It was at that tavern where I’d met him, oh, the demon himself. He found me when I’d had less than nothing to my name. I would spare you the faux joy and passion, I would gladly describe everything in the immaculate detail that the people around me have said I can notice, but that would be a great, horrible lie. I have decided recently to no longer be a liar, so I will shamefully recount my current situation: I was half-unconscious on the poorly varnished wood of the Marmeladov Tavern’s bar counter, trying desperately to distinguish which marks on the ceiling came from water damage, which ones were simply cracks in the plaster, which were both, and which weren’t moving, a task that I was quickly learning was impossible in my current baijiu-afflicted state. A truly miserable existence, it is: I am poor, I am smelly, and for the first time in my life, I am not overwhelmingly suicidal, which has made me feel worse. Currently, I sleep on a mattress (foam gym mat) on the floor of an attic closet. Because I am in the closet, I do not have room for clothes, which doesn’t matter anyway because all I have the clothes currently on my back which are:
Suffice to say, I am not in the loveliest nor most comfortable of conditions right now. My current condition is poverty, and perhaps leprosy, though the latter could be misattributed symptoms that were truly caused by the rats whom I can only stay awake and watch for so long. I anticipate that they’re soon going to launch an invasion to take the other wifebeater, so I need as much rest as I can get if I wish to keep what is mine. This is essentially all you need to know about myself and my life, and the downward spiral I am not exactly facing, because that isn’t how spirals work. Due to how the world spiraled around me, I almost missed a strangely familiar face walking into the bustling tavern, holding a very expensive-looking umbrella and clad in an expensive-looking coat which is far, far too out of place here. Every description of him has always served me as enigmatic, far-too-vague, and frankly unfair. I wish I had known more to prepare me for this moment, if I could go back in time I wouldn’t stop him from dying. I would just try to let myself know that I am about to be struck by god forever. There was a quivering excitement festering in my body, was he going to make good on the price tag on my head? Would he take that head, and mount it on the wall for his enjoyment, having never been a fan of the Port Mafia? Would he kill me just because he could, because he simply felt like it? The countless fantasies in my mind continued to cascade as he sat down next to me. He was beautiful. I’d only heard stories and seen blurry print-outs of security camera footage, and none of it could capture his haunting beauty and the presence that accompanied it. It was only by some miracle that I was able to bear witness to him now. His dark hair fell around his pale, bony face, damp from the rain. He was of an indeterminate age, either twenty or forty, it’s anybody’s guess. His skin was smooth and translucent. You could trace the blood vessels in it as one would the faint cracks that appear on the paint in old porcelain. His eyes were maroon, and tired. Half-lidded, with long eyelashes that you would expect on a woman. There was an almost biblical androgyny to him. The delicate features you could only expect from a sculpture or painting, the kind of beauty men went to war over. His hands were red, and I helplessly wondered if they would be warm when clasped around my neck. His fingertips were bitten and bloody, fingernails chewed down to raw obscenity, but they too were beautiful. His lips were bitten raw, too. If they met mine, could I taste his blood? If passion took over, would it look like I’d been kissing a woman with red lipstick? Would he bite my lips back? My eyes had wandered back to his when I noticed I was now meeting his gaze, still half-lidded,but now curious.
“Is that you, Osamu? I had not expected you to fall from grace so quickly.” He softly spoke, barely audible compared to the loud conversations in the bar. I could only hear him if intently focused, and that I did. He was all smiles and graceful movements, all grass and dreams. I doubt I could coherently respond to that, him casually using my first name as if we were close to some extent. I replied with a slurred mumble, unsure of what I let escape my mouth as I rested my head on the cold hardwood on the bar counter, closing my eyes and groaning. I heard his glass being set down and then picked up, my left ear pressed to the table so I could still face him, to some extent. He took a hand and softly brushed it through my hair, catching on tangles as his fingers combed through.
“It took far less work than anticipated to find you, I must say.” He quietly chuckled. “The Port Mafia had their eyes on The Bar Lupin for some time, but it was futile. You would not return there so soon after Sakunosuke’s passing, out of respect.” I opened my eyes to him gently petting me again, looking calmly at me, while taking the occasional sip of wine.
“I turned my eyes to other options. I had heard that you went here, Marmeladov Tavern, as they offered cheap room and board, at Sakunosuke’s recommendation. You’re living in the attic now, yes?”
I weakly nodded. Fyodor’s hand moved to my back, softly rubbing it. His hands did, in fact, turn out to be cold. Another lovely mystery solved through my genius. Fyodor’s expression turned more pensive. He took another sip of wine, silently thinking as his cold digits expertly worked through the knots in my shoulders, through the thin and scratchy material of my undershirt. The intimate gesture was so quickly tearing down any sense of anxiety or apprehension inherent to my being. The gentle touch of another person was something so foreign that I’d never considered it as something I was lacking, something that I could indulge in after a few too many glasses of something-or-other. This silly novelty was tantamount to spending too much money online shopping due to lowered inhibitions. My eyes closed again, and I slowly drifted off into half-sleep before he woke me with another comment.