's at least tipsy.
When Dazai drinks he talks a lot more with his hands. His head moves from side to side, absentmindedly, as if trying to shake the dizziness off. His smiles are broader, his laughs lighter.
Even from that distance, Fyodor can spot all said traits, unmistakably.
The sight has a nostalgic hint to it. Almost comforting.
"During the planning of this wedding, Chuuya and I decided we would divide the planning tasks equally- you know, as adults do...by playing Rock, Paper, Scissors."
There's a pause, and the crowd hums a laugh, playing right into Dazai's hand. He's enjoying himself Fyodor can tell.
A show indeed.
"Everyone who knows me in the slightest, knows I rig just about every Rock Paper Scissors game I play- don't ask how- I just do."
Fyodor knows how.
It has too little to do with mind reading or manipulation and everything to do with math. Statistics and probabilities
He remembers when Dazai explained it to him, all of six years ago. Fyodor thought the tactic was genius and utterly useless.
But Dazai is exactly the type of person who would think himself to exhaustion just because he hates to lose.
"Chuuya knows this too, believe me, he does," Dazai points enthusiastically. "It's just that he hates admitting defeat almost as much as I do. He's the only person that keeps playing the game with me."
Dazai pauses for a second, suppressing a smile.
"On one of the rounds that ended up in a truce, we agreed that each of us gets to do one corny thing during our wedding day. So this is my thing."
Dazai lifts an index and points at his chest with a huge smile.
"Can't get cornier than this, right? But about five minutes ago, I realized I have no idea how to give a public speech."
The crowd laughs, much louder this time, and Dazai waves his hand to shush them gently.
"No, seriously I’m not being coy. I had to google 'wedding speech structure' like an imbecile- oh you see, now my husband is shaking his head."
Indeed, Nakahara could be seen shaking his head in mute laughter, looking down at his lap, as if that would stop Dazai from seeing and using it as an ego boost.
"No time for regrets, dear , you're trapped now," Dazai muses pointing at his engagement necklace.
Fyodor feels Nikolai lean in close.
"Can I please do something equally mortifying for your birthday?"
"I will shoot you mid-speech."
Somehow Nikolai laughs. Genuinely so. If it weren't for the dim atmospheric lighting of the room, Fyodor would see blush dusting his cheeks.
"Love you too."
Fyodor stays quiet.
He has yet to say it back. Even once.
And Nikolai may say it does not matter if Fyodor says it and that he doesn't expect him to, really, but that can't be true. Not entirely.
Nothing in Nikolai's expression ever betrays him, when he gets nothing but silence. His shoulders don't shag in disappointment. His warm smile does not drop. He never looks away.
That makes Fyodor feel worse somehow. Knowing that Nikolai hides it impeccably.
"Anyway," Dazai breathes in to continue. "Google advised me that a story about our first meeting is usually a good way to break the ice, so:"
He lifts his hand, almost as though he's a director, setting an imaginary scene.
"I was fifteen and in Paris. I had barely just moved there with my late father, and I hated everything," he pauses, tilting his head. "Or mostly everything. On the same street as my apartment there was an arcade, and I had made it my life’s mission to get the highest score on Street Fighter. And I did," Dazai punctuates, to make sure he gets that credit.
"I did get the highest score, but every two days when I visited the arcade again, I had been outplayed by user RED. Dreadful guy, let me tell you," he flicks his hand, and this time Nikolai laughs too, from next to Fyodor.
"So one day while I’m playing, I feel this persistent tap on my shoulder. Nagging me. I turn around and there’s this short angry ginger looking back at me, demanding that I stop outscoring him."
Dazai sits there, twirling the mic by the wire, with his mouth left hanging open as if hearing the story for the first time himself.
"Now, listen…I’m not a very spiritual person, alright? I’ve never been."
His tone drops a couple of notches, and the theatrics evaporate into thin air as Dazai's gaze lifts to look at a vague point in the back of the room.
Where Fyodor stands.
"But at that moment, I got this insane sense of deja vu. My brain started screaming at me ‘you’ve done this again, you have met before!'"
The room is dead silent, hanging from Dazai's lips for dear life.
"We hadn’t of course , that was all me. My head. Those of you who believe in the whole 'alternate realities' ordeal are getting giddy, I'm sure."
He breathes out and there's a huff of a laugh in there, somewhere. Misplaced, and strained.
"And you know maybe you’re right, I’ll give you that. Maybe Chuuya and I have met before."
He swallows and readjusts the mic in his hands.
"My long overdue point of this awful speech is that... I don’t know how our other realities or lifetimes might have gone, but I am excited to spend this one with you.”
The smile that appears on his face then is childlike, for a lack of a better word. It's tight, and thin, and makes him seem several years younger.
The claps and cheers fade off into a soft ringing in Fyodor's ears, not properly registering.
With an almost reluctant, twitching motion, he moves his hand to brush across the back of Nikolai's own.
Nikolai all but jumps in place, looking down at the beg for contact, and laces his fingers with Fyodor's smoothly, without questioning.
They look ahead and say nothing.
***
“Beautiful speech.”
Dazai's hand freezes over the buffet, momentarily, before he turns around fully, to face Fyodor.
They both try their very best to smile, in a manner that could be described as casual, or even soft, and both fail miserably.
“You think so?" Dazai asks. "I lied about the structure thing, I made this whole thing up on the spot.”
“I know.”
Dazai looks down. He might be smiling. And might not be wanting to.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come," he says, and it remains a mystery to Fyodor how he can make a sentence like that not sound pathetic.
“Well, you did invite me," he nods somewhere in the crowd. "And Kolya.”
Dazai's face breaks into a real smile.
"Right, he and I met when he tried to cut my wedding cake before me."
Fyodor stills.
"Did he really?"
"Oh yes, and I think the best part is that it wasn't an honest mistake. He told me we were taking ' too long', and should 'get to it, already' ."
Fyodor puts a hand over his eyes, making a serious effort not to break out a laugh, and instead look apologetic.
"Don't worry, I like him plenty," Dazai nudges at him.
"Your opinion is not necessary."
"Of course, but I always adore handing it out anyway."
A pause of silence.
Fyodor gives him a flat look.
Dazai's smile curls.
Nothing has changed.
Everything has.
“Frankly, that invitation did cut some years off my lifespan,” Fyodor admits. He's not sure why.
“But?”
“But," he sighs in defeat. "I thought your wedding might not be an absolute horror to endure. And I got to show Nikolai around Meursault while in search of your gift.”
Dazai's smug expression shatters and is briefly replaced by mild surprise.
“You brought a gift?”
He shakes his head.
“Don’t get your hopes up, it’s nothing expensive.”
“Another origami?" Dazai suggests. "I'd like that. The old one is falling victim to decay, I believe.”
He does that thing again.
That thing where he says something utterly normal and appropriate on the surface, but knows it's far from that.
Suddenly it's June of 2007 again. They're in Fyodor's living room while the sun is setting behind the trees outside, and Fyodor is holding a paper-made crane behind his back, rigid with nerves.
For the first time since they've known each other, Fyodor takes the bait.
“Why did you keep that?”
Dazai does not hesitate.
“It is important to me."
“Why.”
It's more of a demand rather than a question, but Dazai does not seem to mind.
“All reminders of the past are important to me," he says. "Gifts, pictures, graves. I don’t have anything else to remind me of my existence in Meursault besides that Origami.”
Fyodor's eyes dart away,
“One would think you’d wanna forget it.”
And me.
Dazai turns to the buffet again, grabbing what he initially wanted when Fyodor interrupted him.
"I still have a knack for liking things I should not."
**
It's not long after that when Fyodor and Nikolai leave.
They take the night train back to London.
Nikolai sleeps through the entirety of the journey.
Fyodor spends his time identifying all the landscapes from Dazai's first album, as they pass out the window.
Dazai stares at the envelope as though it has offended him, somehow.
Which is ridicoulous.
All this envelope is, is the last remaining gift of the large pile.
Dazai has been looking at it for a laughable amount of time, before Chuuya even went in for a shower and yet he has not gotten any closer to actually opening it.
It’s Fyodor’s gift, that much he knows. What he most obviously does not know, is what’s inside.
Elise drags herself onto her comforter, turning around a few times before settling into a sleeping position.
She looks at Dazai almost in judgment.
Open it.
Dazai is stuck in this stupid predicament of desperately wanting to know the contents of the envelope, but simultaneously dreading it.
He has so far constructed just about a million scenarios, as per usual.
His first thought was that it might be a legal background check on Chuuya.
A gift that dances on the borders of illegality and invasion of privacy feels very Fyodor, in nature. A piece of; Here you go, looks like the person you chose is actually exactly who they say they are! Ain't that comforting?
-but if it were that, Fyodor would have stuck around to see Dazai's reaction to it.
When Dazai lifted the envelope under the light of his lamp, he saw a handful of papers inside.
Pages ripped out of a book, maybe?
No. The writing on them looked hand-made.
A letter?
No. The writings all seem different.
Dazai all but bangs his head on the table. Finding out is so simple and yet his hands cannot seem to obey his wishes and rip the envelope open. They're stuck at the opening, twitching and refusing to pull.
He registers the sound of running water coming to a stop and realizes Chuuya will be out of the bathroom soon, with a lot of questions about why Dazai is not done with the gifts yet.
Think, think, overthink.
A music sheet. A crayon drawing of an obscene gesture. A restraining order. A-
"This is stupid," Dazai shakes his head and forcefully flicks his hand, ripping up the top of the orange envelope.
His hand digs in and grabs all the contents, pulling them out on his knee.
And oh.
A bloodstained, crumpled page, ripped out of a school notebook is laying on Dazai's lap.
Dear Hatrack,
I’ve finally come to the conclusion that your address must have changed since all of my previous letters have been returned unopened. Either that or you send them back because you hate me.
Dazai's own handwriting stares back at him, burning the pads of his fingers where they touch the page.
He flips to the next page.
Another letter to Chuuya.
And another.
And another.
Months worth of letters Dazai sat and wrote in his room in Meursault as a sixteen-year-old, which Chuuya never got.
Letters that were scattered all over the floor, and stepped on by Elise, the night of Mori's murder, leaving bloody pawprints all over.
Dazai's throat is dry.
He has not blinked in a while.
His hands continue flipping through the pages, vaguely reading the top lines, until he reaches a page that is not bloody, crumpled, or written by him.
Fyodor's handwriting has always been far neater. The epitome of calligraphy. Every letter written out with nigh parental care.
Dazai,
it starts. No terms of endearment, not even jokingly. Predictable.
Given that your invite came in a bit belatedly, as well as the fact that I have never met your spouse, I hope you understand how hard it was to buy you a gift.
Yet again.
Even so, I am nothing if not resourceful and so I thought I could repackage something of yours, that both you and Nakahara might find, dare I say sentimental.
As for how I got it, you'd be surprised at how much a tiny police department is willing to hand over to you if you say you're a London reporter.
Some Meursault officers might be expecting an article on the mysterious and unsolved death of Doctor Mori Ogai, and I almost feel bad at their inevitable disappointment.
It took me a whole day of travels to get my hands on these, therefore you must love the gift. I’m not giving you a choice.
I sincerely hope that you two are forever as happy as you were today.
And I plead with you not to invite me anywhere again. Let Meursault rot. And me as well.
I mean that with the greatest of compliments.
Sincerely,
-Saint.