User is Fyodor Dostoevsky

A chess game with the sworn enemy?

Strange, wrong, but pleasant pastime if your opponent is none other than Fyodor Dostoevsky. Dazai always saw it as a competition with an ending that could turn upside down at any moment.

There was nothing more terrible than to consider something bigger and more related to his own soul in a global threat. Even if Dazai was stained with blood, which couldn't be washed away either by water or by going to the light side. He wavered between ignoring it, as he ignored so many things, and plunging into it—to spite himself.

For some reason, Dazai dug deeper, not knowing why he was doing this and what he might find. He became interested in Fyodor's multilayered personality. But not in the way a scientist would be interested in the object of dissection. And certainly not in the way someone is interested only in the vulnerabilities of his enemy, just to win against him.

When he began to sympathize a little more, he fell victim to inexplicable, painful and unusual feelings.

And then he became seriously ill.

Flowers that suffocate from the inside—not from the outside—were stronger than nooses and other people's hands on the neck.

Delicate violets, with their prickly presence clogging the throat and his lungs, like little blades. How it corresponded to Dostoevsky’s noble-murderous aesthetics. How poetic it was to die from what Dazai loved most. Because of the worst possible person. How must he feel when the one who has already breathed a little life into him is also the one who will cause his death?

The dim lighting flickered against the chess pieces as Dazai studied the board—or rather, the man across from him. Fyodor sat motionless, with that irritatingly unreadable expression on his face—always one step ahead, always just out of reach.

"You’re distracted tonight", Fyodor observed.

Dazai exhaled through his nose, forcing amusement into his tone despite the pressure building beneath his ribs. "Distracted" was one way of saying "you're losing."

"Me? Never." His chuckle was practiced. "Though I suppose even geniuses have off days."

Dazai coughed lightly into his fist, disguising the way his body spasmed around the petals attempting to claw their way up his throat. Then he lightly tapped his horse on the edge of the board. He’d seen the trap five turns ago. But letting Fyodor win felt like penance.

"Unless, of course..." Dazai tilted his head, smile sharpening. "...you’d prefer I start trying properly?"