She did not understand how it could have happened. Mayumi Shimei did not at all understand how Osamu Dazai could have found out about her working with Fyodor. She had covered her tracks well, she knew she did. And yet. And yet.
And yet there they were. And yet there it was.
He knew.
Dazai fucking knew.
By the time she got back to her apartment, she was fuming with this knowledge. This, knowledge of Dazai's discovery of her little illicit collaboration.
Yes, there was the festival, and yes, there was the explosion, and all its aftermath.
But apart from that, things had been going remarkably fine. For once in her life.
And fucking Dazai of course had to fucking ruin it.
The walk home in itself had been a dark and oppressive one. It had been truly, and not just figuratively, dark, yes. Night had fallen, and it had been late, by the time the members of the Armed Detective Agency had finished their little dinner together. Mayumi was barely holding it together by then; it had taken so much of her energy just to keep a straight face and pretend like nothing had been wrong.
Then: the walk home.
She had put on her suede leather jacket in the evening chill, and slung her messenger bag across her chest. Bid her good-byes to her colleagues, but trying her best to direct it mostly at the ones she still liked then, which did not include Osamu Dazai. And so they parted.
Mayumi had the feeling of a black cloud looming over her head. Or perhaps an executioner's axe, ready to fall at any moment. It was a crazy thing, that anxiety. Like being watched all the time, even if it was not likely at that particular moment.
And the relief: that relief when the familiar door of her familiar apartment finally came into view.
"God," she muttered, and shoved her key into the lock—
—only to find that the door was already open.
Mayumi's hand immediately went to the pistol hidden inside her jacket. It was an old habit, even if she had a potent ability, but a voice from the inside of the apartment stopped her before she could pull the weapon out.
"It's me."
Mayumi pulled open the door, letting in the silver sliver of moonlight from the dark outside and casting an almost mythic glow over her small dining table and the man sitting on the chair next to it, long dark hair askew and hanging over his face like a defeated pet.
"Dostoyevsky," she said, feeling a light wind on her back as she pushed the door the the apartment close behind her.
"Don't," he said when she reached to switch on the lights.
"Why?"
"All cats," he said, "are grey in the dark."
The suggestive tone of the proverb threw her off, and Mayumi could feel herself frowning as walked to the dining table and draped her jacket over the chair opposite to Fyodor's.
Why was he there?
"Feeling humorous, are we?" said Mayumi, still standing, and looking down on the Russian. He was draped over the chair, much like a ragdoll now, one arm slung over its back, head tipped back and eyes closed.
"No," replied Fyodor. "Not at all."
"Dazai knows."
"Dazai guesses."
"There is not much of a difference, is there?"
"No," he said. "There is a league of difference. Osamu Dazai cannot know what he cannot prove."
Mayumi stood over his relaxed form—overtly relaxed, like how she had never seen him before, and looked down at those deep, dark violet eyes of his.
A moment passed.
Then two.
Then three.
The silence stretched between them, and suddenly, the distance between them, which was in fact less than a meter, seemed to grow and grow and grow, until it became miles, and leagues, and the voids between oceans and continents, and Fyodor Dostoyevsky felt, deep within the long-thought nonexistent cavities of his chest, a feeling of intense sorrow. That they were here in this moment, and they would never be here again. It would be gone, and it would be past, and he would never be here, in this exact position, looking up in this exact same way at Mayumi Shimei, ever again in his life.
Carefully, he reached out a pale hand, and gently grasped it around Mayumi's wrist.
The tug was a light one. The lingering touch of a moth's legs on human skin.
The fall was an explosion.
His lips met hers and god—they were warm, so warm. When Mayumi pulled back, ever so slightly, he felt like falling through a layer of ice covering a lake, but then he looked into her eyes, and saw the question in them, and nodded, and they crashed into each other with the force of a wave in a stormy sea against the sharpest rocks of a cliff. She straddled him, grinding and feeling his body respond to hers as he exhaled, sharply, at the force of the action. Fyodor's tongue grazed hers and he pulled her tight against him, as if this was the last time he would never hold anyone.
His hands went to the hems of her jacket, her turtleneck, unclothing her in a few staggered, shaky motions. Then: the clasp of her bra—
"Wait," said Mayumi, her hand on his arm. She angled her neck to the half-open door of her bedroom. "Why don't we take this somewhere else?"
Fyodor could barely think, could barely speak, because she took him by the hand and took him, in the span of seconds to this other place. Mayumi pushed him onto the bed and he fell, easily, willingly. Above him, she painstakingly unbuttoned his crisp white shirt. Off it went. Then: the singular button and the zipper of his dark pants. They did not need to say anything. Their bodies said it all. He felt like an animal, a rapid dog, felt himself cracked open and boiled down to the very base instincts that drove us all, this insane lust that he could not control.
Mayumi held him in her hand and slowly, slowly pressed her tongue against the tip. He lurched, and she pressed a calming hand on his stomach.
"Relax," she whispered.
It rained, that night, until earliest hours of the morning, when their bodies were pressed against one another, skin to skin, keeping warm under the thick duvet.
"I'm yours," Fyodor had said, just moments before, his forehead against hers and eyes tightly shut as if afraid, beyond anything.
"Yes," Mayumi had replied.
"You are mine, Dostoyevsky.
.
.
.
All mine."
YOU ARE READING
Daybreak | F. Dostoyevsky
Fanfiction❝ Can the killer in me tame the fire in you? ❞ Fyodor could plan for a lot of things. But he could have never planned for this. He could have never planned for her. And Mayumi Shimei? Mayumi Shimei just wanted to watch him crash and burn. At least...
