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The gentle rise and fall of Fyodor’s breaths were like being on the sea for Osamu– the rhythm was comforting… and with his head rested on his lover’s bony chest, he could almost imagine being adrift in the ocean and the only thing keeping him steady was the arm haphazardly slung around his middle.
Osamu had issues with going to bed for as long as he could recall. He’d long given up on having a set bedtime due to his previous affiliation with the mafia having him on his toes for all hours of the day as well as aiding in his developing insomnia. All the times before Fyodor had crashed into his life where Osamu would lay awake at night with only his thoughts to keep him company would fill him with a sense of dread and hopelessness. He didn't often think about his actions and what they could mean until he was truly alone– his only witness being the moon peering through his window. And sometimes even She would leave him all on his lonesome too.
But now?
“Fedya… as much as you're brilliant, you're shit at pretending to be asleep," Osamu teased, snuggling in closer to Fyodor's side and tilting his head up to look at his lover’s violet eyes that gazed off into nothing.
Fyodor blinked out of his stupor, eliciting a snicker from Osamu, rubbing a hand over his eyes. Osamu often joked about how Fyodor had given him a hand kink with how long and elegant the man’s fingers were. Especially when he'd gently hold Osamu’s face with his hands, calloused fingertips from years of cello playing lightly stroking Osamu’s cheeks.
“At least I try, dorogoy," Fyodor fired back, though there was no bite. After all, he took comfort in knowing that Osamu was up with him as much as he knew the other loved staying with Fyodor.
Not many would find their relationship perfect… especially considering the circumstances in which they had met. But it was moments like these– under the covers and entwined in each other's embrace– where the only witnesses were the young lovers themselves and the moon that could let anyone know just how right they were for one another.
Fyodor Dostoevsky and Osamu Dazai. Two broken souls, haunted by the demons of their pasts and presents, finding solace in each other? How ridiculous.
The fact that each morning they would join society once more (hiding behind dozens of masks) with twin pairs of dark circles under their eyes was only for them to know anyway