ceratomoderato
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Summary
At strange hours deep in the night, the most beautiful cello song fills the old bridge theatre.
Nobody knows where this sound comes from, or who produces it. Nobody except for Dazai Osamu.
As the theatre is rumoured to be haunted by the ghost of the deceased terrorist Dostoyesky, will he be the world’s only defence?
- Or- Dazai is the only one who knows Fyodor is not dead, and they make music together (and also fall in love)
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Summary
"How much longer do you intend to live like this?"
"How?"
"I'm not in the mood for jokes, Dazai."
"I don't understand what you mean. I'm living the best version of life, restricting human contact to the absolute minimum for which I still get paid. I can keep going like this for a long time. You return from them and I'm already suffocating."Dazai remains true to form: a young, jaded intellectual born into a powerful political family, stifled by a name and status he can no longer bear.
Fyodor is the ruthless, enigmatic outsider, thriving in his current role as... an efficient instrument of the Japanese law.
Together, they forge a dark pact, sealing it with blood—and Dazai, with additional curses.
Back then, he didn't like pain yet. Or perhaps that, too, was the writer's lie, one of many...
Series
- Part 1 of Madness
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Summary
Fyodors mind utterly blanked, the only thought going through his head was- WHAT?!?! In hindsight, it was kinda obvious, but right now he’s a bit hung up on the fact Dazai, is the BOOK!
Or
Fyodor finds out Dazai is the book and kidnaps him. yay. -
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Summary
Fyodor is eight, when he meets Dazai. He’s at a chess tournament and Dazai is the only one who has made it worth it. Made it interesting. He’s the only one who is playing at the same level as Fyodor. Fyodor loves chess but he hasn’t felt challenged in what seems like a long time. Not until Dazai, that is.
They’re in the final game. Dazai and Fyodor are two children lost in a world that has nothing to do with anyone but them. Dazai has one of his eyes covered with a bandage. His hair is almost but exactly not the same color as Fyodor’s. He plays aggressively and recklessly and so carefully measured Fyodor feels it all the way to his toes, swinging in their too tight shoes, unable to touch the ground.
They draw.
“I’m Dazai.” Dazai says afterward. Like Fyodor, English is slightly stilted on Dazai’s tongue, rounded awkwardly around different syllables than it should be.
“I’m Fyodor.” Fyodor responds. Dazai mouths Fyodor’s name to himself. “It’s Russian.” Fyodor explains quietly, used to other children not being able to say his name, teasing him.
“Fyodor.” Dazai repeats. “You’re good at chess.” He adds bluntly.
Fyodor feels something stronger than happiness, quiet and content, low in his soul.
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Summary
They called this a recovery ward. Fyodor called it purgatory. It was all very... orderly.
He didn’t mind the order. What unnerved him was the silence. And worse than silence, the absence of interesting company.
Until the morning the new patient arrived.
He’d seen his fair share of broken things in this place. But none of them had a name that made the staff lower their voices. Dazai Osamu.