Chapter Text
Fyodor’s challenger has just barely vacated his seat when a fuss kicks up among the match’s onlookers. There’s a brunette slipping past the belt barrier, tall and slender, long beige trench coat, rumpled collar, steps silent. By the time the whole room has noticed him, he’s already slid into the chair opposite Fyodor.
“Yo,” he greets in English, dashing smile, face revealing nothing of substance, accent present but unidentifiable, “care for a game?”
He’s sitting at an angle in the half pulled out chair, one leg crossed over the other. The dark brown shoes he wears are slightly scuffed, and hard-bottom. Fyodor’s eyes narrow. With shoes like that, and on a vinyl floor like this, his every step should have clacked. This room is four walled, relatively small, and has only one door, which lays outside the belt barrier. How long has he been there, among the near-circle of tight-pressed cameramen recording Fyodor’s match from near every angle, held back only by the belt barrier? When did he join them?
Like everyone else, security is only just comprehending the situation. Under Fyodor’s knife-blade glace, they bud into action, all flustered, one particularly embarrassed guard stammering him an apology. Fyodor flicks his study back to the brunette and waits a moment, two, but there isn’t even so much as a falter in the face of armed security and steadily rising clamor.
Fyodor raises a hand. Everything quiets, pulls to a stop. Here, his every action carries authority.
Security looks at him, confused, questioning. Fyodor simply shakes his head, returning his gaze to the intruder, who appears perfectly at home, settled comfortably in his seat, easy confidence in the lax slope of his shoulders, in the casual rest of his arm against the chair’s back.
A beat, two.
“It’s rude,” Fyodor finally says, also in English, voice thick with accent and heavy against the sudden silence, “not to introduce oneself.”
The brunette’s eyes glint, rusted amber. “Dazai Osamu.”
Japanese?
“And your best proficiency?”
Dazai’s ghost of a smirk splits into a cheerful grin. “Any!”
“A classical match, then,” Fyodor decides, after a moment. “Three hours per player, five second increments.”
“Ohhhh,” Dazai says, for the first time appearing just the barest taken aback, “flattered.”
Fyodor is not known for wasting time. Either Dazai’s confidence is a facade, and his spark of surprise stems from a deeper rooted doubt that he’d be anything but dismissed, or he’s startled that Fyodor read enough factors to deem him worthy of a classical match. Likely the latter.
It’s not just that Dazai found his way into the inner rooms of a well-secured building, slipping into the most heavily occupied room without a single soul noticing. Not just the fact that everyone recognized him at approximately the same moment: when made himself truly impossible to miss. It isn’t just his silent, impeccable footwork, nor his lax demeanor, entirely unsuitable to the situation. No, it’s…
when he looks at Fyodor, sharp-lit under florescent white overhead light, there’s a snake behind the dark amber of his irises. He looks at him like the means to an end. He looks at him like he wants to eat him alive.
“Don’t mind it.”
“I’ll try not to keep you long,” Dazai says, “I have somewhere to be in… less than half an hour, actually!” A small laugh, and: “I’ll try to wrap this up in less than an hour and a half, then.”
Quite a statement to make, against what is now, after today, the World Chess Champion of a decade. He has won every championship 7:0 since he was thirteen. Twenty three and holds the world champion title in rapid and blitz chess, too. Broken every record. Russia’s unbeaten prodigy.
“Arrogant,” is all Fyodor deigns to reply.
Dazai’s smile crinkles his eyes without reaching them; it doesn’t soften his expression. “We’ll see.”
Fyodor resets the board without comment. Dazai opens with pawn to f4. Standard. All his moves from there are standard, too. Relatively. Not bad, but not particularly outstanding either. Twenty minutes pass in mundanity. It’s standard, but—
Fyodor very nearly frowns, shifting in his seat. He draws a knee to his chest, expensive office chair rolling just slightly at the movement. He leans forward. Dazai keeps subtly undermining, avoiding each trap Fyodor sets. Every single one. No, it’s not just that; Dazai isn’t a blatantly aggressive player, but he’s quietly setting many traps himself.
He’s good. Really good.
A spark of what might be excitement kindles in Fyodor’s chest, foreign in its brightness.
Rook f4; castle g3; knight b3... Another twenty minutes, and Fyodor bites through the skin of his thumb. It’s quiet bar the shift of fabric against fabric, occasional roll of chair wheels, and dull thump of chess pieces. Another ten minutes, and—
Dazai’s got a good poker face, has been practically blank faced since his first move, but Fyodor plays queen c5 and Dazai smirks ever-so slightly. Hm. Fyodor reexamines the board.
It takes maybe a minute and a half to realize his mistake.
“Ah.” His eyes widen, ever so slight. His leg slips down from his chest, back to the floor, hand dropping to his lap.
There’s a trap on the board, laid quiet in stark blacks and whites, hidden well and crafted beautifully. Dazai has been laying it since the very beginning, hasn’t he? Were Fyodor anyone else, he wouldn’t have noticed until he was already helpless in its stomach. As it is, Fyodor is helpless in its mouth. Had he found it two—no, three moves ago, he could have avoided it. It would have been hard, but possible. Now, Fyodor’s only chance of a win, of a draw, is for Dazai to fumble.
Dazai will not fumble.
“Ah,” Dazai says, smile fledging itself on his face, eyes like the edge of a blade, “so you’ve finally noticed?”
Fyodor draws in a shaky breath. It’s cold in his lungs, biting in his throat, against the sudden dryness of his mouth, despite that there is no air conditioning present in this room.
That’s the sort of play Fyodor would have made, exactly the sort; it’s like he is looking at a mirror of himself.
“It seems I’ve kept you a while,” Fyodor says, feeling oddly dizzy, overly-present in his body. Hyperaware. There’s hair tickling against the curve of his cheek, the skin of his neck, and a dull ache in his eyes. His ears are cold; he wants to readjust his hat, but doesn’t. “You had something twenty minutes ago, no? My apologies.”
“Ehhh it’s just work.” Dazai rolls his eyes. “They can wait another hour. I mean, seriously, they want me to work on the first day of the first vacation I’ve taken in years! Who even does that!?”
“Nonetheless.”
Dazai sighs, leans back in his own chair. “Your time is ticking, you know?”
“That’s fine,” Fyodor says. Then, louder: “I forfeit the match.”
His words fall heavy. Fyodor hasn’t lost a match in ten years. A few draws on his bad days, yes, but never a true loss. He has never forfeited.
It catches everyone but Dazai by surprise. Fyodor’s former opponent—although to call him an opponent really is a stretch, especially in comparison—looks like he’s been slapped. Whispers explode from the onlookers.
“Heyyy,” Dazai says, leaning back in his chair, still all loose and lax, smiling guileless to a bystander, “so since he forfeited it’s my win right?”
Fyodor gives him a flat expression. “Obviously.”
“I don’t play professional chess!” Dazai’s tone is complaining, carrying a slight whine. “How would I know its rules!?”
This is, apparently, the final straw for Fyodor’s former opponent to say, “Why did you forfeit!?”
Irritation sparks in Fyodor’s chest. No, it’s not irritation. It’s frustration. A bone-deep frustration which cuts to his core, which burgeons up from the pit of his stomach and blooms around his heart, pressing against the cage of his ribs. It’s not unfamiliar. How does he explain it, express it in terms that others will grasp? Because I have already lost. It’s just so obvious, now, but none of them see it.
He near-glares, that helpless isolation pooling behind his teeth. Says, “Look at the board.”
When he looks back to Dazai, he already has his phone out. He’s making a face. “Ehhh all these missed calls… Jeez...”
And then his phone rings—it must have been on do not disturb, before—and he breathes a heavy sigh before accepting. He brings it to his ear. “Moshi moshi—” Japanese, Fyodor recognizes, and consciously tries to slide his brain from one language to another, trying to force Dazai’s blurred murmur of sound into the framework of a language Fyodor only half-learned years ago— “...yeah, yeah. I’ll be there soon. Eek did he? Sorry for siccing Kunikida-kun on you! Ah, yeah. Drinks at ten, right? I won so you’re paying.”
A longer pause, then:
“...Odasaku knows me too well,” Dazai’s tone shifts, just a little, and his face with it. A complicated flicker of emotion, too brief for deciphering. “Okay, okay! I’m coming!”
With that, Dazai hangs up, sliding his phone into the pocket of his pants. He stands from his chair, stretching his arms out behind his head, his whole body one way, then the other. Rolls his shoulders. Cat-like. “Well, that’s my cue to leave!”
Fyodor is still stuck on, Drinks at ten, right? I won so you’re paying.
It clicks. He opens his mouth without fully thinking—
“A bet?” Fyodor says, incredulous, Japanese rusted on his tongue, “You played me for a bet?”
Dazai smirks. “Well. I won, didn’t I?”
He did.
Fyodor, uncharacteristically, hesitates. In the time it takes to reassemble himself, Dazai is already slipping out. Fyodor leaves shortly after, accepting no interviews.
-
He heads to Ivan’s dorm, after. Fyodor is flatmates with Nikolai; it’s dangerous for Fyodor to live alone, with a constitution like his. They both prefer living on campus: Nikolai, because he prefers being in the heart of things, and Fyodor, because it avoids the commute. He doesn’t mind living with Nikolai, and they’ve been friends for eleven years now, but…
“Fyodor?” Ivan blinks, warmly backlit in the doorway to his room.
“Ivan,” Fyodor greets, no-nonsense, “will you be using your computer tonight?”
And he almost says, Let me use your computer tonight? Except the answer to that will always be okay, and Fyodor tries to only take advantage of others when he has good cause to do so.
“No,” Ivan says, easily, stepping aside and making way to let Fyodor in. Fyodor does, hem of his cloak brushing against Ivan’s hip.
“May I use it?”
Ivan closes the door behind him, and is already moving to crank up the radiator when he says, “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Fyodor says, almost distractedly, as he slips into the chair of Ivan’s desk. It’s crammed with papers, half drafted essays and diagrams of the human brain. Ivan’s halfway through getting a master’s in psychology.
“You’re free to stay the night, too,” Ivan says, digging through his cabinets for Fyodor’s favorite tea blends, because while the feelings have dulled in their intensity, he’s still terribly in love with Fyodor.
“I appreciate it.”
Although Fyodor is studying for a doctorate in theology, they met three years ago in developmental psychology, got paired for a project, and Ivan was gone. It had been hard, still is hard, not to abuse it.
He won’t abuse for a goal that doesn’t deserve it, Fyodor reminds himself. It’d be out of proportion; everything should exist in proportion. He almost forgot himself in his rush to dig up information.
Ivan brings him hot tea ten minutes later, and he’s already thirty tabs deep in Japanese webpages, government PDFs, translation websites for everything he can’t recall. By the time he drinks, the temperature has gone cold.
Dazai Osamu: twenty two years old, and a criminal defense lawyer from Yokohama. He started practicing two years ago. He has the right legal qualifications, but everything gets splotchy when Fyodor looks into how exactly he got them. This becomes a pattern. His history only exists in half the places it should.
It’s nearing one in the morning when he tracks down Dazai’s twitter account and quits for the night, closing tabs, pulling out his phone for the first time in several hours and collapsing onto Ivan’s bed. His eyes sting. His back aches. His chest hurts; he forgot to take off his binder. There are ten dozen texts from Nikolai and six missed calls. Several dozen new emails on his business account. He opens twitter on his verified account. Checks over the timeline. Grimaces.
First thing’s first:
The amount of malicious speculation I’ve seen over today’s unofficial match is shameful. My opponent won legitimately; anyone who does not understand why I forfeited needs to study the board. I had already lost.
That’s the easy part. The next part…
Fyodor stares at Dazai’s twitter profile, and bites his thumb. It’s still numb and stinging from his earlier abuse. He opens Dazai’s DMs. He stares for…
right up until there’s a knock on Ivan’s door. It’s one fourty in the morning. Fyodor glances at Ivan; Ivan shakes his head, and gets the door.
It’s Nikolai who spills in, presence bright and large even at this hour, always moving like a stage actor, plastic bag swinging from his fingertips. He tosses it to the blanket beside Fyodor, and a quick glance tells him its full with pills and a can of soup.
“Fedya! You’ve been ignoring me!”
“Ah...apologies.”
He’s not sorry and they both know it. Fyodor neglected Nikolai’s messages and didn’t return to their flat because he was hyperfocused on a goal and wanted not a single distraction. Nikolai rolls his eyes, plopping himself on the bed next to Fyodor, peers over.
“Ooooo,” he says, “the chess guy?”
“Dazai Osamu,” Fyodor confirms. Licks his tongue over his teeth.
Nikolai’s eyes glint, tone dipping. “’You wanna play him again?”
“Hm,” Fyodor answers. It’s an affirmative, and also a mistake. Nikolai pilfers his phone within seconds. “Kolya—wait—”
“Let’s seee,” Nikolai says. “Ivan! How long has he been staring at the screen deliberating on what message to send!?”
“Uh,” says Ivan, which is really confirmation enough.
“Right, so—”
by the time Fyodor manages to grab back his phone, Nikolai has already sent the message. A simple, Hi. Fyodor cringes. Deletes it. But the damage is already done: Dazai will have gotten a notification. He hastily retypes, settles on: Is this Dazai Osamu?
He waits. Ivan is already opening the can of soup Nikolai brought and measuring out the pills Fyodor will take with it. Ten seconds, fifteen, and—
A typing icon on the screen. Fyodor’s stomach lurches.
omg hiiiiiiiii
id ask the same but ur verified lmao
Another couple seconds, then:
u wanna play again?
He said it! It’s a childish sort of excitement that sparks in Fyodor’s chest, an almost silly relief that he doesn’t have to broach the topic himself. Fyodor replies:
Do you?
Dazai answers: yesss #preach #girlboss real everyday pvp w trad rules we can be irl moots #hallelujah
Fyodor pauses.
You are fluent in English, no?
A beat, and, yes, yes I am wwww. lol I mean like. Uhhh
it was fun!! id like to play again
Fyodor releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Six steps away, the microwave beeps, a short, electronic melody. He presses his ankle into the limp material of Ivan’s godawful mattress, and feels it give under his weight. Around him, the dormitory aches.
He types,
Are you free tomorrow?
-
From State Moscow University to his and Dazai’s agreed meeting spot over the Moskva river is a roughly half hour walk. When Fyodor gets there, exactly on time, Dazai is sitting precariously on the metal railing, legs dangling dangerously, eyes fixed down below, on glittering blue water. Between the quiet look on his face, and the bandages extending halfway up his neck, extending over the base of his hands…
“I do hope,” Fyodor says, “that you aren’t planning to jump.”
Dazai doesn’t startle. His head twists to look at Fyodor, brow rising. “And if I was?”
It’s only the cusp of autumn, yellow just barely kissing the foliage that presses up against the river’s walkway-lined banks, that extends over the horizon’s gentle curve. Moscow’s water has yet to embrace its winter chill, but the Moskva is deep, and wide. A death sentence for someone like Fyodor, in any season.
He frowns. “I suppose I’d ask that you’d reconsider for a later date.”
“Ah?” Dazai blinks. “Not ask me not to do it at all?”
“I think it’d more likely be a tragedy than not,” Fyodor answers, “but it’s your life, no? I do not know your choices.”
“Oooo,” a smile curls on Dazai’s lips, and in one fluid motion, he lands himself back onto solid ground. This time, his shoes clack against the concrete. “Controversial opinion time, I see.”
“Nikolai introduced me to right to death discourse.”
“Nikolai?” Dazai settles into place beside him, and Fyodor starts walking in cue.
“A friend of mine,” Fyodor answers, listening absently to the twin beats of their steps against the concrete. Dazai hasn’t asked where they’re going. “Philosophy major. Wild opinions on self determination and individual liberty.”
Something sparks on Dazai’s face. “With the braid? Albino? Brought live birds to a debate stage?”
“Oh dear,” Fyodor says, “you’ve seen one of the videos, then.”
Or, more specifically, he dug for them. Clips of Nikolai have only ever circulated in Russian spheres; Fyodor doubts that Dazai just happened to come across one. He must have been digging information on Moscow State University.
Dazai grins. “Maybe.”
“Hm.”
“How’d he even manage to get the birds there?”
Fyodor grimaces. “They like him. He keeps a willing aviary in his room. It’s dreadful.”
It’s a gift from God, really, that Moscow State University doesn’t have roommates so much as flatmates. Fyodor has his own room, and while Nikolai may keep his window open year-round through everything but the worst storms, leeching heat, Fyodor can run his own radiator hot enough to burn.
“Sounds fun!” Dazai leans forward, hands threading behind his back. “Soooooo where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“Booo,” Dazai says, sticking out his tongue. “Don’t you have classes right now anyway?”
Oh, so he hacked the university’s system and found Fyodor’s schedule, did he? How terrible, how awful. What an invasion of privacy. A red flag, for sure. Fyodor doesn’t entirely bother to suppress the smile that slips over his face. That’s permission, isn’t it? Perhaps? For Fyodor himself to dig further than he’d let himself? Even if it isn’t...An eye for an eye; in line with God’s will, everything should exist in proportion, in perfect ratio, and with this, the boundary has expanded. With this, Fyodor can guiltlessly pry.
“I called in sick,” is what he says.
They step off the bridge and walk along the Moskva maybe seven minutes before departing down a road, two, past the still-flowering Russian sage that’s been steadily spreading itself down this street over the years Fyodor has walked this route, and finally, to the church nestled under the cradle of an old oak. Burnt afternoon sunlight filters through its canopy, dancing gold patches across its weathered stone walls, slanted roof.
Fyodor walks right up to the door.
“Oooo,” Dazai says, “we’re breaking in?”
“No.” Fyodor barely shakes his head, digging through the pocket of his trousers, feeling cold metal against his fingertips. “I have the key.”
“You come here often?”
“Whenever I can.”
The lock clicks, and Fyodor presses in the door with some effort. It’s dim instead, quiet swallowing their every footstep. Not far ahead, through an open doorway, are the pews, and the alter, and the organ, but Fyodor takes them to the left, down a small hall and up a staircase. Boxes line the room they eventually enter, thin dust graying the home-knit carpet that spreads itself over wooden floorboards. A single window illuminates the room, shafting golden sunlight over a small table sat in front of it, one chair drawn up.
Fyodor composes here, sometimes.
“A storage room?”
Fyodor hums, finding another old chair, then drawing a wooden chess set from its box. They settle into their respective seats.
“Classic, again?”
Fyodor shakes his head. “Rapid. Half hour each, let’s say.”
Their first round goes to Dazai, again. Their second, to Fyodor. Their third is looking like a draw, and…
“What brings you to Moscow?”
“Hmm,” Dazai says. A smile twists on his lips, teasing, matching the glint of his eyes. “How do you know I don’t live here?”
Fyodor gives him a flat look. Even had he not done any digging in the slightest, that would be obvious. He plays knight e4.
“Fine! Fine! I’m here dragging a friend on vacation!” He slumps forward, groaning just a little, all dramatized. He moves like every frame is for an audience, each tilt of his head carrying a certain melodrama, a perfect actor. “Now if only I could get a work vacation, too… the firm I work at is way too strict! Slave drivers! They’re having me work remote!”
Strict work schedule. Silent steps. Blotchy history. Yokohama. From Fyodor’s overview...
“Mafia to criminal defense lawyer, hmm...”
If Dazai is startled, he doesn’t show it. His smile slants a little sharper though, like a knife across his face, eyes rusted red. He says, again with that teasing lilt of performative investment, “Ooo, you think I’m still with the mafia?”
Fyodor doesn’t have the faith that someone like himself wouldn’t be. And Dazai…
Dazai is like himself.
“It’s awfully convenient,” is what he says.
“Ahhh! I’m really heartbroken!” Dazai leans back in his chair, and the knife-edge is gone, pout taking its place. “You don’t believe in my character!?”
Fyodor shrugs. Moves another piece. Dazai responds in kind. Their golden sunlight dips darker, sun near cresting the horizon. It glitters orange on the Moskva, where Fyodor can just barely see its water, down the land’s slope, past all the buildings and trees.
Fyodor wins their third round, too. It is not an easy win.
“Hahhhhh,” Dazai sighs, leaning his chair onto its hind legs, staring up at the slanted ceiling. All at once, he snaps back down, chair’s front legs hitting against the floor with a wooden thump. “Why do you attend all those competitions anyway? It must be soooooooo boring. I’m probably the most interesting thing you’ve had in years.”
And...that’s true. It’s hardly as though the World Chess Championship finals are always held in Moscow. Fyodor doesn’t like wasting time, but every two years, without fail, he flies himself out to wherever the finals are being held, and defends his title. Every time, without fail, he wins 7:0. It is the same story with every other championship he’s bothered himself with.
Even so…
“Rather arrogant to say so.” It is not an answer, and they both know it.
Dazai sticks out his tongue. “Nuh-uh! I’m like, super interesting! A real ex-mafia, y’know!”
“Maybe ex-mafia,” Fyodor says.
“Bleh, that again?” Dazai rolls his eyes. “Anyone who digs hard enough will realize I’m obviously not.”
Ah!
If Dazai’s earlier confession to have dug through Fyodor’s files, found his schedule, wasn’t permission to dig as much as he wants, then this definitely is. Good; while he already has justification to dig deeper, he does not want to damage something by doing so.
“I suppose we’ll see, then,” Fyodor says, but can’t quite keep the anticipation from his voice.
Dazai grins. “I’ll say I told you so.”
They part before the sun has properly taken its leave, Fyodor escorting Dazai to the door, watching the wave of his hand, and turning around before he has time to watch Dazai’s disappearing frame. He lingers in the pews, hands clasped, knuckles pressing against his forehead, all bone. This evening’s prayer is full with unmistakable gratitude.
When Fyodor begins his walk back to campus it is with the promise of a next time.