As Dazai told him of the capabilities that The Book held, Chuuya found himself stricken into a rare bout of silence.

The rumors had been true.

The Book really could rewrite reality. At least in a sense. Of course, there were still rules. Whatever someone wrote in it had to be consistent in terms of narrative. A whole side even had to be filled with writing in order to take effect.

If Dostoevsky got his hands on something so powerful, who knew what he would do? He said he wanted to eradicate the world of ability users, but what else? Was there anything he wasn't saying? That he was leaving out?

Doing his best to process the rather overwhelming information that had just been dumped on him, Chuuya ran a stressed hand through his hair.

"Okay… okay. This is fine. This is so totally fine. Everything is just great," Chuuya did his best to calm himself to no avail, "fuck, Dazai! Why the fuck would you leave a goddamn fucking map to a goddamn fucking murder book? We're all gonna die. We're all gonna fucking die! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!"

"Calm down. I don't know, okay? I wrote it back when I was still in the Port Mafia. I was young and dramatic. I mean, you know what I was like. I wanted to be all cool, dark, and mysterious, so I wrote general directions to The Book in The Complete Guide to Suicide, because I didn't think anyone would ever think that the directions to The Book could be in it. I guess I thought it was funny that the directions were right under everyone's noses," at the feral look in Chuuya's eyes, Dazai caught himself, "but of course, I don't think it's funny anymore. Regardless of my old feelings towards what I did, I still took precautions. I mean I even coded the location using the Fibonacci Sequence. Who codes things using the Fibonacci Sequence? No one, that's who. My design was flawless."

"Except to Fyodor apparently," Chuuya pointed out, "he didn't even have to read it first to figure out the directions were in there, and I'm not even gonna ask what a Fibonacci Sequence is," Chuuya groaned in defeat. "Look, let's just get to The Book before Fyodor does and then, well figure shit out from there. So where the fuck is it?"

Guilt slid into Dazai's eyes at the question and he was quiet for a few moments before speaking.

"The bottom of Tokyo Bay."

For a long moment, a heavy silence rang throughout the air.

"The bottom of Tokyo Bay," Chuuya repeated.

"The bottom of Tokyo Bay," Dazai assured.

"Well, fuck."

"I mean it's on the Port, so we'll have the home turf. Both of us know our way around there and the place where I sunk it is by that old shipping container I used to live in so-"

"Dazai," Chuuya cut in, "just shut up for a moment. I... I just need a second."

"Yeah, yeah okay."

Taking a deep breath, Chuuya attempted to recenter himself.

"So, The Book is at the bottom of Tokyo Bay on the Port."

"Yeah, I tied it to a boulder and sank it. I couldn't chance someone finding it or retrieving it, so the rope's strong and there are some military-grade locks on it, but with your ability…" Dazai trailed off there, seeming to notice the sudden change in Chuuya's demeanor.

Images of that accursed room in Meursault assaulted his vision. The place he had almost drowned. The place where Kouyou had died, whom at the time he had unfortunately thought to be Dostoevsky.

Then there was that time that he and Dazai had spent locked up and he'd been forced into that terrible feeling of simulated drowning when Camille had waterboarded him.

Could he throw himself back into the water after all of that?

Did he have a choice?

"You know, I could probably figure something else," Dazai said, "you don't have to-."

Chuuya stopped him once more.

"No, we both know I have to do it," he sighed warily, "it's okay. Neither of us could've predicted something like this."

Dazai looked like he wanted to argue against that, but there was no logical argument to be had, so he refrained from saying anything while regret shone bright in his eyes.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry," Dazai said.

"No," Chuuya replied with a shake of his head, "it's alright. Now let's get going. We need to get there before Dostoevsky does."

Dazai nodded in agreement. Then swallowing back his look of guilt, he grabbed one of Ango's guns as the two left the apartment and headed out into the night.

19 Years Prior

Golden sunlight filtered in through a window high up above, coaxing Fyodor back to the world of waking.

Opening his eyes, he was at first surprised to see himself not met with the cold streets of St. Petersburg, but rather a small room with protective gray walls that glinted in the calm sunlight that filtered into the room.

Warm blankets were tightly wrapped around his malnourished figure and the mattress beneath him felt like a blessing to his back.

Someone had saved him. Someone had cared.

It hadn't all been a dream.

Growing up, all his parents ever seemed to do was fight with each other, which had made constant bickering and screaming the norm.

Every fight ended the same. His mother fell to the fists of his father and then himself, sometimes the inverse.

While sometimes he'd gotten involved, he hadn't always. Sometimes he'd tried to hide to escape the inevitable and yet his father would still find him, beating him until he could cry no more.

He still didn't understand why.

Perhaps he had reminded his father of a younger version of himself, and the beating and yelling had been a twisted form of self-harm, stemming from a deep unresolved self-hatred towards himself. Perhaps his father had just been a cruel soul whose only reprieve was found through the narrow-mindedness that such violence created. With violence, one did not have to focus on anything except for the moment at hand.

Regardless, his father was dead. He'd killed him. So he supposed he'd probably never know the truth. It was pointless to dwell on it.

Then, there was his mother. He had truly loved her, but there had been so many times when she had just stood off to the side and allowed his mistreatment at the hands of his father. Why hadn't she taken him and run? Why hadn't she thought that he was worthy of saving?

Then again, she was dead too. So, who cared? It didn't matter.

At least that was what he tried to tell himself.

Living on the streets had been no better than with his parents. While he managed to mostly escape physical abuse, people looked at him with looks ranging anywhere from disgust to pity. Yet, no one had ever tried to take him in. No one had ever tried to truly help. They didn't even try to help him get to an orphanage. They just let him, a mere child, slowly shrivel away on the cold Russian streets, simply because he hadn't been worth their time.

They had more important things to do after all.

How selfish the hearts of people could be.

And yet Mikhail had somehow defied Fyodor's once stagnant constructed view of humanity.

Mikhail, a boy no older than fifteen, had reached his heart out to a stranger who he'd seen was in trouble. A stranger who could've been anyone. Mikhail didn't hesitate, he didn't falter, he'd just done. Mikhail had saved him.

It was strange.

His whole life, Fyodor had grown up in the presence of all of the darkness that humanity had to offer. Having lived for so long in such a place had forced him to grow accustomed to it and learn to see within the tenebrosity of such cavernous bindings. So to now be thrust into a new world, shining full of ethereal golden light left him practically blinded.

Still, while such a sudden stroke of change in his perception of reality left Fyodor feeling frazzled, he found that as his eyes adjusted to the world, it really was so much more beautiful in the presence of the light.

The sound of a voice broke him out of his thoughts.

"Oh hey, you're awake! How are you feeling?"

Pushing himself up slowly so that he sat upright, Fyodor's eyes darted around the room, looking for who had spoken.

It was none other than the boy who had saved him.

Mikhail.

It was funny that he shared his father's name. It was almost as though life was trying to apologize for his shit upbringing with the coming of this man. Like a second chance almost.

Because although his father and this boy shared the same name, they couldn't be any more different.

"I…" Fyodor's voice cracked from his lack of hydration, "I'm alright."

It was an obvious lie and Mikhail was far from an idiot as his brow crinkled with worry. He quickly grabbed a bottle of water off a small desk before offering it to Fyodor, who tentatively grabbed it before drinking.

He never knew water could taste so good.

It had been so long since he'd last drunk properly filtered water. It was honestly amazing that he hadn't dropped dead solely because of that yet.

Somehow, his body had miraculously stayed breathing and fighting.

Somehow he had stayed alive.

It took him less than ten seconds to finish drinking all of the water, which probably wasn't the smartest thing to do given his current circumstances, but luckily the water stayed down and he saved himself from any possible embarrassment that could've presented itself.

"Thank you," Fyodor said quietly, handing the bottle back to Mikhail who set it back where he'd grabbed it from.

"Of course," Mikhail replied with a concerned look still gracing his features. He looked like he wanted to ask something, but couldn't quite bring himself to do so.

However, it didn't take long for his curiosity to win out, as Mikhail finally spoke.

"Before you passed out, you... well, you told me…" Mikhail paused, gritting his teeth as if he were thinking of something truly vile before continuing, "you told me 'not to let them touch you.' It's just that... I want to know, only if you're comfortable that is... is there anyone who I need to take care of? Because I can... well you know... I just… you're young. Like what, seven? I mean not that something like that is okay at any age. But that doesn't... look, if you need to talk or need me to do anything about whoever they are, I'd be more than glad to do so."

Fyodor was confused. What was he talking about? Regardless, he at least understood that Mikhail had mistaken what he'd said as fear towards others and not toward himself. To allow him to continue believing that would be an indirect lie.

Lying was bad. Lying led to pain. He didn't like lying, especially to someone like Mikhail. Someone who, for once, seemed to genuinely care.

He had to tell him about his curse.

Except, what if telling Mikhail made him become just like everyone else? What if at the moment of knowing his curse, he left too? For even though it didn't seem to have any effect on Mikhail that didn't mean that he wouldn't be scared, if not for himself then for the others who were here.

Fyodor wanted everything to stop. He wanted time to freeze over for all of eternity so that he didn't have to face the terrible decision that was now being laid out before him.

There were no good options here. Being honest with Mikhail could condemn him, but leaving him in the dark could lead to even more death plus he'd be lying. Father had taught him never to lie. If any 'lesson' had ever stuck with him, it was that one.

So neither choice was an ideal one, but if Mikhail truly was as good of a person as he seemed to be then he wouldn't leave, right? He couldn't.

Yet, what if Mikhail didn't believe him? What if he told him and Mikhail thought that he was just spinning lies, even though the terrible bindings of his curse were the truth? What if it led to even more death? What if-

Fyodor forced his heart rate to slow down, taking several deep breaths. It was something he'd learned to do in the aftermath of his father's rage. At that time it had been a means of survival. Perhaps it still was even now.

He couldn't panic.

As he finally managed to reach some semblance of calm, Fyodor settled on an option. He knew what he had to do.

He had to tell Mikhail the truth.

As Fyodor finally began to speak, he found that even though he felt he was doing the right thing, he couldn't bring himself to meet Mikhail's eyes.

"I… I'm cursed," he said and his body began to shake as soon as the terrible words left his mouth.

"Cursed?" Mikhail watched him with inquisitive sad eyes.

"Everyone I touch… they die and I'm… I'm scared. I don't want it and I… I don't know what I did," Fyodor's breathing began to speed up, along with his speech. He closed his eyes in an attempt to hide from the world, as a few tears slipped down his cheeks. "For some reason, it doesn't work on you, so you... you don't have to worry about that but I still don't know why and I just- I'm sorry. I'm sorry! It's scary and I just... I want to go home!"

Home.

Did such a place even exist for someone like him?

Fyodor didn't dare open his eyes, terrified to be met with the rejection that had constantly plagued his life thus far. It wasn't until he felt the angelic touch of gentle arms encompassing his trembling frame that he finally blinked them open in shock.

Mikhail was hugging him.

The last time he'd been hugged…

With that, Fyodor broke. His cries turned into sobs with sound for the first time since that day. Almost frantically, he held onto Mikhail like he was the only one rooting him to reality.

Even though they'd only just met, Fyodor felt like he might finally have someone who cared. A once in a lifetime bond found only by the sheer luck of the draw.

A brother.

They stayed like that for a while. Mikhail assured him incessantly that everything would be okay and that he was safe until they finally broke apart, as Fyodor's eyes ran out of liquid and his body finally began to still in comparison to the trembling mess that he'd been only moments prior.

Upon pulling apart, Mikhail studied Fyodor, a kind look on his face with an undercurrent of a deep sadness running just below the surface

"What you have… it isn't a curse. It's called an ability. I would know because I have one too. It's why you're unable to kill me." Mikhail explained, his eyes trailing off to the side and filling with memories of the past. "I still age, but I can't die" Mikhail's finally eyes returned to Fyodor's own, "so, just know you're not alone okay? I understand how hard it can be, so I'll make sure no one touches you or anything like that. I'll make sure that you never have to deal with what you have again and if you ever want to talk about it… I'm here, alright? My little brother… was like us and I wasn't as there for him as I should've been. I don't want to make that mistake again, so you don't have to be afraid around me. I promise."

"Okay," Fyodor said, a flicker of hope beginning to stir within him.

"Okay," Mikhail replied, a small smile tugging on the corners of his cheeks.

Perhaps things would finally be alright. Truly this time.

Seasons passed and Fyodor continued to grow close to Mikhail. It was strange having someone healthy to look up to. In the past, he'd never had such an opportunity. So to now be met with it was foreign, but in a way that he craved because he was so tired of what he had grown to know as the norm. It was like he'd finally breached the surface of the deepest ocean to breathe in the sweetness of untainted air for the very first time in his life.

He didn't want things to change.

He finally had a brother and perhaps even a family in the others who also lived within The Petrashevsky Circle.

For so long it'd felt like a part of him had been missing. He'd felt like he could never be enough. Now, however, he felt like he was able to live almost normally.

Sure, they were all poor to the point that they survived off of hunted meat and whatever else they could find within the Russian wilderness since most were too young to work any substantial jobs if they could even find one with their 'uneducated' status. Yet, the fact that they were poor did not necessarily mean that the people within The Petrashevsky Circle were unhappy. Of course, sometimes it sucked not to be able to live as easily as those within the upper lower, middle and upper classes, but they still all had each other. To them, that was enough.

After his first couple of weeks in the factory, Fyodor, despite loving The Petrashevsky Circle, had found himself quickly growing bored with the lack of entertainment in the new life that he had found himself in. Now that he'd acquired safety, he wanted to truly live and experience things.

With his ability, going out in public was out of the question. If someone so much as bumped into him… well he didn't want to think about it.

But what else was left? He still didn't really know his way around the factory and while he enjoyed interacting with all of those who lived in The Petrashevsky Circle, he still had to keep himself slightly distanced so he didn't accidently slip up and allow any sort of contact.

He didn't want to lose this. He couldn't lose this.

If he did, he was sure it would break him.

Eventually, Mikhail seemed to notice his predicament, and so he'd managed to bring back a Rubik's Cube from town, by a means that he kept brushing off to the side.

Fyodor knew he'd stolen it.

Having grown up in an unstable household and being a victim of it all, Fyodor found himself highly adverse to anything that may be considered unjust or cruel.

But this was Mikhail…

The person who had saved him. His brother.

So, he supposed that it was okay. Mikhail probably found some kind of ethical way to do it anyway with how kind his heart was.

Upon receiving the Cube, it took about a minute for him to figure it out. It was fun getting to finally use his brain like this. He liked puzzles. He liked getting to show off to his brother.

Mikhail had fallen quiet upon realizing just how quickly he'd figured out how to solve the Rubik's Cube, even going so far as to ask him if he was sure that he'd never messed around with one in the past.

He hadn't.

Perplexed, but proud, Mikhail had scrambled up the Cube over and over with Fyodor shaving off several seconds each time until he finally found himself at three seconds.

Three seconds.

Right after he'd done that, Fyodor remembered Mikhail had put his hands on his shoulders calling him a genius before pulling him into a tight embrace.

That time was a memory that Fyodor would hold onto forever.

After that day, Fyodor had found himself searching for any and every puzzle that he could get his hands on. He'd do anything to make Mikhail proud. Anything to get any semblance of recognition.

Such a feeling was addicting after having been denied it his whole life.

It wasn't long before he'd moved on from puzzles to building things.

With nothing but the scraps that he'd found lying around the factory and an old book on engineering that he'd found from a small library that lay on the far side of the factory, he'd managed to get the factory's lighting system back on again so that it was now illuminated in iridescent light.

His hands which had once been made to kill were now bringing about light.

It was more than he could've ever asked for.

From there he'd only continued to build upon his achievements.

He'd reactivated and refurbished the factory's old kitchen space giving those within The Petrashevsky Circle their very own freezer, refrigerator, microwave, and oven. Then, shortly after that, he'd built an area for gardening to help lower the issue of food scarcity during the long Russian winters. He'd even refurbished an old 1984 Abat-7 without having so much as an inch of knowledge on computers previously. His mind just sort of guided him while his hands did the rest. The computer even had 96 KB of memory which left endless opportunities for what could be done with it with so much space. It even made a funny noise every time it was turned on.

Life couldn't be better.

A few more months passed and Fyodor's eighth birthday arrived. He truly was the happiest that he'd ever been in his entire life.

The day passed uneventfully for the most part, but Fyodor didn't mind. Everyone within The Petrashevsky Circle greeted him like family and wished him a happy birthday. A few even gave him some small thoughtful gifts.

It was nice.

The only thing that was bothering him was that Mikhail was nowhere to be found. He'd checked his room earlier in the morning, having wanted to hang out like they usually did, but he was gone. His bed sheets were unnervingly ruffled from signs of a quick departure.

It worried him.

Mikhail always made his bed. So that meant that something had to be wrong.

Then again, perhaps he was making too big of a deal out of this. Maybe Mikhail had just forgotten to make his bed and he was just somewhere in the facility that Fyodor wasn't thinking of looking,

Except when were his gut feelings ever wrong?

Ultimately, he'd decided to head back to his room and play with the Rubik's Cube that Mikhail had bought him so long ago. Yet, as the day came to a close, Fyodor found that he couldn't take it any longer, as his fears only continued to rise.

Mikhail had to be in trouble. He wouldn't be gone this long if he wasn't.

He wouldn't have left Fyodor alone on his birthday.

So taking a deep breath, Fyodor resolved himself to do something he hadn't even so much as considered since joining The Petrashevsky Circle.

He was going to go outside. He was going to find Mikhail.

Opening his door, Fyodor made to rush out.

He didn't get very far.

Upon rushing out of his room he immediately collided with someone much taller and older than himself. Slamming into each other, they both crashed to the ground along with something else that instantly crumbled upon impact. It was viscous, smooth, and… sweet?

"Shitttt," he heard someone groan next to him.

Mikhail.

Relief surged through Fyodor, as he lifted himself off the floor.

Mikhail was okay. He was alright.

Shortly after his welcomed revelation, however, a peculiar smell hit his nose and he looked down to realize just exactly what had fallen with them.A pie. Smelling distinctly of apples and cinnamon. Sharlotka.

Mikhail had gotten him a pie for his birthday.

No one had ever done that. Not even his own parents.

When he'd been making predictions about where Mikhail was he hadn't considered that he was doing something so considerate for him. He hadn't considered that Mikhail would care so much about something as minuscule as his birthday.

"You… you got me a pie," Fyodor said, his words slow and eyes wide.

"Yeah, well I tried at least," Mikhail replied with a self-deprecating laugh.

That's right. Mikhail had gone through all this trouble to do this for him and he'd repaid him by barrelling into him like some delinquent and sending his thoughtful gift crashing to the floor in a million irreparable pieces.

Guilt settled in Fyodor's stomach and his eyes drifted off to the side as if too heavy to maintain eye contact.

"I'm sorry, I should've watched where I was going. No one's ever gotten me a pie before. It was really nice of you. I promise that I didn't mean to-."

Seeming to realize where Fyodor's thought process was going, Mikhail cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"No one's ever-?" Mikhail stopped himself, before continuing, "Don't apologize. What happened was my fault, I should've watched where I was going."

The argument was a feeble one since Fyodor had been the one to run into Mikhail, but he didn't feel like arguing so he just remained silent.

"Hey," Mikhail said, noticing his disbelieving demeanor. "It's not your fault alright? Plus, there's a tradition that we can still take part in with what we've got here… or well I guess it's mostly with cake but that's beside the point. It's pretty fun… let me show you."

At first Fyodor's brow just crinkled in confusion, because what tradition was Mikhail talking about that involved a beyond-decimated pie? However, as soon as Mikhail reached out, grabbing a fistful of pie in his hand, he was able to quickly piece things together. His eyes went wide and he ducked as bits of pie went sailing over his head, a few pieces entangling themselves in his hair.

For a moment all was silent until suddenly Fyodor was curled over laughing so hard his chest hurt and his lungs burned.

"You… did you… you threw a piece of pie at me!" The corners of his eyes crinkled and for once he actually looked his age, as his head fell back with the force of his laughter.

Picking up another piece of pie, Mikhail chucked it at him hitting him squarely in the face.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

His laughter finally managed to settle down to a few strays burst, as Fyodor grabbed his own piece of pie, chucking it right back at his assailant.

"Hey!" Mikhail protested, rubbing pie off of his face, "that's not part of the tradition!" However, he was laughing too now as he grabbed another handful of pie, taking cover behind Fyodor's bed.

They spent the whole night like that, laughing and chucking bits of pie back and forth at each other until they had finally exhausted themselves and fell asleep amid their pie-ridden battleground.

Much later, Fyodor would wish that he could return to that moment.

There was so much that he had taken for granted.