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Rating:
Mature

Archive Warning:
Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category:
M/M

Fandom:
⽂豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs

Relationships:
Dazai Osamu/Fyodor Dostoyevsky (Bungou Stray
Dogs), Dazai Osamu & Fyodor Dostoyevsky
(Bungou Stray Dogs)
Characters:
Dazai Osamu (Bungou Stray Dogs), Fyodor
Dostoyevsky (Bungou Stray Dogs), Mori Ougai
(Bungou Stray Dogs)

Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Inspired by
The Goldfinch, Underage Drinking, and smoking
and potential substances, Heavy Angst, happy
ending? depends, Fyodor Dostoyevsky-centric
(Bungou Stray Dogs), mentions of skk,
Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Religious
Imagery & Symbolism, there's also fluff im not a
monster, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved, Mutual
Pining, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Murder

Language:
English
Series:
Part 1 of corpses
Stats:
Published: 2022-09-23 Completed:
2022-11-04 Words: 27414 Chapters: 10/10
Comments: 208 Kudos: 502 Bookmarks:
115 Hits: 7674

not yet corpses

(still, we rot)
itotypes
Summary:
"Let's take it from the top. Hi." He
gives out his hand. "I'm Dazai
Osamu."

Fyodor glances down at the hand,

as though it's a trap. To be fair, it
could be. But he likes traps. He
likes unwinding them. So he
grasps Dazai's hand and shakes it,
once.

Or,
Somewhere in the remote
landscape of Meursault, Fyodor
discovers that whatever is
fundamentally “wrong” with him,
is also “wrong” with Dazai Osamu.
They proceed to destroy each
other, to their heart’s content.

Notes:
important notes before you start
reading

Chapter 1: (Introductory Note)

Hi, hello, welcome. Let's start with the basics:

As mentioned this work is inspired by Donna Tart's

The Goldfinch. That should be a warning of its own.

Content/Trigger Warnings:

-underage smoking/ drinking/ substance

consumption (they are sixteen turning seventeen in
this)

-mentions and flashbacks of child abuse (will warn

in the specific chapter too. Based on homophobia
and religious trauma)

-explicit language

- very non-graphic/ vague sexual content while

under the influence (idk if it even counts, it's hazy
flashbacks)

If you've read the Goldfinch:

In this scenario, Theo is Dazai and Boris is Fyodor,

only with their roles a bit reversed. Dazai is the one
who comes bringing chaos with him, and Fyodor is
the narrator, but most definitely not the innocent
party. Instead of Vegas, it takes place in Meursault,
where the canon prison where Fyodor and Dazai
are held is.

If you haven't read the Goldfinch:

It's not necessary for the comprehension of this

work since it's inspired by a small part of it, though
you will miss some of the non-important
references. All you need to know is that Theo’s and
Boris’ relationship is that of two teenage boys,
destined to meet and change the trajectory of each
other's lives via drugs, alcohol, and other illegal
activities. In this version, Dazai takes the role of
Theo, and Fyodor of Boris, and although Theo is the
original narrator of the goldfinch, Fyodor will be
narrating this version. They self-destruct, but as a
duo, basically.

Additional notes:

- you'll have to suffer through loads of literary

references and symbolism, I apologize

- the number of chapters may change

-my tumblr and tiktok are also itotypes, in case you

want to hop in there and say hi, or ask questions.
Or watch depressive slideshows. Whatever gets you
going.

- English is not my first language. Just putting that

out there.

Chapter 2: Intel Collector

Summary:
"Charm me. Furiously. Torment
me. In detail."
-Herman Hesse, "The Seducer,"

Notes:
CW: smoking

!: when the dialogue is italicized

between tags ("") it means that
Fyodor and his family are
speaking in Russian

Fyodor meets Dazai for the first time while he's in

the middle of explaining why Holden Caulfield is
obsessed with ducks.

The classroom's door opens with a grating sound,

and in walks this lanky boy, with a stride made for
a parade and the hair of a failed child movie star.

When he notices the whole class has paused to ogle

at his arrival, the boy freezes and smiles
unapologetically.

"I'm late, aren't I?" he asks.

It's 8:30.

One has to try to be this late.

The teacher flicks her hand in dismissal.

"Oh, it's alright, take a seat! You must be Dazai,

yes?"

Dazai's smile twists as he settles on a desk.

"Hopefully the one and only."

The joke lands well with the crowd of sixteen-year-

olds, it seems. The teacher's smile even becomes a
bit less artificial.

"We were just reviewing our notes on Catcher in

the Rye," she says and gestures at Fyodor, who's
still standing with his hands folded behind his back.

It's then that Dazai first seems to notice Fyodor's

existence. There's something about having the
boy's undivided attention to himself, that Fyodor
finds threatening.

"Please don't let me interrupt you," he says, still

looking.

He already has, and he knows so. The fake

politeness in him makes Fyodor suspicious.
Unsettled.

"The ducks at the Central Park Lagoonsymbolize

youthful innocence to Holden," he sighs. "He
connects their existence to happy childhood
memories from before his brother's death, and
therefore obsesses over them."

He watches as some of his classmates take notes,

and waits idly for the sign that he can sit back
down.

"That's rather surface level."

Fyodor all but snaps his head towards the direction

of the voice. The playful tone does something funny
to his insides.

"Oh, is it now?"

The airiness of Fyodor's words doesn't match his

glare, but the smile on Dazai's face is
notwithstanding.

"The ducks also demonstrate that change isn’t

permanent, and survival is possible even in the
harshest environment," the boy gestures as if he's
explaining something obvious . "From the
beginning of the book, Holden wonders where they
go when the lake freezes over, and-"

"Yes, he wishes to understand and connect with the

permanence that the ducks represent," Fyodor
states.

Despite having been interrupted quite rudely, Dazai

almost looks pleased.

"The unchanging solace," he adds. "And when he

doesn't do that..."

This time he's leaving a gap for Fyodor to interject.

Perhaps out of some moronic need to have his own
sentences completed by someone else. As if that
proves anything.

Fyodor allows himself to be hooked.

"His mental health deteriorates."

Somewhere along the way, they seem to have

forgotten that they're in the middle of a supremely
public space and that twenty pairs of eyes are
staring straight at them.

"Exactly," Dazai nods, keeping up the nonchalant

act.

Fyodor swallows at the newfound attention and

takes the liberty of sitting back down.

"You clearly like this book."

"It's one of my favorites."

Surprisingly, Fyodor spots no lie in that sentence.

"I hate it," he says.

Dazai evidently expected that.

"Clearly."

**

One thing about Meursault; it's dreadfully small.

Not in size, or population necessarily. It just emits

this feeling of suffocation, as a place. Fyodor has
been living here for two years and he's already sick
of the green, sick of the wine, sick of the river, and
the elongated summer.

Most of all, he's sick of the bus.

Apart from the overpopulation of loud kids, the bus

also comes with a local stench of naphthalene
mixed with people's perfume of choice.

Or lack thereof.

Fyodor has long chosen a specific seat in the bus

and has made a point of side-glaring everyone who
attempts to occupy it, or worse, sit next to him.

It appears that the newcomer is not so easily

intimidated.

Pity.

Dazai takes a graceless seat next to Fyodor, without

asking if he can. There's some merit in taking what
you want, whenever you want, and not feeling
ashamed of it, Fyodor supposes.

"So," he breathes as he settles his (most likely

empty) backpack on his knees. "I take it that you're
the residential know-it-all."

Fyodor's eyes narrow. No filter, he notes,

mentally.

Good. Fyodor doesn't have any filter either.

"Why are you talking to me?" he deadpans.

Dazai seems utterly unfazed by the coldness in his

voice.

"Well, I'm new. I'm supposed to at least be trying

to make acquaintances. And this seat is the only
available one in here."

He says it as if he's repeating a mantra to himself.

As if it took some convincing to speak to Fyodor.
And then turns in his seat, so that they are facing
each other.

"Let's take it from the top. Hi."

He gives out his hand. "I'm Dazai Osamu."

Fyodor glances down at the hand, as though it's a

trap. To be fair, it could be. But he likes traps. He
likes unwinding them. So he grasps Dazai's hand
and shakes it, once.

"Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky."

Dazai winces. Between his obvious Japanese

heritage, the fact that they are currently speaking
in French, and the Russian origin of the name, he's
having a hard time with pronunciation.

"Will just Fyodor work?" he asks.

Fyodor takes a moment to appreciate how Dazai's

foreign accent wraps around the syllables of his
name. Tenderly , is a good adjective to describe it.
As if the word itself is fragile, and needs to be
handled with care.

Fyodor pulls his hand away, feeling an itch.

"Just fine," he says and watches as a twink of

satisfaction settles behind Dazai's eyes. They are
the color of bitter coffee, just like his unkempt hair.
The closer he gets, the stronger the smell of green
tea grows. "And what brings you here?"

Fyodor likes to collect intel. It rarely matters what

type of intel it is, he just feels better when it's
stored in his brain. He tells himself that's why he
asks this of Dazai.

Not because of some frivolous thing such as

curiosity.

Dazai sighs dramatically.

"Here as in, this life? This universe-?"

"This fucking town."

"Ah. Full truth?" he asks. The corner of his mouth

lifts.

Dimples.

He has dimples.

Valuable intel, for sure.

Fyodor shrugs.

"I can appreciate a lie if it's a good one."

"Fun, then." Dazai looks away. "Fun brings me

here."

That is a good lie.

A lie so well concealed, so calmly told, that Fyodor

almost believes it. He suddenly gets the absurd
thought that Dazai lies beautifully.

What a skill to have.

The bus screeches to a stop. Fyodor's stop.

Without uttering another word he stands up and

gets off, opening his umbrella in the process. Most
people in this god-forsaken town have seen him use
an umbrella in broad daylight with not a hint of
clouds in the sky, so they are used to it by now.

Dazai is not.

Perhaps that's why Fyodor hears a snorting laugh

echo from the rolled-down windows of the bus as it
speeds off into the distance.

**

The house is a mess. Again.

Fyodor starts tidying before he even pulls his bag

off his shoulders. Used glasses, resting on the
coffee table. Shoes laying about, where they
shouldn't be. Dirty dishes, dirty footprints dirty-

"Fedya!"

He barely has a second to drop the plates he was

carrying into the sink before his little brother is
jumping on him. Fyodor catches him, because of
course he does.

" Hello you ," Fyodor brushes a few blonde strands

of hair away from Misha's face. " How was school? "

The boy pouts.

" Boring. "

" Of course it was. "

He lets Mikhail down with a little jump and

proceeds with his cleaning-up duties. He's getting
quite tall for an eight-year-old, Fyodor notices.

" What about Vera? " he calls from the living room.

" She said she'd be late! "

Obviously. Why would anyone ever be in a hurry to

return to this miserable house? Least of all, Vera,
who has a perfectly good excuse to stay away.

With a gentle swing, Fyodor opens the door of the

fridge.

" And father? " he asks, inspecting the particularly

disappointing insides.

" Didn't say ."

Right. For their father to have even an ounce of

responsibility, a stranger ought to have dropped it
on the street first.

At least this means he won't be back any time

soon, and Fyodor can delay playing cleaning service
for a little longer. And what does he do in his newly
given free time, you may ask?

He gets his copy of Catcher in the Rye out of his

bag and starts searching for the first mention of
ducks.

**

Fyodor doesn't particularly understand why children

are excited about the weekend.

The concept of someone wanting to spend time at

home has always seemed alien to him. Do people
truly enjoy that? Does the very roof above their
heads not make them feel like drowning? Like
they've been buried alive?

Well. Fyodor does. The sheer thought of sharing a

tangible space with his father for more than a few
hours at a time is unfathomable.

So he leaves. Goes out. Doesn't say where. Most of

the time, he doesn't know until he gets there
himself. But there are only so many spots one can
visit in Meursault.

A few minute's walk from Fyodor's house, there's a

park with broken-down swings and gravely ground.
No children ever approach it, ever since a rumor
started going around about how a little girl died
here, and her scorned spirit still haunts the swings.

Fyodor started that rumor.

He wanted a peaceful place to smoke, away from

prying eyes. The sight of happy families makes
Fyodor ill.

And smoke he does, placing the death stick

between his lips and giving it life with a cheap Bic
lighter.

He’s barely gotten a proper drag in when he hears

shoes marching on top of the gravel. His annoyed
glare whips around to find Dazai , wobbling around
the uneven ground whilst holding a leash-

With a cat on the other end?

Fyodor is not someone easily caught by surprise,

but he feels his lips part open in just that.

“What in God’s good name are you doing?”

Dazai’s head snaps upward.

“Well hello to you too,” he smiles. It's not warm at

all.

“Yes, hello. You're walking a cat .”

He looks downward as if noticing the pet for the

first time. Fyodor wonders if Dazai is always so
pretentiously animated. And if so, why? Who's the
target audience for his theatrics?

“My, my, you’re quite observant,” he derides, and

the cat tilts her head. Blue eyes stare up at Fyodor.

“ Why are you walking a cat?”

It seems like a sound question.

“Strange isn’t it? Mori is very particular about how

we take care of Elise.”

The cat meows and Fyodor might have finally gone

crazy because it sounded annoyed to him.

“For simplicity’s sake, I’ll assume Elise is the cat,

and Mori is-“

“My father.”

Today's intel: Dazai doesn’t call his father by

name.