Chapter Text
The chilly air of a frosty December night ran through the quaint graveyard Fyodor had entered. He went out of his way to enter as the soft, luxurious pillows of the chairs under the lofty wooden gazebo made for a great place to read when the night was too young to sleep but too old to stay in a cafe. It was quiet, no one else dared to disturb the dead for their own shenanigans– other than those blasphemous pagans Fyodor wholly hated running into.
No one would ever dare to make a sound in the realm of the dead no matter who they were, so when Fyodor heard a man from atop a tree imitating bird noises (an obnoxious Poo-tee-weet) his attention was drawn.
He let out his own call, “Who up there dares to disturb the silence?” he asked. He heard a faint chuckle, before the sounds of rattling leaves as the mystery man made his way down the tree. A clearly twenty something man wearing disheveled to the point of mockery military clothes with brown hair falling down to his neck and curving ever so slightly upwards. He held a book too, but not one of quality and grand literature like Fyodor held, no it was a science fiction novel with a tacky cover.
“I didn’t expect someone else out here, who hangs out at a graveyard, anyway.” The man spoke despite clear irony that Fyodor couldn’t quite tell if it was intentional to mock himself or shear accident. “It’s a peaceful place to read, you brought your book along. I'm sure you understand.” Fyodor replied, taking no tone to interpret his hypocrisy before he knew what it was.
“Yes, I understand.” the man said, taking off his tattered military jacket despite the cold to reveal a white wife beater stained faintly with blood.
He sounded young, but not innocent. For a better word, he didn’t look naive. He looked only 20 but his eyes showed the aging of one who's seen his fair share of garbage. He cocked his head inquisitively before asking “So, just who are you?”
Fyodor thought it was an awfully rude question being he was the one interrupting the peace and ultimately being the one out of place but he still answered promptly. “Dostoevsky, Fyodor Dostoevsky”
“Fyodor, eh? That’s Russian, isn’t it? I'm Vonnegut, but just call me Kurt.” He said, revealing his very American name. It seems they were both foreigners to Yokohama, though Fyodor wasn’t keen on bonding over this.
“Well, Kurt, you ought not to interrupt the graveyard's sanctity by the likes of bird calls.” Fyodor said like he was reprimanding a youngling. “How old are you, anyway? It’s child's play to do such a thing”
“24, now. Though I’m 25 in just a month and frankly not looking forward to it. ” the man said, he was just two years older than Fyodor. “Oh, I’m 23 In a month, the 11th.” Fyodor said and the man quickly chirped up
“The 11th? We were born on the same day! Different years, though.” he said, sounding interested that fate had let him meet such a coincidence.
“Ah, that is uh, quite grand.” Fyodor said, though his voice didn’t sound sincere. “We should go out tonight to celebrate the universe colliding in such a way!” Kurt said, holding his hands together looking quite pleased. “A drink would always be quite nice, and you look so painfully cold I’d feel bad if i didn’t drag you somewhere indoors.” he continued despite the look on Fyodor's face that showed nothing but not wanting to do that.
Fyodor had to admit the indoorness of a bar sounded lovely, and being he would never be caught dead in one alone– the sheer idea of the stigma of drinking alone tearing him away from ever doing that– this was a rather good opportunity for him.