Why had Dostoevsky allowed himself to be captured, only to leave shortly thereafter?

Laying on the living room couch, Dazai searched his mind for an answer only to come up with nothing.

The whole thing just made no sense.

He'd already searched through all of the official documents Ango kept in a small safe by his desk, to see if there were any missing, but all the documents were there and nothing appeared to have been tampered with or touched.

It hadn't even been that hard to break into. He just had to look for which letters had the most prominent fingerprints on the safe. That had left the letters 'i,' 'l,' 'n,' 'p' and 'u.'

Unscrambled it was lupin.

Before opening it, Dazai had almost wondered if it was some kind of joke or even a trick.

In the end, it was not, as much as he willed it to be so.

He wanted so badly to just hate that bastard. He didn't want to think of him as someone who had ever cared. He didn't want to think of him as someone who could still care.

Pulling himself back to the present, Dazai forced himself to continue to ponder over his dilemma. He ran a stressed hand through his hair.

What was Dostoevsky's play?

Still, nothing came to mind.

Why couldn't he just figure this out? Situations like this one used to come easily to him. It'd been like child's play.

Ever since Meursault, his mind had been a torrent of chaos and he found it near impossible to focus like he used to because what if he messed up again?

What if he failed?

One wrong move and everything that he had taken so long to build up could shatter.

And yet, this fear was in itself also causing all of his mistakes. Chuuya's near death, Atsushi's death, Akutagawa's death, and Dostoevsky's escape.

It was all a goddamn paradox.

Logically, he knew that such outcomes meant that he had to collect himself and stop letting his long-dormant emotions continue to surface, as they only clouded his judgment. However, that was easier said than done after having suppressed them for so long.

"Fuck," Dazai sighed, irritation setting his nerves on fire.

From the kitchen, an insufferable person let out a laugh.

"Careful, you're beginning to sound like me."

Dazai's nose crinkled in mock disgust.

"Don't insult me. No one could ever sound as inarticulate as you."

"Hey," Chuuya protested, "I'm hardly inarticulate. But you… well, you might be as good as illiterate. I mean your writing... that shit is like its own fucking language. I can only decipher it because I've known you for so goddamn long, asshole."

Dazai rolled his eyes.

"My handwriting is perfectly fine actually. I just write like that because I know it annoys you."

"Oh, just fuck off you asshole. That's a goddamn lie and we both know it. If it's not, then I swear to fuck I'll beat the everliving shit out of you," Chuuya's brow furrowed in faux annoyance, as he finally took a seat on the couch, after roughly shoving Dazai's legs off to make room for himself.

"So violent," Dazai mocked but nevertheless readjusted his position so that he was now sitting up just the same as Chuuya.

"So, what're you thinking about?"

Dazai sighed, the teasing air finally transitioning into something more serious.

"There had to be a reason that Dostoevsky allowed himself to be captured, but I can't figure it out," Dazai's eyes fell to his knees, "and it's just… I should be able to figure this out, Chuuya. Why am I panicking? Why can't I think? It's never been like this until recently and it's just... well, to be honest, it's kind of freaking me out. I keep making mistakes and who knows how many it'll take until I get everyone else I care about killed? How long will it take until…" Dazai trailed off, pausing for a moment to regather his thoughts. "I can't keep living like this. I want to go back to how it was. I mean, before Meursault, I was fine! Perfectly fine! But then, you almost died… and I… I just…"

A comforting hand settled upon Dazai's shoulder, just as he raised his eyes to meet Chuuya's own.

"Dazai, it's not your fault. It's only human to get overwhelmed with the shit circumstances life gave you. Life's just catching up to you is all. That's natural."

Dazai's brow furrowed and he shook his head.

"No, Chuuya I should be better. I should be better than this. I should be able to get into Dostoevsky's head. I should be able to know what he's thinking. I should be able to do all this and I can't! I fucking can't. I just… what's wrong with me?"

Chuuya's face fell.

"Dazai, nothing's wrong with you."

"It shouldn't… things shouldn't be like this," Dazai's voice cracked, a raw sound that only a select few had ever been privy to.

Worried eyes studied his own.

"I'm sorry. I'm being dramatic. We should just-"

"Dazai," Chuuya stopped him, "it's okay, alright? It's okay."

Silence filled the air for a few moments before Dazai finally spoke, his voice unusually soft.

"Thanks."

"Course."

The room was dimly lit. The feeling of Chuuya's hand on his shoulder, his thumb subconsciously moving back and forth, made Dazai feel as though he were within the hearth of a crackling fire.

Everything felt gentle. Everything felt safe.

Chuuya's eyes were looking into his own, his iridescent azure gaze reminding Dazai of the calming blue waves that he used to watch back when he lived on the Port in that old shipping container.

Whenever things had been hard or stressful, he'd always found himself at the railings staring off into the sea and wondering if perhaps on the other side of that ocean someone was staring back at him. Someone whose life wasn't filled with killing. Someone whose life didn't feel like an endless struggle.

The calming environment had always alleviated such stress. It made him feel safe. Protected even.

And now Chuuya…

Wait.

The Port!

Dazai's previous thoughts abandoned him as the dawning realization of what Dostoevsky had done suddenly filled his mind.

He sprung to his feet, startling Chuuya next to him and breaking the trance of whatever that moment could've been.

"What is it?"

Dazai didn't answer. Instead, he rushed into the room that Ango had lent him.

A cold feeling was starting to crawl its way up from his stomach. How could he have been so thoughtless? So stupid?

It was gone.

It was actually gone.

"He found it," Dazai finally said.

"The fuck's that mean?"

"Dostoevsky. He took my book. Chuuya, it'll give him the location of The Book. I didn't think he'd figure something like that out. I even took precautions with the decoy! But he figured it out. He knows. He fucking knows! Dammit!" Dazai took off running for the door, but Chuuya grabbed ahold of his arm before he could, effectively stopping him.

"Dazai. We'll get him, alright? I don't entirely understand what's going on here, but you seem to know where he'll end up, so let's just go about this smartly, alright? We need a plan and I need to know what the fuck is going on. Then, that fucker will pay for what he did. I promise we'll make sure of it."

Forcing his tensed muscles to relax, Dazai allowed Chuuya to drag him back over to the couch, before sitting down once more.

"Alright," Dazai acquiesced. "I'll tell you everything but then, we are going to rip that motherfucker to shreds."

19 Years Prior

The streets of St. Petersburg were cold and unforgiving. That was one of the things that Fyodor had learned rather quickly.

It had been a year since the deaths of his parents. Quickly, the small boy had learned the cruel realities of the real world past his father's hungry fists and hateful words, as he was forced to beg for rubles and sleep in dirty cardboard boxes hidden away in tenebrous alleyways.

Life had become agony. An agony that no seven-year-old should ever have to experience.

And yet, even though he couldn't even stand to even look at his hands anymore, Fyodor wanted to live. He didn't want to let go.

So he didn't.

Just barely, the boy managed to somehow scrap by that first year despite the voices in his head echoing his mother's screams, as they told him what he was. They called him a monster. A murderer. Unlovable.

However, as time continued to go by, Fyodor found his small body shivering with cold, his skin pulled tightly up against his bones, and his legs aching so much that he couldn't bare to stand any longer.

The year he'd survived alone had been out of sheer luck. Such a thing never lasted forever.

So now, curled up in some tiny cardboard box that barely protected him from the terrible Russian winds with blue-tinged hands and feet, Fyodor began to cry.

The tears were entirely silent as they made their way down his face.

Funny, his father had taught him how to do that.

As much as he had hated that man, Fyodor couldn't help but miss him sometimes. While the man had been nothing short of hotheaded and abusive, he still had those moments when he'd act like a real father. Perhaps, given time those moments could've turned into an eternity.

Or maybe that wasn't quite it.

Maybe his father had been kind, but Fyodor had just been too bad of a son to recognize it. Maybe he deserved all of those blows that his father had dealt to him before his curse. Maybe he deserved all of the yelling and anger. Maybe he deserved the cigarette burns that still remained etched into his skin. Maybe it all really had been his fault.

Yeah… that was exactly right. His father had loved him. He'd just been trying to mold him into a good child. All of the abuse had just been out of love.

And he'd returned his father's love by killing him.

Perhaps he really should die here and allow himself to drift away with the tempest that whistled through the bleak city streets.

Fyodor closed his eyes. His parent's faces drifted through his mind's eye. Smiles were painting their faces, looks that had been foreign to both of them in life.

However, just before Fyodor was able to drift away entirely, he felt a hand grab his shoulder, shaking him harshly.

"Hey, kid? You alright?"

Blinking his eyes open, Fyodor was shocked to see a boy who couldn't be any older than sixteen hovering over him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Instead, the words that attempted to leave only seemed to scrape against his throat like knives against metal, making him wince.

"Aleksey!" The boy's voice rang out, seeming to realize his inability to speak, as he summoned another boy to his side. They seemed similar in age. "Go back and tell the others. I'll carry him. Get some blankets, food, and water ready."

Aleksey nodded before turning and sprinting away from the scene.

Exhaustion weighed down on Fyodor's young body, but something within him tensed up a bit at something the boy had said. Except as soon as the reason crossed his mind it disappeared. What had made him tense like that? What was he forgetting?

He never forgot things.

It was something that his father had hated because it meant that he'd been able to beat him at most things despite being so young. Chess, Russian Draughts, Durak. Eventually, he'd just started losing on purpose to try and make his father happy. However, despite the losses not ending in a beating, they still only ever ended with gloating and degradation.

With his father, there was no winning.

Perhaps his thoughts from earlier had been wrong...

None of that mattered now though, he supposed. His father was dead and he was here, cold surrounding him and strange boys trying to take him somewhere.

Wait…

They were trying to take him somewhere.

Panic surged through his small body, as images of death flitted through his mind.

Pictures of his father's body forever strewn across the floor and his mother slumped over with unseeing eyes.

That was what he had been forgetting.

They couldn't touch him.

"No…" Fyodor finally managed to get out, doing his best to squirm away from the boy. However, his message was lost in translation as the boy seemed to think that Fyodor was scared of him rather than the truth of Fyodor being terrified of himself.

Crouching down, the boy held out his hands as if to show he wasn't a threat.

"It's alright," the boy said, his voice soft, "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

Fyodor tried to say something. Anything. He had to get away. He would kill this boy and then Aleksey would come back and then everyone would know what a monster he was. Everyone would know of his terrible curse. He didn't want that. He couldn't have that.

Why couldn't he just be normal? Why couldn't he just be like everyone else? He had never asked for this. He didn't want to kill people. Who would? He wanted to be free from this hell.

Yet, there was nothing that he could do as the boy continued to approach, still keeping his non-threatening stance to assure Fyodor that he wasn't a threat.

If only he knew…

"My name's Mikhail," the boy said, his voice light and airy, "what's yours?"

Mikhail… that had been his father's name.

Was this some kind of cruel joke?

Seeming to notice that he had said something wrong, Mikhail looked almost guilty.

"I mean you don't have to tell me your name if you don't want to, but let's just get you somewhere warmer alright?"

Why was he being so nice?

Even before his curse, Fyodor never met a person so trusting and kind. Why wouldn't he just go away? Just who exactly was he?

Again, Fyodor tried to prevent Mikhail's approach, but it was fruitless, as Mikhail's hands reached for him and pulled him upon his back.

Fyodor froze. He waited for Mikhail to collapse. He waited for the death that was sure to come. He waited for the crushing weight of his curse to activate.

Shockingly, none of that happened.

Instead, Mikhail just secured Fyodor's position on his back before heading out and telling him all about the place he was taking him to, in order to fill the emptiness that surrounded them as he walked.

"...it's this old factory we found, pretty cool right? Aleksey and Apollon insisted that we call it The Petrashevsky Circle because well it's shaped like a circle and I guess I'm technically the one who found it. My last name's Petrashevsky. I mean, I think it's a little dumb because I don't need it to be named after me, but it just kind of stuck, you know? Anyway, it's really nice. You'll love it! It's much nicer than these alleyways at least. I would know. I used to live on the streets too, you know? But now, well you'll see…"

It had been so long since he'd had contact with another human being and the feeling finally allowed him to relax just a little bit.

Perhaps things would finally be okay or at least a little bit better than they had been before.

He still didn't think his curse had been lifted and was too scared to try and find out. For now, he'd just consider Mikhail the exception.

It was nice knowing that there was a person with whom he didn't have to be so afraid.

"My name's Fyodor," he finally managed to breathe out.

Mikhail stopped, and adrenaline rushed through Fyodor's veins, suddenly terrified that he'd said something wrong.

But Mikhail did not drop him. He did not leave him behind, instead, he just continued walking as though nothing had happened.

"Fyodor… I like it. That was my little brother's name, he would've been your age if…" Mikhail trailed off, disappearing into his thoughts.

Was. If.

"I'm sorry," Fyodor managed to say after a few attempts, but Mikhail just shook his head.

"Don't apologize, it's not your fault. I shouldn't have even mentioned it. You must be tired though, so if you want to go to sleep that's alright. We're almost there and when you wake up I'll show you around, okay?"

For the first time in his life, Fyodor felt like things might actually end up being okay. So he finally allowed himself to close his eyes.

"Don't... don't let them touch me..." Fyodor mumbled before finally drifting off into unconsciousness, feeling safe for perhaps the very first time in his life.