Daybreak | F. Dostoyevsky

9 | Suwako no Hanabi

The day was bleeding into night.

Shades of blues and pinks and oranges, scattered across the skies, reflecting on the water all the way to the horizon; endless; all-knowing. She didn't believe in God, or religion, or any higher power, but if there was something she had to choose to believe in, it would be this: our world, the universe. Beautiful and simple. Ever-lasting, as long as we didn't fuck up too badly as a species. It was bound to happen at some point, but at least, it wasn't going to happen now. It wasn't only to happen in her lifetime, and naturally, thought Mayumi, she wouldn't care if it did, after that. She would have had her run.

They were on top of a concrete platform overlooking the shoes of Lake Suwa, waiting as the sun started to sink below the horizon. The show was due to start in more than two hours, but still, the area surrounding the lake was filled to the brim with people—people and stalls with foods and candies and festival games. It was heaven on earth.

It had been long since she had had the chance to visit a festival properly with someone. And certainly, it wasn't normal for her to visit festivals with a wanted criminal. But how could she complain? Fyodor did look quite like a pretty picture, leaning over the railings on his elbows, eyes facing forward and lost in thought. He looked almost...relaxed.

"Have you ever been to a hanabi festival before?" asked Mayumi. It might have been her first time in a while, but for him, it was possibly his first, and no matter what Fyodor had done, no matter how shitty a person he may have been, or was, she wanted him to enjoy this. Everyone deserves something nice once in a while, even shitty people. Like her.

He shook his head. "I never went out very often."

That was expected.

"Well," said Mayumi, "there's always a first. First love. First heartbreak. First firework festival."

But something in the way he never replied to her told her that he had only ever had one of those—and it wasn't love, or festivals.

So she asked him: "Are you hungry?"

It was such a mundane question. So mundane and yet, he froze, as if it was something he hadn't been asked in years. She hoped it wasn't.

"...No," Fyodor said carefully.

And that's why you're so goddamn thin, Mayumi wanted to say. But what came out was, "It doesn't matter. I am." So off they went, down the steps of the platform and disappearing into the crowds of people.

"There's too many people here," said Fyodor in disdain.

She had thought they would be able to blend in with the crowd. But then again, it was hard to not stand out when one person was tall and Slavic-looking and the other didn't really pass as Asian either. "That's fine. We can go to the edges of the stalls, then."

Everything smelled heavenly. In the distance, a floral scent, and not that of a soap, but more a field of flowers. Nearby, sweets and pastries. Mayumi wanted to try them all. It had been so long—too long—since that day she had visited that fox shrine in Kyoto with...them. Kitsune, in the shrine of kitsune.

Once Fyodor looked like he wanted to leave a little less, she went to the nearest stall she could see that smelled interesting, and bought its food. Two sticks of what looked like some kind of dough or pastry, filled with cheese and small, orange eggs—mentaiko.

She handed one to Fyodor. "Here. Try this."

He took it, but didn't do anything else, only tilting his head in a question.

"Try it first and I'll tell you."

So he did, and his face remained still; so still, that Mayumi wondered if he was going to be one of those foreigners who always hated foreign food. But those violet eyes were on hers and Fyodor said: "I like it."