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Chapter Text

On the outskirts of the city, where no one would think to look, in an inconspicuous apartment on the top floor, a makeshift sanctuary had been established. In a room with wooden walls lay a slender, frail man. Raven hair against the pale, blood-drained skin created an otherworldly image, and if touched, his skin felt icy, like that of a corpse. The sleeping man, seemingly immersed in an eternal realm of dreams, had lain motionless for several months. Despite this, every day, someone was there, trying to care for his condition – Nikolai, a somewhat makeshift nurse, with mediocre skills in stitching and bandaging, but given his remarkable regeneration, he seldom had to tend to minor first aid tasks. Yet, for the sake of his friend, or was he truly a friend? It seemed Nikolai himself had become entangled in the chains binding his hands and feet, and breaking free from them was not destined. Still, he tried with all his might to rouse Fyodor from this state.

There were bad days at times when Fyodor's breathing became even more shallow and rapid. In haste, Nikolai would attempt to sustain his life, connecting a stolen life support machine swiftly and discreetly from the same hospital where he had taken Fyodor after teleporting him from the helicopter in a rush.

These challenging moments not only made Nikolai worry about Fyodor but also led him into introspection. He couldn't understand why Fyodor was so fascinated by Dazai. Envy for the closeness between them sometimes flashed in his thoughts, and he often questioned what was so special about Dazai that captivated his friend.

All of this mixed with moments when he confronted the reality of his actions. The helicopter explosion, the yellow flames, the rescue of his friend – each moment passed before his eyes as if he were living in eternity. Now, every time facing the sleeping state of Fyodor, Nikolai felt an almost hysterical laughter creeping up his throat. He restrained it, but his eyes reflected a mixture of emotions – fear, fatigue, and perhaps love.

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, impulsive and made in a state of sheer animal panic. He managed to pull Fyodor out using his overcoat just before the gas leaked, and the helicopter irreversibly exploded in yellow flames, as if infernal fires were searing his face, confirming the fallacy of his decision. His uncovered eye gazed spellbound at the flames that were supposed to engulf Fyodor. Part of him still hadn't accepted the fact that he had pulled him out. Maybe Fyodor was still in the helicopter, and he hadn't saved him at all? His actions seemed to have been taken not by him but in a dream; everything felt surreal.

He almost heard Dazai speaking to him in a daze, reaching out Fyodor's hand. He felt a cold fear engulfing him—did he not invent his actions? Did he make a mistake and not save him? No, no, perhaps in the rush, he overestimated his ability and failed to teleport the arm, let alone the beam that had to be teleported along with Fyodor to avoid worsening the bleeding. Soon, Dazai and his comrade departed, leaving him alone with a part of his friend. The irony was striking. He immediately returned his friend to the ground. Here was Fyodor in the flesh before him. Shaking, bleeding, teetering on the brink of death, yet still alive. This is how he saved Fyodor. What compelled him to do such a thing?

That's why Nikolai found himself sitting on the steps in front of their so called “new home” with a heavy head. He didn't know why he did it, although deep down, he understood that it was his decision – he couldn't comprehend himself and his actions.

He could sit for hours by Fyodor's bedside, pouring out his thoughts, discussing his problems, and pondering why he couldn't just switch off Fyodor's life support machine. Fyodor was always reserved in conversation, but still... Usually, in the end, he'd share his verdict on Nikolai's words and thoughts. Now, not hearing his voice at all, it's different. With a trembling hand, he reached out to the sleeping man’s charcoal black hair – it was soft, but coarse. Fyodor looked peaceful, but Nikolai could feel him shivering. A sudden chill ran through his body. Was he cold? If so, where could he get some warm cloths, some blankets?

In a rush, he tended to his friend, carefully replacing the oxygen hose in his nose and the clothes that had dripped onto the floor with fresh ones. He fetched the blanket he'd used to dry the blood from Fyodor's hand stitches yesterday (and the one today). By now, he noticed that his hands were slightly damp. Had he really been washing Fyodor's injuries? And the blood – oh god! Where had he wiped his hands after cleaning Fyodor's wounds? He couldn't remember. Then again, it didn't matter. All that mattered was seeing him safe and sound. Nikolai couldn't wait for him to wake up and talk. To be certain, he put two fingers to Fyodor's neck, feeling his pulse.

…

…

Alive. Thank God. Fyodor's chest rose and fell steadily, indicating that he wasn't going to die. He was lucky, very lucky. It meant that the damage done to his body had somehow been healed, and that he wouldn't die immediately. Nikolai sighed in relief.

He put a pillow under Fyodor's head, then dressed him in warm clothes (he couldn't risk leaving his friend in the cold wind), and covered Fyodor with blankets.

The thought occurred to him that somehow Fyodor must've known he would be saved, yet never spoke a word about any danger. Or was he really outsmarted by Dazai? Nikolai couldn't believe that to be possible; maybe if Fyodor weren't in this state, he would have laughed at this situation. He shook his head. Who knew anymore? But he would find the answer sooner or later. For now, the most important thing was that his friend was alright. He was alive, and he was safe. He needed to focus on Fyodor right now, but it was harder than ever before to ignore the growing pain behind his eyes.

Chapter Text

Nikolai seemed to have gone without sleep for days; As Nikolai gazed at his reflection, the dark circles beneath his eyes and the disheveled state of his once-neatly gathered hair, revealing the toll of sleepless nights, now bore no resemblance to a clown's pristine look. Staring at his reflection, he discovered similarities with Fyodor – weariness and insomnia etched across his face.

On his disheveled form, a long chestnut-colored cardigan harked back to times when he was a lot younger, and the distinctive outfit wasn't part of his arsenal. His ability had just manifested, and he learned that it extended to any clothing. Cardigans, coats, and any long outerwear were more convenient for teleportation, and he felt safer, knowing he had such a trick at his disposal.

This garment, reminiscent of his childhood, not necessarily easier times in his life, still held a peculiar place in his heart. It was as if the cardigan acted as both a shield against the chilly winds and a token of nostalgia, a silent witness to the changing seasons of his emotions.

Moments unfolded when Nikolai, staring into the abyss of his reflection, pondered the fate of his eternally sleeping friend. Today, much like those haunting days, offered no euphoric liberation. Instead, it plunged him deeper into contemplation – Perhaps Fyodor had indeed perished that day, and there might be no awakening for him, or he could wake up altered, a stranger to himself. Such thoughts burdened Nikolai's soul in an unexpected way, eclipsing the usual joy he felt fantasizing about his friend's demise.

Dreams, an escape for some, were no solace either. Every time, he'd wake up in cold sweat, screams and tears accompanying his restless slumber. Scared that there was no comatose body in the adjacent room on the upper floor, near his sanctuary. Each time, he'd only find comfort when he rushed to Dostoevsky's room, checking if he was there. The uncertainty lingered, even though Fyodor's body lay motionless, just as he left him several months ago, in the same pose, resembling a lifeless porcelain doll.

Had Nikolai been caring for a corpse all this time, or did Fyodor manage to survive the crash? The pulse he clung to, was it a lifeline or merely wishful thinking? Perhaps a lie he clung to, confusing his own heartbeat for Fyodor's. Or did Fyodor's heart cease its rhythm during one of Nikolai's moments of desperate rest?

Nikolai believed that after countless nightmares depicting Fyodor's demise and vivid visions of his friend's blood-soaked fate, he should have found acceptance. Yet, he couldn't bear to see him lifeless and indifferent. "How could this happen?" He echoed the question from before, observing another party's scheme unravel before his eyes, Fyodor's blood dripping onto the case with the antidote.

As he stood by the bed, memories of their last conversation flooded his mind. The peculiar expression on Fyodor's face as he examined his wound lingered. "You tried to kill me first, so I'll make you disappear," he said, smiling. He wished to believe that the smile carried a playful tone. Nikolai was intrigued, excited. "I like it; it's the beginning of a new game." Who would have thought it would be their final exchange? Perhaps expressing more in that farewell could have spared them from the regret that tormented his heart. Maybe then, letting go would have been easier.

With trembling hands, like a daily ritual that must be performed, he touched the delicate pale neck. 

Thud-thump

Thud-thump

Thud-thump

He released a restrained sigh. But something was amiss. After a month of routine care, he could confidently say this wasn't the feeble, thread-like pulsation desperately clinging to life. The beats were too frequent and loud. Panic-stricken. It was the heartbeat of someone afraid. Yet, Fyodor lay still, showing no signs of awakening – no fluttering lashes or twitching lips. Maybe it was another dream, or perhaps he had genuinely lost his mind, as everyone claimed. Before he could contemplate further, the pulse normalized, and Nikolai could attribute it to another whimsical creation of his imagination. But even that seemed suspicious – as if intentionally trying to conceal awakening, hiding within the perfect play of unconsciousness.

With a delicate hesitancy, as if afraid to scare away, he cautiously leaned towards pallid, marble-like face, close enough to feel someone else's breath on the skin, and whispered,

"Fyodor?" 

Chapter Text

With a delicate hesitancy, as if afraid to scare away, he cautiously leaned towards pallid, marble-like face, close enough to feel someone else's breath on the skin, and whispered,

"Fyodor?"

Nothing.

As anticipated, only silence enveloped the room, but this time, it wasn't a mere illusion. A shiver coursed through Nikolai as if bitten, prompting him to stand up, immersed in deep contemplation. Inflicting harm upon Fyodor in his comatose state seemed futile and somehow cruel, particularly given Fyodor's known high tolerance for pain. Nikolai hesitated, reluctant to cause suffering to someone who, even in consciousness, endured pain with remarkable resilience.

Instead, Nikolai extended his hand, running his fingers through Fyodor's long, dark hair, shimmering with the hues of a purple bloom. Despite Dostoevsky's menacing aura, he appeared terribly unaccustomed to physical contact. There was a clear attempt to withdraw and avoid connection with others, or perhaps, based on Nikolai's experiences, an inclination to remain rooted in place. However, he couldn't help but wonder whether Fyodor actually wanted to avoid the touch or simply avoided it because of fear. Nikolai refrained from jumping to conclusions, wary of the potential for error. Instead, he let his fingers trace a delicate path across Fyodor's forehead, skimming over thin eyebrows, gliding down his cheeks and chin, following the contour of his jawline until they reached the spot between his brows. There, he encountered the sharp line of a cheekbone, continuing the tactile exploration until he discovered what he sought: a scar beneath the corner of Fyodor's eye. Evidently, a remnant from the turbulent flight or a result of the helicopter's impact before Nikolai shielded him with his overcoat. The glass cut deep into Fyodor's eyelid, blood flowing freely, revealing a concussion and a fractured skull.

Lifting the injured eyelid, Nikolai gazed into the bloodshot orb, closely observing its movements. Blood seeped through the bandages wrapped around Fyodor's torso, a stark reminder of the neglected task to disinfect the wounds that day. Despite being an ability user, Fyodor's anemia hindered his regeneration.

A sudden voice shattered the silence, echoing through the darkness, "Kolya!" It jolted Nikolai, prompting him to release Fyodor. Fyodor's commanding and emotionless hiss followed, "Убери свои клешни."

His eyes, now wide open, revealed a captivating violet hue with subtle red undertones, reminiscent of delicate orchids or the gentle shades of lavender.

For a brief moment, Nikolai was at a loss for words. The sound of Fyodor's voice and even hisses of pain fueled an overwhelming desire in Nikolai to embrace him, to kiss him senseless. Tempting as it was, the thought lingered briefly, dismissed by the realization that such an impulsive act would be unwise. Even in his weakened state, Fyodor could probably muster enough indignant fury to put an end to Nikolai.

"Ти прокинувся," Nikolai finally stated, a mix of surprise and relief coloring his tone. They sat in stony silence, just looking at each other, as if reveling in each other's presence.

The metallic tang of blood lingered in the air, underscored by the coldness of the room that seemed to seep into his bones.

Fyodor opened his lips to say something, but his already broken voice violently hitched, and he started coughing, his frail frame shaking, now soaked in blood. The coppery scent of blood intensifies, panic gripping Nikolai as he stood up to grab water bottles, towels, and tissues with a practiced efficiency. "It's alright. Don't try to speak right now, just keep breathing," he urged, gently placing the towels within reach. Fyodor nodded weakly, still coughing occasionally.

After Fyodor's coughing fit, Nikolai guided him to sit against the headboard, concern etched on his face. Once the immediate tasks were done, Nikolai handed Fyodor a water bottle he placed on the nightstand next to him, the cold plastic offering a sense of comfort.  "Here," he smiled as Fyodor greedily gulped the entire liquid in a few seconds. "Good," Nikolai reassured, patting him on his shoulder.

After a while, as Fyodor's breathing became more even, Nikolai softly inquired, "Фёдор, ты меня слышишь?"  (Fyodor, can you hear me?) Again, Fyodor replied with a nod, his gaze steady and focused. With concern lingering in his eyes, Nikolai waited anxiously for a reply.

"Why am I here?" Fyodor wondered out loud .

The corners of his pale lips curved downwards.

Nikolai decided it was best to continue playing, pretending everything was fine while he contemplated the decision.

"As always, you reason right away, Dos-kun.” He laughed heartily when he saw Fedya acting like his normal self. “Are you awake! How do you feel? Are you all right?"

Fyodor looked intently into Nikolai’s heterochromic irises; since Nikolai did not carry a card after the incident, but his gaze did not waver "Почему ты вмешался?" he asked in Russian, ignoring Nikolai’s questions.

Nikolai blinked rapidly, caught off guard by the sudden query. The question itself didn’t seem odd enough to warrant it; after all, Nikolai had asked that exact question multiple times himself—Why did he intervene? Wasn't killing Fyodor, setting up a life-or-death struggle between Dazai and his friend, a beautiful scene, a triumphant curtain announcing Nikolai's arrival at his goal? Yet, he was surprised by the sudden intensity with which Fyodor asked. Mistrust on Fyodor’s part stung painfully, forcing Nikolai to purse his lips.

“What do you mean? Of course, you’re here… where else would you be?” he laughed with his usual joyful giggle, “why were you pretending to be asleep?” he asked instead.

The look in Fyodor's eyes grew more agitated as he watched Nikolai speaking without stopping, but it soon settled down again and returned to its former serenity, as if nothing had transpired.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he inquired, his voice laced with a subtle hint of displeasure.  “I woke up in terrible pain in an unfamiliar place. Even now I don’t know why you didn’t let me die and what you want from me.”

It wasn’t “saved me,” and instead, he chose “didn’t let me die.” He thought bitterly, then shook his head in an effort to dispel those thoughts, trying to forget them altogether. A flash of anger crossed Fyodor’s eyes and then disappeared again. “Don't try playing dumb. If you don’t answer me…”

"That was the game I chose, Fedya," Nikolai singsongs, "and you won by my rules after all – the first to leave the Mersault’s gates! It’s only fair to save you, or I would have gone against myself, you know?" Nikolai, the skilled actor he was, concealed the inner conflict he harbored. Were it anyone else, they wouldn't even guess his true emotions.

Fyodor's expression changed swiftly, shifting into an indifferent demeanor. "I now understand. You have finally arrived at what I told you. But even on the way to realizing the truth, you chose to abandon it, and now you are completely confused." The clown's pupils dilated as he looked at Fyodor, who read his real emotions with almost the same amazement as when they first met. How did Fyodor do it? Understanding Nikolai's emotions almost better than he himself did. Yet, if earlier this led to thoughts of closeness, now... Fyodor perceives him not as someone close but more like a lost person seeking help in a church. His expression was stern and unfazed, as though he were reading the future with his eyes shut.

He then pressed on, his voice taking on an unsettling edge, "Do you grasp the gravity of how you betrayed yourself and the reasons you find yourself in this predicament?" Nikolai's gaze bore into Fyodor, the weight of the words hanging in the air. A tense pause lingered before Nikolai responded, a rare seriousness coloring his tone, “Does your understanding hold any real weight, Fedya? What value does it have if you manipulate it solely for your own benefit?”

Fyodor looked confused, lost in the situation for the second time in front of Nikolai. “You’re losing your touch!” Nikolai giggled, the lightheartedness in stark contrast to the gravity of their conversation. “You agreed to that plan yourself,” Fyodor heaved breathlessly, the prolonged discourse taking its toll. “You said so, you did it,” he countered, a mixture of annoyance and a subtle undercurrent of hurt in his voice.

“Yes, I did. I agreed that I would embrace death as my final mission. And you were the one who convinced me,” Nikolai explained with a slight grin.

“I only granted you what you desired to achieve,” Fyodor smoothly added as an undeniable argument.

The conversation came to a halt, leaving an unsettling tension hanging in the air. Exhausted, Fyodor closed his eyes, and Nikolai proceeded to change his bandages in silence, the room filled with the quiet sounds of their shared history.

Chapter Text

The sting of pain pierced Fyodor's consciousness as he awoke once more, the echoes of adrenaline fading away. His keen mind swiftly assessed the injuries. The once-silent body now whispered muted tales of pain and sufferring.

Fyodor's gaze traveled over his surroundings, the stark reality of his injuries settling in. The room seemed to constrict around him, a constant reminder of vulnerability. His eyes flickered to Nikolai, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. Fyodor's hand unconsciously rose to stroke his scarred cheek, feeling the rough, jagged texture beneath his fingertips. He felt a pang of sadness wash over him as memories flashed in his mind, the pain of his scars, his wounds, the fear he felt back then.

He sighed heavily and lowered his head, closing his eyes as he gathered his bearings. Trying to divert his thoughts from the throbbing in his head, tightness in his chest, and the emptiness in his stomach, he inhaled the antiseptic scent, grounding himself. When he opened his eyes, Nikolai, ever the performer, met Fyodor's gaze with a feigned nonchalance. Yet, beneath the surface, a current of tension lingered, and Fyodor sensed the nervousness hiding just behind the facade, threatening to burst forth with every move made by the man beside him.

"How are you feeling?" Nikolai smiled lightly, attempting to appear carefree. Fyodor saw through the facade, recognizing it as a mere ruse. Was Nikolai trying to conceal something from him? His mind raced, concluding that if Nikolai intended to kill him, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble of saving and nursing him back to health.

As Fyodor attempted to shift his position, a sharp pang shot through him, a stark reminder that pain, like an unwelcome companion, lingered despite the haze of medication. The room's silence was broken only by the occasional creak of the bed, a subtle symphony of discomfort.

His torso screamed in agony, the pain more piercing and unbearable than the general ache in his body and bones. It felt as if he had been sliced through a meat grinder, every movement sending waves of pain through him. His body was stiff, as if it had been in sleep too long. Even trying to move his hands proved to be a daunting chore. He attempted to clench his fingers to ground himself, only to realize that something was amiss. There was a part of him where he should feel pain, but didn’t. His entire hand seemed absent. God.

It wasn't numbness; instead, a strange emptiness engulfed him, as if a part of him had disconnected. Panic surged, adrenaline coursing through his veins and dispelling the lingering effects of painkillers. The realization hit him with a visceral force – a phantom limb, an absence that spoke of deeper wounds.

With fearful trepidation, Fyodor dragged his working hand to the numb one. Relief washed over him as his fingers met the unfamiliar stillness. Thank God, the connection was there.

Nikolai's gaze shifted to the replanted hand, the gravity of the situation sinking in. He knew the harsh truth – the complexities of the treatment and the slim chances of restoring full function to Fyodor's hand. The air hung heavy with the weight of the unsaid as Fyodor uttered, “Nikolai, I can’t feel my hand," he wheezed, his voice strained by both pain and the weight of this newfound realization.

Nikolai's tone carried a peculiar mix of dark humor and whimsy as he responded, "Well, you see, Fedya. When I teleported you, it happened that your hand was lost. It's just such a tiny random fluke." He attempted to infuse levity into the heavy atmosphere, aware that humor, no matter how morbid, was their shared coping mechanism in the face of adversity. Fyodor, in his desperation for an answer, gave him an icy glare, and although it lacked the heat it usually possessed.

“But it's still there,” he said while holding the injured hand with the working one. “Don’t tell me... Is it prosthetic then?”

“Obviously not, through a nice idea, Dos-kun!” Nikolai laughed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Fyodor looked at him unimpressed by his jovial performance. "Oh, come now. I wouldn't dare to replace your hand with a mere souvenir. I made sure Fedya got the best treatment." Fyodor's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Treatment or experimentation? Knowing your penchant for the dramatic, I wouldn't put it past you to try something unconventional." There was a subtle tension in his tone, an unspoken acknowledgment of the twisted dance they often found themselves in.

Nikolai chuckled darkly, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. "Oh, Fedya, you wound me. Even though I can be cruel, I prefer my friend to be functional. Your hand is right here where it belongs, albeit with a few extra stitches. You're in for a fascinating recovery." Fyodor, however, remained silent, a fleeting moment of seriousness crossing his features.

Summoning courage, Fyodor slowly removed the blankets covering his body. Each movement was a deliberate act, an exploration into the unknown. The sight that greeted him, though expected, sent shivers down his spine. Bandages wrapped around his torso, hinting at the injuries beneath, and the frailty of his form became painfully apparent.

Fyodor's eyes darted downward, finding the source of the unsettling sensation. His hand, bandaged and fragile, seemed to belong to someone else. He attempted to move his fingers, urging them to obey commands that were met with eerie silence. It wasn't merely pain; it was the disconcerting void of sensation that gripped him. In that moment, he confronted not only the physical toll of his injuries but the disconnection from his own body—a chilling reminder of the vulnerability beneath the surface

Closing his eyes against rising emotions, he suppressed any displays. Emotional restraint was crucial at a time like this if he intended to confront Nikolai.

In a low voice, Fyodor whispered, “Why? “ His words tumbling out with a trembling uncertainty.

"Because," Nikolai responded, his own uncertainty woven into the silence that followed. His gaze remained fixed on Fyodor's bandaged hand, his expression thoughtful and pensive. His fingers twitched in response to a sudden memory as he attempted to formulate his next words.

"Because," he continued, the word carrying the weight of a confession. He paused, the simple act of looking directly into Fyodor's eyes was difficult enough when he didn't wear the card.  "Because, despite everything, I couldn't bring myself to let you go, Fedya. In the chaos of our existence, your absence would have been a void I couldn't bear."

As his voice trailed off at that last sentence, an uneasy silence settled over the two men's shoulders. Fyodor met with a contemplative stare, Nikolai's gaze burning into his own. A fleeting glimpse of something indiscernible flitted across Nikolai's expression before it vanished, replaced by a solemn, concerned mask. An unsettling familiarity overcame Fyodor—an unnerving sense of foreboding that sent a shiver down his spine. There was something unspoken in those heterochromic, expressive eyes, hidden beneath the facade that concealed the true meaning behind Nikolai's words.

Fyodor wasn't afraid of death. If anything, he welcomed it with open arms. He hadn't wanted to die, not because he feared dying, but rather because he didn't want to lose everything when he was so close to his goal.

However, he feared the attachments he had unwittingly gained. It wasn't uncommon for people to have attachments, meant to sustain them through adversity or to keep them going. Fyodor supposed it was possible, but the notion left him feeling unsettled, as if it were somehow unnatural or wrong. Attachments weren't something he believed were meant for him or Gogol.

Uncertain how to react, Fyodor felt a freeze momentarily. He didn't expect this kind of honesty from the Ukrainian, who seemed aloof and distant. Despite their past, Nikolai had always appeared far removed from his feelings in his quest to escape emotions. Fyodor looked away uncomfortably.

A wave of emotion flooded Nikolai's senses, a surge that threatened to spill forth. There was no denying the obvious. Nikolai had never seen Fyodor like this before. It was a stark contrast from the impassioned and fiery man he knew, now as vulnerable as a fragile shell of a man, broken beyond repair, yet still capable of feeling.

Fyodor's eyes revealed traces of a loneliness that seemed to have taken residence deep within, a solitude that spanned beyond the physical injuries. He had grown accustomed to being alone, trusting no one, and now, even as Nikolai appeared to have saved him, trust didn't come easy. Fyodor's skepticism clung to him like a second skin, and the notion that someone might genuinely care enough to intervene in his demise felt foreign, as if he had forgotten about the concept entirely.

As if Fyodor had suddenly become emotionally vulnerable, something about the gesture struck him as strangely sincere and genuine. Even if it was a lie, it didn't stop it from having an impact. The moment felt fragile, almost delicate, as Fyodor searched for signs of deceit. The soft look in Nikolai’s eyes told him nothing; his gaze held no malice nor mockery but rather a warm sincerity that spoke more eloquently than the Russian could ever manage to.

It seemed as if Nikolai were able to discern some of his thoughts, his countenance softened. "Fyodor, I know you don’t believe me," he said, moving closer to inspect Fyodor's injured hands with gentle fingertips. Despite his nonchalant demeanor, Nikolai's actions conveyed a genuine concern for Fyodor's well-being, creating a tense atmosphere between them. Fyodor grappled with the uncertainty of this abrupt shift in their relationship.

Fyodor swallowed thickly, a bitter taste forming in his mouth at the thought of allowing anyone else near him, to aid him. Even the prospect of accepting help terrified him. His voice wavered, his resolve faltering as he spoke, “I can’t.”

Nikolai sighed softly, disappointment and regret flickering across his expression. "I understand that..."

“Thank you," Fyodor breathed softly as his eyelids fell slowly. He could see the confusion and distress swirling through Nikolai's expression; he wanted to give voice to what he was feeling but, as he was prone to doing, he had difficulty voicing anything. Instead, he opted for another question: "Do you know how long I've been asleep?" he asked, hoping to divert attention from the fact that his words had left him shaking.

Nikolai blinked, caught off guard by the question. His gaze lingered on Fyodor's face, revealing a mix of concern and hesitancy. "Three months," he admitted, the uncertainty evident in his tone. "The doctors say your vital signs have stabilized, which is good, at least... I hope. But they couldn’t guarantee that you will wake up, so I brought you here." Fyodor's eyes widened, a mixture of disbelief and realization crossing his features. The implications of three months lost echoed in the silence between them.

Fyodor's mind raced to catch up with the time that slipped away, questions forming but hesitating on his lips.

"You were in a coma, and I... was bored out of my mind! Do you know how quiet it was, and you were just lying all day, talking even less than usual!" Nikolai's gaze bore into Fyodor's, seeking some form of comprehension. Swiftly masking his emotions, Nikolai returned to his usual manner, though with a more serious demeanor. Fyodor, still grappling with the weight of the newfound information, observed the shift in Nikolai's demeanor.

The realization that he had survived, the knowledge that Nikolai couldn’t let go of his emotions after all – none of these things should have surprised him, but they did. As the truth settled, Fyodor's gaze shifted from Nikolai's no longer hidden eye to the bandaged remnants of his hand.Nikolai had always known just what to say to bring him out of his shell, and despite Fyodor's belief that he could control Nikolai's unpredictability by understanding the buttons to press for his plans, it turned out that, despite his expectations, Nikolai had still managed to surprise him anyway.

Nikolai continued, his voice measured, "We are not in a hurry; we are safe in a quiet area on the outskirts of Ukraine. We can wait." A slight smile curved his lips as his eyes flashed with determination—a small glimmer of hope, one that Fyodor couldn’t ignore and accepted with resignation, even if he desperately wished otherwise. It was a bittersweet feeling, thrust upon him by a bittersweet reality that required the use of both strength and wit.

"You're still hurting…" Nikolai murmured quietly, his voice hoarse, distracting Fyodor from his thoughts. Fyodor sighed lightly, averting his gaze in embarrassment. "But… You seem to be handling it better than expected, considering what happened," Nikolai added with a hint of humor, his tone conveying amusement. Despite himself, Fyodor's lips tugged slightly upwards, his eyes briefly falling to glance at the bandage.

As Nikolai sat beside him, Fyodor finally succumbed to the exhaustion that had overtaken him once again.

Sleep was calling his name. In the quiet of the room, Fyodor whispered a prayer of gratitude, thanking God for sparing his life and guiding him through this unexpected journey. The rhythmic repetition of a religious mantra accompanied him into the realm of dreams, a soothing balm for his weary soul. Each sacred phrase brought forth memories of his mother's gentle voice, the same words she had shared with him during his childhood. The familiar cadence provided a comforting connection to the past, a reassuring presence in the uncertain present.

Chapter Text

The kitchen echoed with the rhythmic sounds of Nikolai's culinary dance. He moved gracefully, orchestrating a symphony of ingredients as he prepared a hearty soup. The kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of simmering borscht. The harmonious melody of knife meeting cutting board played out in the kitchen as jester diced fresh vegetables, their vibrant colors promising a rich and flavorful meal. The fragrant steam rising from the pot enveloped him, carrying the essence of beets, cabbage, and herbs. With a touch of his unique ability, Nikolai efficiently navigated the kitchen, swiftly moving from one task to another. It was a dance of flavors, a culinary symphony, enhanced by the seamless flow granted by his extraordinary skills.

With each stir of the pot, his practiced hand created a mesmerizing dance of broth, the liquid swirling in a hypnotic pattern. The sizzle of ingredients meeting the simmering liquid filled the air, and he inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar aroma that brought back memories of shared meals and unspoken moments. Each ingredient carried a story, and as he added them to the mix, he found solace in the simple act of preparing a meal for his friend.

As the borscht stewed on the stove, a tangible sense of relief washed over him. The passage of time had not only allowed the flavors to meld but also brought about a change in his own psychological state. The rhythmic clink of the ladle echoed a steadier heartbeat, a testament that he wasn't the same man who once teetered on the edge of losing his mind, driven by desperate measures. He marveled at the transformation, both in the pot and within himself. While scars still lingered, both visible and hidden, he had managed to navigate the labyrinth of his own mind, finding a semblance of stability.

Carefully ladling the steaming soup into a bowl, he ventured into Fyodor's room. Soft light from the setting winter sun illuminated the modest space, adorned with minimal furniture and neutral-colored walls. On a small table near the bed lay packs of bandages, bottles of medicines and injections he had prepared to lessen pain. With a deft touch of his overcoat, or rather cardigan, Nikolai removed the bottles neatly, arranging them with precision, and placed the tray of soup on the table.  

Fyodor lay neatly on the bed in the hushed ambiance of his room, connected to an IV drip on his left. The scent of borscht wafted in the air, embodying the healing power of time and resilience. His improved appearance did not escape Nikolai’s observant gaze. The pallor that once dominated Fyodor’s features had softened, a testament to the slow but steady progress in his recovery.

As he presented the bowl of borscht, Fyodor’s eyes, though still reflecting the lingering effects of his ordeal, held a glimmer of vitality. However, a hint of a wry smile played on his lips as he took in the aromatic soup.

Noting Fyodor’s inability to use his injured hand and the shakiness of the other, Nikolai took on the role of caretaker—a lesson learned from Fyodor’s past stubborn attempt at self-feeding. Gently feeding him the warm borscht, he watched silently as malnourished man chewed slowly.

After swallowing several spoonfuls of the soup, a light shade of pink colored his cheeks. “This is… delicious,” Fyodor stated, unable to stop the faint smile from stretching across his lips.

Smiling faintly as well, Nikolai nodded, pleased with the compliment. “I’m glad you enjoy it.”

After a few sips, Fyodor’s gaze met Nikolai’s, and he uttered with a touch of humor, “Nikolai, do you happen to have any vodka hidden somewhere? It seems I’ve been away from it for far too long.”

He sighed, his expression betraying a mix of regret and responsibility. “You’re on antibiotics, Fedya.”

Fyodor frowned, the disappointment evident in his eyes. “I need that to function, Nikolai.”

Nikolai couldn’t help but chuckle, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Well, Dos-kun, I guess you’ll have to settle for the medicinal properties of borscht for now. It’s a worthy substitute, I assure you.”

He rolled his eyes, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Medicinal borscht? You might be taking this caretaker role too seriously, Gogol.”

Nikolai laughed playfully. “Dos-kun, with the cocktail of medication you’re about to dive into—iron pills, painkillers, antibiotics—I might as well officially rename this borscht to ‘Medicinal Elixir.’ It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

Fyodor smirked, shaking his head. “You’re turning my recovery into a concoction. I hope you’re not planning to add any more surprises.”

Jester grinned mischievously, leaning closer towards Fyodor conspiratorially. “I have a plan, and it won’t involve any unexpected twists.”

Ever the skeptic, he quipped. “A plan that seems to promise more surprises than this borscht?”

Raising a playful eyebrow, Nikolai’s grin widened. “Well, Dos-kun, how do you plan to avoid a life filled with constant explosions of surprises?”

With a subtle smile, he replied, “I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see how it all unfolds. Some surprises, leave scars that linger longer than we expect."

Nikolai’s face fell slightly. “I guess so.”

Fyodor discerned a subtle shift in his demeanor. The escape from Meursault, following Fyodor's defeat and subsequent severe injury, seemed to have left its mark on Nikolai, prompting him to reassess his typically overjoyful and dramatic persona.

As Nikolai fed Fyodor soup in the quiet of the moment, a tender exchange unfolded between them. The careful spoonfuls conveyed a sense of care and understanding. Though every part of his being ached, the savory notes of the borscht carried an unexpected comfort, like a lullaby for a soul in need of healing. Fyodor's lips curled into a faint smile, savoring not only the soup but the unspoken care woven into each bite—a testament to the quiet connection that words could never fully capture.

Breaking the silence, Nikolai broached a question that weighed on his mind. His eyes reflected curiosity as he asked, "So, tell me, Fedya, did you predict that you would lose and everything else?" The question hung in the air, revealing an undercurrent of uncertainty.

Caught off guard, Fyodor paused before responding, "There isn't much to tell." Instead of delving into an explanation, he found himself lost in his thoughts. After a thoughtful silence, in a more philosophical and contemplative tone, he continued, "My life has always been a solitary one, marked by boredom and monotonous existence." Despite Fyodor's typically closed-off nature, a subtle shift occurred. There was vulnerability in his gaze, a glimpse of the emotions he usually kept well-hidden. "My time in the death game, the cat-and-mouse game against Dazai—those were the only moments I felt less bored, genuinely entertained. Can you understand that?"

Feeling a twinge of jealousy, Nikolai playfully interjected, "Well, I was the initiator of that game, you know."

Fyodor agreed with a smirk, "Certainly, Nikolai, you are amazing." He added in Russian, "Мой невероятный друг."

"But it wasn't just the game," he remarked, a touch of bittersweetness in his tone. "Even my time in prison, where I could talk with Dazai, felt more enjoyable than the usual dullness of life. It's a strange thing, finding solace in such circumstances."

Nikolai managed a tight smile, the corners of his lips threatening to tear, much like he wished he could tear at his long silver hair in frustration. An undeniable hint of jealousy lingered in his gaze, a subtle flicker of insecurity that he tried to conceal beneath his usual bravado.

Unaware of Nikolai’s internal conflict, Fyodor continued, “And just to think that this game, which was between us, was never like this, and I played it alone... Isn't it strange that this upsets me more than the fact that I was outplayed?” Fyodor asked, no one in particular, his gaze fixed on his right hand in thoughtful contemplation. His expression, as far as one could discern from someone as typically emotionless as Fyodor, could be described as saddened.

Disturbed by Fyodor's admission of perpetual boredom and loneliness, Nikolai couldn't help but interpret it as a sign that Fyodor was also bored with him. The realization deepened the undercurrents of emotions, and Nikolai, unable to endure the jealousy bubbling within him, sharply shoveled a spoonful of soup into Fyodor’s mouth, jolting him out of his musings. Somewhat irritated, Fyodor retorted, "Are you trying to break my teeth on top of all the injuries I've suffered?”

Attempting to diffuse the tension, Nikolai pointed at the bowl of borscht, "The soup is getting cold. Better finish it before it turns completely tasteless," he suggested, hoping to shift the mood. Fyodor, sensing the change, voiced his observation, “You’re acting different than usual. Of course, you have always been a person full of emotions, but before you were in control. Now… you seem unsure about what you want or feel. I would even call it mood swings." Annoyance seeped into Fyodor's tone, a slightly petulant, slightly accusatory note.

The accusation pricked at Nikolai's nerves. Fyodor didn't know everything, but he knew enough. Nikolai's heart pounded furiously as he stared at the spoon poised above Fyodor's mouth, his fingers quivering slightly. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to admit it; confessing how he'd been suffering these past weeks and months felt almost embarrassing.

Hesitating for a moment, Nikolai struggled to find the right words. Finally, he managed a weak, unconvincing chuckle, feigning nonchalance. "Don't worry, Dos-kun, It’s just that I lost my card!” he declared, pointing to his newly uncovered eye.

As he spoke, Nikolai realized the full perspective his uncovered eye offered. He used to favor his covered side, staying vigilant for potential danger. But now, his once-hidden eye, which used to see better than the scarred one, offered unblurred vision, and the clarity had become the new normalcy. Even catching glimpses of Fyodor’s aristocratic features—high cheekbones, beautiful violet eyes, and a long, pointed nose—felt like an indulgence he had reserved for private moments they shared before.

"Oh, I noticed... so, why not find a new card? It should be easy, given your teleportation ability," Fyodor suggested, seemingly convinced by Nikolai's story.

Nikolai grumbled, "No. It wouldn't be the same. It was a special card."

"I see. Why didn't you return, then? Did you look for it?" Fyodor pondered, dumbfounded.

"It wasn't there," Nikolai replied, turning his back to Fyodor, wearing a pouting expression like a child.

"The card couldn't be the only one in the world. I'm sure it can be made to order in a pinch or found on the internet. You can take my hidden savings and buy it," Fyodor suggested, his tone serious yet supportive. Sensing Nikolai's hesitation, Fyodor added, "Besides, you have beautiful eyes, Nikolai. Even losing the card can have its benefits.”

Nikolai grumbled, flustered about the card not being sold online. Picking up on the shift, Fyodor decided to let the moment pass and focused on finishing the soup instead. The cadenced clinking of the spoon against the bowl filled the air as they continued the comforting routine.

Noticing that the conversation had shifted, Nikolai changed his focus to Fyodor's well-being and injuries. A pang of worry struck Nikolai's heart as he observed the bandages wrapped around Fyodor's hand. Fyodor’s fingers and palm had been bandaged too, requiring wet-dry dressings with solutions of Iodopirone for a month before the burns healed. Seeing Nikolai's concern, Fyodor remarked, "They're healing nicely," choosing not to share the burning sensation and unbearable pain he started to feel in his replanted hand after the weariness of coma lifted. Despite Fyodor's attempt to downplay his pain, a subtle furrow in his brow betrayed the discomfort he experienced.

Nikolai, known for breaking tension with humor, remarked, "Don't try to act stubborn, Fedya. I'm well aware of your pain.”

As Nikolai's mind drifted back to the recent incident that had sent a wave of panic through him, he couldn't shake the vivid memory of Fyodor suddenly struggling to breathe, the ominous wheezing sounds filling the air. Nikolai's usual composure shattered in that moment.

"You know, Fedya, I was genuinely scared," he admitted, his voice carrying a rare vulnerability. "Seeing you like that, struggling for air... it's not something I want to experience again." Nervously chuckling at his own admission, he added, "I thought I might have to give you mouth-to-mouth, and you know how much you dislike unnecessary physical contact."

Fyodor shot him an exasperated look, a flicker of annoyance evident in his eyes. "You're exaggerating, as always."

Nikolai grinned, his tone light but sincere, "Well, it was a close call. Let's try to avoid them.”

Fyodor couldn't suppress a smirk at Nikolai's attempt to lighten the atmosphere. Their exchange, blending playful banter with genuine concern, prompted Fyodor to delve into a more profound topic.

"You know, Nikolai, the concept of pain is fascinating. It's a constant reminder of our mortality, a visceral experience that grounds us in reality," Fyodor mused, his eyes holding a contemplative gaze.

Nikolai raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Fyodor's philosophical turn. "And what brought on this sudden introspection, Fedya?"

Fyodor shrugged, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps surviving a near-death experience makes one ponder the nature of existence. Or maybe I'm just bored."

Nikolai chuckled, appreciating Fyodor's unique blend of seriousness and nonchalance. "Well, I'm glad you're here to share your existential musings. But I’m serious about bringing a doctor to check on you," Nikolai stated, his tone a mix of concern and determination as he placed the empty bowl of soup on the dark brown nightstand near the bed.

Fyodor, sighed tiredly, realizing the gravity of the situation. He questioned, “Maybe you’re right…my condition is really not good, and I completely overlooked it. We’re on the run, aren’t we?” The weight of their circumstances hung in the air, a sobering reminder of the precarious position they were in. After a brief pause, Fyodor added, “…and I assume it’s not good?”

Nikolai sighed, his gaze somber. "Meursault is no joke. Our lovely faces are plastered across the news, and governments are hunting us down. There are even text messages warning about two high-ranking terrorists on the run. Our charming reputation precedes us, Fedya." The irony in his voice carried the weight of their fugitive status. They had become infamous criminals, escaping from Meursault – a place they had initially intended to reach. However, they hadn't foreseen that Meursault itself would become such a formidable obstacle.

Fyodor chuckled, his voice hitching breathlessly, "Weren't you showing off your undetectable skills back then in Meursault? How did you end up on the news?" The strain in his voice was evident, betraying the toll his physical state was taking on him.

Nikolai jokingly responded, "Well, the helicopter incident wasn't part of my plan to kill you, Fedya." His expression shifted to a more serious tone as he continued, "When I pulled you out of the helicopter, you were delirious and bleeding terribly. I wasn't careful; I was mainly trying to figure out which hospital would be better to teleport to."

As Nikolai recalled the incident, a dark memory surfaced. The corpse-like paleness of Fyodor, surrounded by a pool of his own blood, etched itself into Nikolai's mind. The contrast against Fyodor's white skin made the scene haunting. In his delirium, Fyodor mumbled names and repeated religious verses, urgently pleading in Russian, "Господи, помоги мне." ("God, help me.") He muttered the mantra over and over again, his pale complexion contrasting. The more blood he lost, the more did Fyodor's delirium intensify, reaching a point where he called out Nikolai's name in desperation, expressing a fear of burning. Nikolai, terrified, questioned whether it was from the helicopter heating up, even though he had teleported Fyodor before the explosion. The uncertainty lingered, and Nikolai, in a stupor, crouched before Fyodor, checking for burns and cradling his face. "Коля, Николай, помогите. Мне больно. Я горю?" ("Kolya, Nikolai, help. It hurts. Am I burning?") Fyodor's fearful words pierced through the cacophony of the burning helicopter.

As he moved wet hair aside, revealing violet eyes in hopes of capturing Fyodor's attention, Nikolai found those eyes hazy and fearful. They glistened sickly, like the eyes of a dying man, a stark contrast to the usual cold, calculating gaze. Fyodor's look was aimless, a deviation from the sharp, focused demeanor that characterized him. The instinctive fear in his eyes seemed foreign on someone like Fyodor, adding another layer of distress to the already unsettling scene. Desperation crept into Nikolai's voice as he reassured, "Нет, голубчик, ты не горишь. Ты в безопасности. Я вытащил тебя вовремя." ("No, dove, you're not burning. You're safe. I got you out in time.”)

Instead of the desired clarity in Fyodor's eyes, a sudden violent choke seized him and a torrent of unintelligible gibberish accompanied his struggle. As he coughed up blood, his frail frame shuddered from the brutal impact. Nikolai’s eyes widened, capturing the grim reality of Fyodor’s deteriorating condition, prompting him to act swiftly.

The beam had ruthlessly pierced Fyodor’s torso, potentially inflicting severe damage to his lungs and internal organs. The violent coughing fit and bloodshed added another layer of urgency to the already dire situation. Recognizing the severity, Nikolai wasted no time. With a swift movement, he teleported them to a hospital, the sterile environment replacing the chaotic remnants of the damaged helicopter.

"Some of the Meursault guards probably saw me when I teleported us," Nikolai explained to Fyodor, providing necessary context for their current predicament.
Fyodor listened with an intense gaze, analyzing the information. "It wasn’t long before the news started spreading about three criminals on the run," he acknowledged, a hint of frustration evident in his voice. "So you know, we were forced to change hospitals."

He paused, and a wry smile played on his lips as he continued, "And it didn’t help that I may have threatened doctors when they wouldn’t agree to take you immediately." 

There was a touch of mischief in Fyodor's eyes, acknowledging the lengths Nikolai was willing to go for him.

Nikolai's voice took on a grim undertone. "It was caught on tape, Fyodor. Everything, including my charming threats."

Initially dismissive, Fyodor's analytical mind swiftly engaged. He pointed out with dissatisfaction, "You should have been more careful. Choose a discreet hospital, maybe an illegal doctor. There was a reason you were chosen to be a part of the Decay of Angels, the fact that you would act so unthinkingly…"

Interrupting, Nikolai defended his actions, "I needed the best medical first aid, and a discreet place wouldn't cut it. It was this or nothing."

Fyodor raised an eyebrow skeptically, "You claimed it was just a little threatening, but now it seems you held the whole hospital hostage."

Nikolai theatrically gasped, "Certainly not! My overcoat's little performance was persuasive enough."

Fyodor's eyes narrowed in disbelief. "A trick? I suspect there's more to it."

Leaning in, Nikolai grinned, "It's a very persuasive trick, my friend. Has a reputation of its own – quite handy for these situations."

Fyodor shook his head in a mix of exasperation and subtle amusement. "Sometimes, Nikolai, I wonder if your overcoat is more trouble than it's worth."

Nikolai simply grinned, unabashedly reveling in the banter he enjoyed.

“Ah, but I do want to see that videotape,” Fyodor added matter-of-factly, a playful gleam appearing in his eye.

As Nikolai, feigning a pondering expression, said, "Well, you see, my dear Феденька, I don't have the video saved at the moment,” a mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes.

Unbeknownst to Fyodor, Nikolai was already contemplating the need to ensure that Fyodor never laid eyes on the hospital’s camera tapes, preserving the raw emotions that had trapped him.

Fyodor, rolling his eyes with a sigh, shook his head in mock exasperation. With the soup bowls now empty, they were left with the unspoken understanding that their current dilemma demanded caution. The room fell into a comfortable silence, each lost in their thoughts about the uncertain future that loomed over them.

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of their conversation, Nikolai found himself thrust into an unexpected role, orchestrating a theatrical performance that could rival the finest productions. With a carefully selected doctor in tow, they artfully crafted a tale of survival, portraying themselves as ordinary pilots. The narrative suggested that they miraculously survived a tragic mishap that befell one of their own. The unwitting doctor, oblivious to their fugitive status, played his part seamlessly, eventually providing new prescriptions after a thorough examination.

The medical report unfolded like a grim novel, detailing the extensive damage inflicted on Fyodor's body during the escape. The penetrating trauma caused by the beam, accompanied by rib fractures in its path, marked a devastating impact. The torso injury, fortunately, spared other vital organs but left its mark on the left lung and 3-4 ribs. The beam and rib fragments pierced the left lung, causing severe damage, while the right lung, though affected, quickly healed without severe consequences. The chest bore the brunt of the assault, leading to pneumothorax and a collapsed lung.

The diaphragm, a critical component in respiratory function, faced significant damage, with torn ligaments and chest muscles. The list continued, chronicling a concussion, a once-fractured skull now adorned with a healing scar near the right eye, possible irritability, fatigue, and the lingering aftermath of a three-month coma – a period that left its mark in the form of muscle atrophy and restricted mobility. Despite already grappling with chronic anemia, the additional blood loss during the traumatic incident exacerbated Fyodor’s existing condition.

Amidst the somber prognosis, a silver lining emerged – the replanted arm was healing well, bringing a glimmer of hope. The doctor recommended physical therapy at a specialized institution, an option unattainable due to their criminal status. In response, Nikolai, ever resourceful, decided to take matters into his own hands. Determined to aid Fyodor's recovery, he resolved to learn the basics of physical therapy and implement it within the confines of their hidden sanctuary.

They kicked off with baby steps – simple stretches and basic movements that felt more like a comedy duo than a rehab routine. Nikolai would throw in a witty comment or two to lighten the mood,  turned the therapeutic efforts into a quirky performance. Fyodor, attempting to maintain his usual stoicism, couldn’t help but crack a smile at Nikolai’s playful antics.

One day, as they attempted a seemingly harmless leg exercise, Fyodor unexpectedly found himself losing balance. It was like a slow-motion fall, complete with flailing arms and a look of sheer surprise on Fyodor's face. Without missing a beat, Nikolai swooped in, arms outstretched, and managed to prevent a full-fledged collapse. They both ended up in a tangled heap on the floor, laughing at the unexpected turn of events.

While laughing, Nikolai extended a hand to Fyodor. “Ah, a spontaneous deviation from our meticulously crafted rehab routine – a strategic move to keep you on your toes, Fedya. After all, unpredictability is the spice of recovery, don’t you think?”

Fyodor, still caught in the mirth of the moment, couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at Nikolai’s clever spin. “Unpredictability, Nikolai? More like your attempt to inject chaos into our structured rehabilitation.”

Nikolai chuckled, “Consider it an artistic touch to our mundane exercises. Who knew physical therapy could be so thrilling?” As they regained their composure, Fyodor, still amused, accepted the help.

However, as they continued their makeshift rehab, Fyodor’s initial amusement at the unconventional exercises began to wane. The novelty of their comedic duo routine faded, replaced by a growing frustration at his own physical limitations. Nikolai, ever observant, started noticing the subtle signs of irritation creeping into Fyodor’s expressions. The laughter that once echoed in the room now gave way to a silence heavy with unspoken tension.

One day, after another attempt at a seemingly simple task ended in Fyodor stumbling, frustration bubbled to the surface. He slammed his left (working one obviously) hand on the nearby surface, a rare display of agitation. "This is ridiculous! I can't even do the basics without tripping over myself. It's infuriating!"

Surprised by Fyodor’s sudden outburst, Nikolai observed the frustration etched on Fyodor’s face and the subtle signs of discomfort. “ I guess the infamous Fyodor Dostoevsky isn’t as graceful as he thought! I understand it’s frustrating, but your replanted hand is still healing, and it must hurt.”

But Fyodor, gritted his teeth, his recovering form trembling. "No, it's not okay. I've always been in control, and now I feel like a stumbling fool. It's... it's unbearable."

Fyodor's aversion to failure, his discomfort with things not going according to plan. It struck at the core of his identity, challenging the very essence of his being.

Fyodor clenched his jaw, his eyes revealing a mix of physical pain and the struggle to accept his current limitations. “I hate feeling this helpless. It’s like my own body is betraying me.

Nikolai, usually the cheerful trickster, took a moment to gauge the severity of Fyodor’s frustration. He attempted to lighten the mood with a grin, “Well, who knew you had two left feet? Maybe we need to adjust the exercises for now.”

Fyodor shot him a withering look, the annoyance evident in his eyes. “This isn’t a joke, Gogol. I can’t even move properly, and my replanted hand feels like it’s going to fall off.”

Undeterred by the serious tone, Nikolai continued, “Come on, Dos-kun, we’ll just add ‘mastering the art of walking’ to your list of accomplishments. I’m sure you never had this chapter in mind.”

Fyodor’s irritation deepened, and he retorted, “Stop with the clown act, Nikolai. This isn’t a performance, and we’re not in this together.”

Nikolai, momentarily taken aback, let the cheerfulness fade. “Fyodor, I’m just trying to lighten the mood...”

Fyodor, still grappling with his frustration, shook his head. “I don’t think I am in the mood for more exercise today.”

Nikolai sighed,  “Alright, Fyodor. Let’s take a break for today. No pressure. We can try again tomorrow.” He rambled, feeling lost, and Fyodor seemingly ignored his existence in the room. His heart sank into his stomach. If only he could be the person Fyodor needed.

Fyodor, still seething with frustration, couldn't contain his dissatisfaction. "I never signed up for this. I don't need your incessant attempts at encouragement or your clumsy exercises. Just leave me be."

Nikolai, feeling the sting of Fyodor's words, struggled to maintain his positive demeanor. "Fedya, I understand this is difficult for you, but shutting me out won't change the situation. We're in this together, whether you like it or not."

Violet eyes bore into Nikolai with a venomous intensity. "Together? Don't delude yourself, Nikolai. I'm in this wretched state because of you. If you hadn't orchestrated that twisted game.”

Nikolai, hurt by the accusation, tried to defend himself. "Fedya, despite our differences, I saved you. I couldn't let you die. I..." Nikolai faltered, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions clouding his words. He couldn’t bring himself to admit the depth of his feelings, unsure how Fyodor would respond. He swallowed down his emotions and tried again.

‘I care about you, whether you believe it or not.’

But instead, he said “..Besides, this entire mess has come from your actions. You should blame yourself."

Fyodor’s response was unexpected. He started laughing, a deep, guttural sound that echoed through the room. His head was thrown back, resting on the head of the bed. It dawned on Nikolai, taken aback, realized he hadn’t seen this side of Fyodor before – not his anger, and certainly not him laughing out loud. He had always hoped to hear Fyodor’s laughter in response to his jokes, but the laughter he was hearing now was different. It was harsh, ugly, and filled with an unsettling edge.

Nikolai, typically seeking escapism through humor, faced the unfiltered reality of Fyodor’s disdain. The laughter ringing in his ears diverged starkly from the imagined response he yearned to evoke.

As the echoes of Fyodor's laughter subsided, he fixed his piercing gaze on Nikolai, the gravity of his words cutting through the strained air.

"Gogol, are you really so narrow-minded? I knew you were crazy, but this is too much."

For the first time, Nikolai felt the impact of Fyodor’s words, a stark departure from the usual acknowledgment of his calculated madness. Nikolai, who often asserted his sanity in the most extreme circumstances, now felt the weight of his friend’s judgment. The pain of compassion, usually dismissed as irrelevant, lingered in the air like an unspoken truth.

Fyodor’s assertion that Nikolai’s actions surpassed his understanding struck a deep chord.  Despite facing many perilous situations pursuing the Decay of Angels goal, this accusation pierced the core of Nikolai’s self-perception. Nikolai, who had frequently declared Fyodor as the exclusive individual capable of understanding him, now grappled with the bitter realization that even his closest friend considered him insane like everyone else.

The anguish beneath Nikolai’s usual cheerful facade surfaced in the pain evident in his eyes.

As Fyodor’s judged him, Nikolai, faced the realization that, in this moment, he wasn’t the master of levity but a wounded soul yearning for acceptance. The pain of Fyodor's rejection, expressed not in grand gestures but in a laughter that resonated with poison.

The room grew heavier as Nikolai sought to mend the rift, his plea echoing in the tense air. “You don’t mean what you’re saying now. We’ve endured too much together.”

Fyodor's response was a bitter retort, his words dripping with resentment. "Oh, Gogol, what do you expect? Do you want me to throw myself at your feet with thanks for my salvation?" He snorted. "Do not make me laugh! Unless you want to develop Stockholm syndrome in me, you yourself maimed my body and then saved me. How convenient, I can’t even run away, I can’t walk. I’m in this miserable state because of you, and I’m only here because I have to."

Caught in the crossfire of emotions, Nikolai’s attempt at reconciliation took a desperate turn. “It was never my intention! That sounds more like your kind of play, Fyodor.’ Almost oblivious to Fyodor’s words, Nikolai sought connection. ‘We’re friends, aren’t we? You’re the only one who truly understands me, and I—’”

Fyodor's cold laughter cut through Nikolai's words. "Some friend you are. Nobody needs a friend like you, Gogol. We're not friends. You're not even fit to be a pawn. You had one job, and you didn't do it. Moreover, you decided to disrupt the whole plan and developed a strong desire to kill me. What kind of friend does that, answer me? Ебанутый придурок."

Fyodor's choice of words, spoken with the cutting precision characteristic of him, left Nikolai reeling.

Undeterred by Fyodor's scathing words, Nikolai persisted in defending their connection. "Fedya, I might not have you all figured out, but there’s something between us that goes beyond the surface. And you... you seem to understand me better than anyone else, don’t you?”

Fyodor's gaze remained unyielding, his skepticism evident. "You think I understand you? Gogol, you're a mystery even to yourself. Our so-called bond is nothing more than a series of chaotic events and your misguided attempts at camaraderie. Don't delude yourself into thinking there's something profound between us."

Nikolai, a mixture of hurt and determination in his eyes, pressed on. "You’re not just someone in my eyes, Fedya. I’ve always considered you more than that. Despite everything, there's a connection, a friendship that—"

Fyodor cut him off with a derisive tone. "Because you're a fool, Gogol. A sentimentalist who can't see beyond the illusions you've created. We're not friends, and we never were. I was a means to an end for you, and you failed even at that."

Nikolai’s frustration bubbled up. “You were always the puppet master, pulling the strings. But guess what? Your strings are fraying, and you can’t stand that I might not dance to your tune anymore.”

Fyodor’s eyes narrowed. “Your fantasies are getting even more ridiculous, Nikolai. You’re digging your own grave, creating a mess even you can’t handle.”

Nikolai shot back, determination fueling his words. “Maybe, but at least I’m not bound by the chains of my own bitterness. You push everyone away, Fyodor, and one day, you’ll be left with nothing but the echo of your own solitude.”

He watched as an indescribable expression crossed Fyodor's features. A mixture of confusion and surprise colored his countenance. A brief flash of doubt crossed his face before he masked it with the same mask of calm collected composure he maintained throughout the entire evening.

As the silence thickened, Nikolai, fueled by a desperate attempt to cling to something meaningful, succumbed to hysterical giggles. “And that night, it didn’t mean anything either?”

Fyodor, seemingly impervious to the emotional storm, retorted, “We were both drunk and terribly tired, not to mention that nothing happened.”

In a desperate effort to fix their falling-apart bond, Nikolai, his eyes reflecting both pain and determination, argued, “Your words sounded sincere, and the kiss too!” He echoed Fyodor’s words back to him, “But lust is a barrier.”

Fyodor’s joyous retort echoed in the room, cutting through the tension, “Oh well done, at least you remembered something important.” Yet, beneath the banter, a palpable sense of loss lingered—an acknowledgment that what was salvaged was a mere shadow of what once was.

Nikolai’s laughter, initially a defense mechanism, now revealed a fragility. It was a desperate attempt to ease the pain of disintegration, a futile struggle against the growing chasm between them.

Fyodor’s unyielding demeanor masked the tumult within, the storm of conflicting emotions that brewed beneath the surface. In dismantling Nikolai’s perceptions, he stood as a complex figure, a blend of disdain and self-preservation.

***

In the dimly lit den of rats, Fyodor’s presence commanded the room. Dressed in his usual attire, he sat before a cello, drawing haunting melodies that echoed in the clandestine space. The soft glow of the dim lights highlighted the seriousness etched on his face as he created a symphony in the expansive room.

Nikolai, enamored by the unexpected beauty of Fyodor’s music, couldn’t help but feel a sense of connection in the harmonies that emerged. The usual more formal atmosphere surrounding them took a backseat as the cello’s lamentations filled the air.

As Fyodor’s fingers gracefully moved across the strings, he momentarily paused, and their eyes met in a silent acknowledgment

As the night wore on, a subtle shift occurred. Fyodor, his usual stoic façade softened by the effects of alcohol, shared fragments of himself that lay hidden beneath layers of calculated mind. Nikolai, equally affected by the spirits, detected a genuine sincerity in Fyodor’s words.

Fyodor’s gaze, usually guarded, carried an unspoken genuineness, as he uttered words that infused with a tenderness rare in their interactions. “Nikolai, you’re like a missing piece that somehow fits into the mess of my life. What is it about you that I find intriguing?” The vulnerability in his voice painted a portrait of a man unburdening himself, if only for a fleeting moment.

Nikolai, catching the subtle shift in the atmosphere, responded with a mix of curiosity and bemusement. "Fyodor, you always talk in riddles. What do you mean?"

Fyodor, a small smile playing on his lips, continued, "Just an observation. You manage to make sense in the senselessness."

"Well, you're not the most straightforward person either," Nikolai remarked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Touche. But there's more to you than meets the eye," Fyodor mused, his gaze unwavering.

"Oh? Do enlighten me. What’s the mystery?" Nikolai inquired, genuinely intrigued.

"You're not just a puzzle piece. You're more like the answer to a problem I didn’t know I had," Fyodor admitted, his words carrying a weight of honesty.

Nikolai, letting out a laugh, responded, "And what problem might that be?”

"The problem of finding something unexpectedly important," he confessed. “And how about me, Nikolai?” Fyodor then asked, a playful smirk on his face, as he tucked a lock of hair behind his ear.

Nikolai, meeting Fyodor’s violet gaze, remarked, “You’re not just intriguing; you’re like a breath of fresh air, releasing me from something I couldn’t quite put into words.”

Fyodor chuckled, “You talk as if I’m your salvation.”

Nikolai’s smile faded, replaced by a contemplative look. “Maybe you are. Maybe I need saving from the ordinary.”

As the words lingered in the air, Nikolai seized the opportunity.  “Hey, Fyodor, I’ve been meaning to ask – what is it about us that keeps things interesting?”

In a rare display of vulnerability, Fyodor, instead of answering, reached for Nikolai’s hand. Their fingers intertwining in a silent acknowledgment of shared understanding. The warmth of that touch transcended the dim surroundings, igniting a surge of affection within Nikolai. In that moment, time seemed to stand still, an expectant pause lingering between them, echoing Fyodor’s belief that actions spoke louder than words, dismissing idle chatter as meaningless babble.

Their gazes locked, and in that charged moment, Fyodor leaned in. Nikolai’s breath caught as their lips met, initiating a kiss that started with a tender touch and slowly deepened into a passionate exchange. The initial softness transitioned seamlessly into an exploration, a dance fueled by the intoxication of alcohol and the uncharted territories of their relationship.

In the midst of their fervent exchange, Fyodor’s murmured words lingered in the air like a forbidden confession, “Kolya, I could spend a lifetime studying you, and I would never reach the bottom of you.”

A moment later, Nikolai reciprocated the sentiment between breathless kisses, “I yearn to delve into every aspect of you, Fyodor. Your past, present, and the untold chapters of your future.”

They fell silent, lost in their own world as they savored the taste of each other. As their kiss intensified, hands exploring the contours of each other's bodies, a fervent passion consumed them. In the heat of the moment, Fyodor suddenly withdrew, his breath uneven as he sobered from the intoxicating embrace.

Nikolai, breathless and craving more, asked in a hushed tone, "Fedya, is everything okay?"

Fyodor, his gaze reflecting a mix of desire and restraint, replied with a somber truth, “Lust alone isn’t sufficient for individuals like us to maintain a lasting connection.” He gently withdrew from the embrace, drawing a shaky breath, “Yet, even so…” His words trailed off, uncertain of how to proceed.

Despite their precarious position, Nikolai offered a reassuring smile, "We'll figure it out.-“

“No, it would lead to our downfall; all we’ve worked for would be in vain. If I allowed myself to become entranced by this… illusion, I fear that I won’t be able to stop.”

A pained expression crossed his features. His words, while blunt and harsh, contained a depth that no amount of alcohol could drown. Despite Fyodor’s resolve, Nikolai knew that this was more than a mere drunken fumble with a stranger. As a final act of courage and hope, he reached for Fyodor and pulled him close to his body, not out of desperation but out of a silent understanding.

“You drive me mad every time I’m near you. I’d love nothing more than to destroy myself with you, but I’m afraid that if we do that…” Nikolai’s unspoken thoughts echoed in the lingering silence.

“How can we possibly survive with our passions unbridled?”  Nikolai questioned, his voice steady and contemplative, an unusual quietude devoid of emotion.

Fyodor shook his head his expression grim, as he retracted from Nikolai all together, “That wouldn’t be fair to either of us. We have to finish what we’ve set out to do." With that final word, Fyodor let go, turning to leave.

A wave of dread and desperation engulfed Nikolai, but Instead, he calmly stated, “I understand.” The acknowledgment was firm, reflecting his newfound resolve for freedom.

With the weight of their past still unresolved, there was no denying the obvious: their relationship may very well be over before it even began.  But perhaps that was exactly what they needed: the closure that Nikolai sought for his journey to attain emotional liberation and freedom, even if it meant facing the looming darkness ahead.

***

As Nikolai remembered Fyodor's words, a surge of tumultuous emotions enveloped him. Driven by this internal conflict, he declared, "You embody everything I despise in this world, - a blind faith in God, the yearning for a consistent order aligned with divine intent." He paused, his voice carrying the weight of resentment and frustration. "I should hate you for embodying such traits.”

“However..."

He turned and faced Fyodor, meeting his eyes with resolution, 

“...you don't. That's why we're here now.” Fyodor finished his sentence. 

“And that scares me. It terrifies me because it means that there’s something more than I thought.” Nikolai finished quietly, as though he too was unsure of whether he wanted to believe his thoughts.

Despite the momentary vulnerability, Nikolai steeled himself, “But this is where it ends, Fedya. I can’t be tethered to someone who sees me as nothing more than a pawn in a twisted game.” With those words hanging in the air, Nikolai walked away.

As Nikolai contemplated leaving, a pang of jealousy gripped him. In a last, desperate attempt to understand, he asked, “You claimed I’m a worthless friend. Would Dazai have been a better choice?” Carrying the weight of unspoken insecurities and the fear of irrevocable disconnection, Nikolai’s question lingered in the air—a silent plea for validation or denial.

Fyodor, looking momentarily dumbfounded by the unexpected inquiry, couldn't help but remark, "Gogol, what's this sudden obsession with Dazai? Have you two been having secret conversations behind my back?"

As the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, Fyodor entertained the notion. “Well, considering your question, yes, Dazai would be a perfect comradeship partner for me. If only I had him by my side, we would have been unstoppable.” There was a subtle cruelty in his words, a twist of the knife that cut deeper than a mere acknowledgment of missed potential. Fyodor’s gaze, filled with an undercurrent of unspoken longing, held a cruel truth—an unrequited love that stung like salt in an open wound.

‘Was he replaceable in Fyodor’s grand scheme?‘

Nikolai, worn down by the hurtful revelation and feeling the weight of his replaceability, uttered in a hushed tone,

“Well, Fyodor, then I’ll leave you to your loneliness.”

With a theatrical flair, he lifted his cardigan, the yellow fiery glow of his ability casting an otherworldly illumination in the dimly lit room. The pulsating energy reflected the turmoil within, a manifestation of his emotional upheaval as he prepared to part ways with the one he thought understood him. Nikolai, not daring to meet Fyodor's eyes and unwilling to confront the emotions that lingered in the air, swiftly disappeared from the room, leaving behind the weight of unresolved tensions.

Chapter Text

Fyodor remained seated in a heavy silence, enveloped by the echoes of Nikolai's departure. A peculiar, decayed feeling festered within, an insurmountable weight bore down on his very essence. The unhealed wound in his chest throbbed, defying closure. A nauseating discomfort clawed at his throat, resisting his attempts to swallow it away, leaving him raspy and rough.

Lost in introspection, he realized time had slipped away unnoticed, like a form of silent surrender. His personal haven was now cloaked in darkness, the setting sun marking the passage of about two or three hours. The remnants of their time together lingered—a small table adorned with books and peculiar trinkets, including an ivy rat that bore Nikolai’s creative touch. Nightstands flanked the bed, and a wall clock, with a touch of vintage charm, hung on the opposite wall, ticking away the hours in the dimming room.

Attempting to discern the time, Fyodor’s eyes betrayed him, the clock’s dial blurring and spots dancing before his vision—a clear sign of severe anemia. He clenched his teeth in dissatisfaction, squinting at the clock. After a minute or two of struggle, he begrudgingly acknowledged that 2 hours and 45 minutes had passed since Nikolai’s departure.

His gaze turned toward the window, witnessing the gradual darkening of the sky, no longer casting light upon the modest courtyard of their... his refuge?

As the weight of Nikolai’s absence settled in the room, it felt like the final, lingering chord of a melody that ceased too soon. The air, once charged with the vivacity of his presence, now hung heavy with the solitude he left behind. Even the unpredictable soul, seemingly resilient, had yielded, giving up on Fyodor. 

The room, now void of Nikolai’s presence, became a canvas for Fyodor’s introspection. Thoughts, like ethereal shadows, pirouetted in the recesses of his mind, casting a somber reflection on the reality he faced.

The verdict, a relentless force, echoed within his mind. 

What did he expect? Perhaps, he deserved it.

The thought, cold and unwavering, bore the weight of a sentence, painting the canvas of Fyodor’s contemplation. Threads of guilt and inevitability wove into every word, as if spoken by a consciousness entwined in the fabric of his existence.

The poignancy deepened as Fyodor witnessed the shaken, neglected version of Nikolai—a painful departure from the vibrant soul he had once cherished. Each passing day forced him to bear the absence of the lively joyfulness and tenacious spark that once ignited the jester’s eyes. The internal battle of letting Nikolai care for him, a deviation from his accustomed solitude and self-sufficiency, layered an additional strain on Fyodor’s already weary being.

He would destroy Nikolai in the end. You are better off alone. It has always been this way and will always be so. 

The words, softly spoken within the recesses of his mind, held an unspoken agreement—an eternal truth. The departure, a recurring motif in the tapestry of his life, resonated with the inevitability of solitude.

The dichotomy of his own mind played out, two sides converging in a conflicted melody. The punishment, relentless and condemning, urged isolation, the belief that any connection would be a precursor to destruction. Simultaneously, the essence of crime, entwined with Fyodor's very soul, resonated in agreement—this eternal solitude was an unchanging facet of his existence.

His eyes stung with irritation; indeed, their dryness had escalated after the incident. They incessantly welled up, causing more discomfort than usual, and now, too, throbbed with pain. Nausea surged in his throat; he swallowed deeply, fighting back the urge to throw up, and shut his eyes, attempting to fend off the sensation. Even entertaining the thought made him envision his insides spilling out, the barely healed stitches unraveling and tearing his chest apart.

Opening his eyes, he shifted his focus to the insulated material of the olive-hued blanket, attempting to distract himself. The fabric bore the imprint of dampness. It was as if the material itself stood witness to the unspoken anguish, absorbing the struggles without giving voice to the tears that had left their mark, and he dismissed the notion, unwilling to acknowledge the vulnerability that clung to him. He forced himself to sit upright, struggling to remain alert despite his weariness. The pain in his head was beginning to intensify. Exhausted and disoriented, all he could do was lie prone as a searing fire consumed his body.

it will be easier to do this now that he’s gone, an assertive thought cut through the tumult of his mind. He raised his head, ceasing to poke holes in the blanket with his eyes, contemplating the unsettling notion. The idea lingered, tempting him with the allure of catharsis. Yet, uncertainty gnawed at the edges of his resolve. 

Reluctant to close his eyes, he feared the haunting memory of a burning fire, akin to the fate of sinners condemned to hell. Was God exacting punishment upon him? The question lingered, casting a shadow over his contemplation. The elusive specter of searing heat teased the edges of his consciousness, leaving him to grapple with the unsettling notion that the fire might have been more psychological than physical.

Nikolai’s voice echoed in his mind, a convincing reassurance that he hadn’t endured the searing flames but had been spared by a timely teleportation. Uncertainty wrestled with clarity as Fyodor grappled with the competing narratives of his traumatic experience.

Was this the right moment..? I will remember everything that is important. 

As Fyodor wrestled with the relentless pain and his own torment, the thought persisted: Trying to keep living in this condition is rather cruel; it’s torture than living.

The concept of enduring such suffering seemed antithetical to his cunning nature. The pursuit of his goals in this compromised state appeared almost unthinkable

The promise hung in the air, a persuasive echo that seemed to cut through the haze of conflicting thoughts, nudging Fyodor towards a decisive choice.

Surveying the room through weary eyes, a plastic cup on the right bedside table caught his attention—a mundane detail he noticed belatedly, his usual insight compromised by the toll of his current condition. A fleeting realization struck; perhaps his right eye, already weakened, perceived the surroundings with diminished clarity.

In need of something more than a sip of water, he turned his attention to the shelves of the bedside table. Pain gripped him as he reached with his left hand, each movement causing him to hiss in discomfort. The affected diaphragm and chest protested with every attempt, tempting him to surrender to the agony and crumple onto the unfortunate nightstand like a limp doll.

Despite the pain, Fyodor's stubbornness prevailed. He pressed through, enduring the searing discomfort to open the shelves. To his disappointment, they revealed emptiness—no sharp object in sight. The absence of any potential weapon led his thoughts down a reflective path.

Did Nikolai anticipate such a desperate move from him, taking precautions even in Fyodor's weakened state? The notion lingered, and a smirk played on Fyodor’s lips as he contemplated his adversary’s careful planning. Even if concealed weapons were part of the preparation, Fyodor reminded himself that his ability transcended physical tools. A glint of satisfaction shimmered in his eyes at the thought; Nikolai, perceptive and unyielding, never quivered in fear of his ability.

The revelation brought a sense of admiration. Why should he be surprised? In Nikolai's place, Fyodor himself would have taken similar precautions.

Recollections of rare joint missions surfaced, where the jester witnessed Fyodor’s skills with cold weapons, adeptly slitting enemies’ throats. Another memory lingered, accompanied by the vivid image of Nikolai’s heterochromic eyes—emerald and greyish-blue—fixated solely on him.

Nikolai’s intelligence, one of the many qualities attracting Fyodor, persisted in the face of unpredictability. A warm smile spread across Fyodor's face, appreciating the clever mind that had left its mark on him.

However, Fyodor’s smile fell as he was reminded of Nikolai’s last words. Shaking off his thoughts, he concentrated on the task at hand.

Fyodor's analytical mind kicked into action, assessing the limited options available given his physical condition. The kitchen held the promise of a weapon, but its ground-floor location posed a significant challenge. His compromised mobility meant that traversing the distance would be an agonizing ordeal. Nikolai’s room, conveniently situated across from his own, invited consideration, yet the jester’s penchant for unconventional storage cast doubt on the availability of a suitable tool there.

The bathroom emerged as the closest and potentially viable option.

Given Nikolai’s meticulous care of Fyodor’s appearance, he speculated about finding items like scissors and a razor within easy reach. A flicker of hope ignited in Fyodor’s thoughts. However, the window presented an alternative—an easier way out, though not without its own set of considerations.

Surveying the scene below, he contemplated the distance between the window and the ground. His innate resilience, a characteristic inherent to ability users, lingered in his awareness. The prospect of lying on the cold ground, broken and awaiting a slow demise, didn't align with his innate determination.

As Fyodor weighed his options, a chilling thought crossed his mind—choking himself wasn’t a pleasant variant, and with only one working arm, but it lingered as a desperate consideration in the face of the perilous situation.

With a firm resolve, he set his sights on the bathroom, a strategic choice that balanced accessibility with necessity. If not there, then Nikolai's room would be the next destination in his pursuit.

Taking a breath, he braced himself and tried to stand, his entire body protesting with screams of agony. Tremors violently shook his torso as he attempted to support himself with his left hand on the bedroom table. After a struggle, he managed to rise, his thin legs trembling. Adrenaline surged, a fleeting celebration for an accomplishment that, under normal circumstances, would seem mundane.

In an attempt to release his grip on the table and take a step forward, Fyodor straightened up. A deep breath filled his chest with an uncharacteristic hoarse roar, his voice breaking on the inhale. The initial overconfidence in his achievement gave way to a sudden wave of nauseating uncertainty that infiltrated his consciousness.

With a resolute step, he moved forward. However, an abrupt blackness swarmed his vision, dancing spots resembling bugs filled the scene. Consciousness slipped away, and in his stumbling fall, he miraculously caught himself with his left hand against the wall. His knees landed on the hard floor, but the pain was a distant concern compared to the desperate breaths he took.

"Отличная работа, Фёдор Михайлович До-…" he coughed bitterly, patting his shoulder in a self-deprecating manner. Somehow, in his fall, he had traversed the entire room. Now, the corridor awaited, leading to the bathroom—a journey that required careful and deliberate movements to avoid a repeat of the unsettling experience.

With a newfound determination and cautious movements, Fyodor navigated the corridor. Each step was a deliberate endeavor, mindful of the fragility. The distance to the bathroom felt like a marathon, each inch a test of his endurance.

As Fyodor strained towards the bathroom, he wrestled with lingering echoes of admiration he had received from others for his movements – ‘so elegantly perfect that they felt nearly inhuman’. The grace and sophistication others marveled at clashed with the harsh reality of his current fractured state.

Approaching the bathroom door brought a subtle sense of relief. Pushing it open, he scanned the unfamiliar surroundings. The cool tiles underfoot offered a stark contrast to the warmth of the bedroom. The faint scent of soap and dampness lingered in the air, creating a subtle atmosphere of cleanliness. His eyes quickly spotted the shelf where Nikolai probably kept grooming essentials. With careful deliberation, he reached for a pair of scissors and a razor, his thin fingers gripping the tools with an odd mix of determination and unsureness.

The bathroom mirror reflected a visage marred by pain, resilience, and the weariness of a soul grappling with its own torment.

Studying his reflection, Fyodor couldn’t escape a pang of self-loathing. The sunken hollows of his cheeks accentuated sharp cheekbones, and the gauntness of his face mirrored a physique now ravaged by affliction. A mere man draped in ashen skin, the sharp angles of his bones protruded prominently, crafting a skeletal silhouette that felt almost otherworldly.

His gaze lingered on the scar over his right eye, a harsh reminder of past trials, now mirroring a similar mark on Nikolai’s face. The irony of their shared affliction, once a symbol of resilience, now played out like a bitter jest.

"How terrible," he muttered to his reflection, acknowledging the frailty of his appearance.

The razor in his hand morphed into a tool beyond its immediate task, becoming a metaphorical instrument capable of severing both physical and metaphorical ties that bound him to his current state.

“How did it come to this?” he pondered. His sunken eyes, encircled by dark hues, mirrored the weariness etched into the very core of his being.

Fyodor took a steadying breath, contemplating the path ahead. The bathroom, once a sanctuary for mundane rituals, now bore witness to a soul teetering on the edge of choice, the echo of his ability’s whispers lingering in the air like an unspoken agreement.

As Fyodor shuffled toward the bathroom, a sudden slip disrupted his tenuous balance. His legs gave way beneath him on the smooth tiles, sending a jolt of panic through his already frazzled nerves. In a desperate attempt to regain control, he flailed his arms, but the momentum carried him mercilessly toward the unforgiving floor.

Time seemed to stretch as he descended, a whirlwind of sensations encapsulating the brief yet harrowing fall. The cool air rushed past him, and the world blurred in disorienting swirls. His heartbeat resonated in his ears, drowning out any other sound. The inevitability of impact loomed, and a sharp inhale caught in his throat as he braced for the impending collision.

The aftermath of the crash was a symphony of torment, each note a searing crescendo of pain that reverberated through Fyodor's frail form. The point of impact, a focal point of agony, throbbed with an excruciating burning sensation, as if the tiles had seared into his very bones. Every inch of his body seemed to protest against the harsh meeting with the unyielding floor.

Gasping for air, he felt the sting of sharp, shallow breaths. His lungs, already compromised by the recent ordeal, struggled to expand. Hyperventilation set in, a desperate attempt to draw oxygen into the burning depths of his chest. Each inhalation felt like a dagger, punctuating the persistent ache that pulsed through his every fiber.

The world around him swayed in a disorienting dance, the pain eclipsing all other sensations. Cold sweat broke on his forehead as his body trembled with the aftershocks of the fall. Vulnerable and shattered, Fyodor lay there, caught in the relentless grip of an unforgiving reality.

As Fyodor’s body crumpled to the floor, the darkness gradually claimed his vision.

**

“Come on, Fyodor, let’s say the prayers together. It’s important to connect with the divine,” his mother encouraged, her voice a gentle guide in their shared moments of devotion.

The church, where time seemed to stand still, was adorned with intricate icons that whispered stories of faith. The soft glow of candlelight painted the air with an aura of sanctity, embracing each visitor in the arms of religious tranquility.

His mother’s voice, a melodic incantation of prayers, provided a soundtrack to the hallowed space that shaped his early years. He obediently repeated after her, although he himself knew every prayer almost by heart, he liked to hear his mother’s insistence.

Fyodor’s mother, a devout figure with unwavering violet eyes reflecting deep faith, guided him through prayers and passed on the values of their belief system. Their shared moments of closeness built a profound bond; however, his mother didn’t limit their connection to prayers alone. She spun tales of adventure and imagination, igniting the spark of curiosity in his young heart. Their shared laughter and whispered conversations echoed through the sacred place, adding a layer of warmth to the otherwise serene ambiance.

As the candle flames flickered in response to the whispered verses, Fyodor’s eyes absorbed the ethereal beauty of the icons adorning the walls. The aroma of incense lingered, weaving a tapestry of spirituality. The love and warmth shared with his mother became the cornerstone of his worldview, a sanctuary where his young heart blossomed in the embrace of religious teachings.

***

"Fyodor, my dear," his mother began, her voice a gentle caress in the tranquil space. "It is said by some that it might be predetermined by God who will go to heaven and who will go to hell."

Perplexed, Fyodor questioned, “But if it’s all predetermined, what’s the point? Why should I bother trying to do good if my fate is sealed?”

His mother, wisdom transcending the dancing flame of the candle, responded, “You don’t know what is destined for you, my child. That’s why some believe you should strive to do good. Besides, we are not able to fully understand the power of God. It’s said that He knows our actions in advance, and it is our duty to navigate this life with faith and goodness.”

***

Young Fyodor, enveloped in the sanctity of the religious space, embraced the rituals with an earnest fervor. His early signs of devotion manifested in the meticulous adherence to religious practices, a reflection of his burgeoning understanding of the divine.

The townspeople regarded him with admiration, perceiving in him an embodiment of piety. With each prayer, the weight of expectations grew. Fyodor, in turn, internalized their hopes, driven by a desire to maintain the façade of an ideal devotee. His actions were marked by an unusual blend of sincerity and a calculated effort to please those around him.

As he navigates his daily life, he observes the prescribed customs, offering compliments and respect to elders, adhering to the teachings instilled in him. “You’re such a polite young man, Fyodor,” the townsfolk would commend.

“And do you understand, Fyodor,” one of the townspeople inquired with a warm smile, “that your name means God’s gift?”

Fyodor nodded, a silent acknowledgment,  reinforcing the expectations he was grappling with.

Admiring elders wasn’t mere nicety but genuine acknowledgment of the wisdom they carried. “Good afternoon, Mr. Ivanov. I always learn so much from our conversations,” Fyodor greeted, words a careful dance of respect.

Yet, amidst the outward commendations, a subtle tension began to weave its way into Fyodor’s heart.

In his pursuit of virtue, he found himself at the crossroads of genuine devotion and the expectations placed upon him by others. The delicate balance between authenticity and the roles assigned to him by society cast a shadow on the purity of his intentions.

One day, in the midst of his perfect routine, Fyodor’s world took an unexpected turn. Younger children he had intervened to stop from fighting found themselves in another altercation. Despite sincere efforts to maintain harmony, human dynamics proved more complex than idealistic visions.

Fyodor, renowned for his intelligence and knack for problem-solving, couldn’t resist stepping in to help these children navigate their conflicts. His pattern of problem-solving extended even to the interpersonal relationships of the townspeople, revealing his ingrained sense of responsibility to assist others. 

As the younger ones clashed again, Fyodor's intervention, laced with compliments and attempts to mediate, failed to yield the desired outcome. The day, which had begun with the promise of tranquility, crumbled beneath the weight of imperfection.

In the aftermath, Fyodor questioned the efficacy of his actions. He wondered if his desire to enforce order and goodness in the world was a futile pursuit. The unsettling notion that he might be failing in his mission gnawed at him.

Later, as he roamed the halls of the church, the library beckoned, offering solace in the sanctuary of books. However, fate had a different plan. In the library, Fyodor's perfect routine suffered a rupture. The children he had tried to guide earlier were caught in another conflict, and this time, the consequences were more severe.

The bully, despite Fyodor's previous attempts to reform him, inflicted a grievous wound on the other child, leaving a bleeding scar on his face. “You promised you wouldn’t fight anymore!” Fyodor couldn’t help but ask accusingly.

The injured child, tears streaming down his face, questioned “Why didn’t you help, Fedya? Where were you?” As the hurt child cries out for Fyodor, questioning his absence, a wave of guilt crashes over him. He blamed himself for prioritizing personal pursuits over the well-being of others.

The inner turmoil intensifies when he contemplates the idea of punishing the bully. He grapples with the morality of such an act, questioning if he has the right to enact punishment and whether it aligns with the teachings of his faith. Desire to rectify warred with the fear that his actions might be considered sinful

As the bully accused him of being terrifying, Fyodor became acutely aware that he was piercing the child with his gaze. His gaze, intended to be a force for good, now emerged as a source of fear.

The dichotomy of his intentions and the unintended consequences unraveled before him. Was punishment a righteous act or a sinful transgression? The line blurred, and Fyodor found himself standing at the crossroads of morality, grappling with the very principles that had guided his devout life.

In a moment of clarity, Fyodor engaged the bully in a dialogue, seeking to understand the root of the conflict. With a calm demeanor, he said, “Why are you so angry, my friend? There must be a reason behind your actions.”

The bully, caught off guard by Fyodor’s approach, hesitated. Fyodor seized the opportunity, continuing, “We can find a way to resolve this without violence. Your strength can be used for good, not harm.”

Drawing from his intellect, Fyodor subtly appealed to the bully’s sense of decency. “Imagine the admiration you could earn by protecting others instead of hurting them,” he suggested, planting the seed of a different path.

As Fyodor tried to reason with the bully, the defiant child responded with a dismissive remark, “Why should I listen to you, Fedya? You’re just a weakling trying to act tough.”

Despite Fyodor's initial attempts at peaceful dialogue, the bully remained defiant. Frustrated by the lack of progress, Fyodor decided to play his last card. He leaned in with a chilling whisper, "Your refusal to listen will only reveal the scared child hiding behind the strong mask. I wonder how your friends would react if they knew the truth about you." The bully, unnerved and uncertain, began questioning his stance, opening the door for Fyodor's manipulation to take hold.

Fyodor, with a tinge of vulnerability in his eyes, added, “You see, strength isn’t just physical. It’s about facing your own weaknesses and finding the courage to change. I know what it’s like to feel weak and alone, with my father leaving. But pretending to be someone you’re not won’t fill that void.”

In a moment of sincerity, Fyodor offered valuable advice. “You know, being feared isn't real power. But true strength comes from accepting who you are and choosing kindness over cruelty. Maybe if you showed a bit of that, people wouldn’t see you as weak, but as someone worth caring about.” The bully, now uncertain and vulnerable, retreated, leaving Fyodor with a mix of satisfaction and discomfort at the complexity of human emotions.

The encounter leaves Fyodor shaken, planting the seeds of doubt and self-reflection. As Fyodor returned home after taking care of Egor and recounted the day’s events to his parents, the weight of unsettling thoughts pressed upon him.

Seeking guidance for the turmoil within, Fyodor turned to his mother. In the soft glow of their home, surrounded by flickering candlelight, he shared the storm brewing within his heart. His voice trembled with insecurities as he laid bare the struggles haunting his conscience.

“I… I don’t understand, Mama,” Fyodor confessed, his gaze seeking solace in the familiar sacred symbols surrounding them.

His mother’s eyes, pools of warmth and understanding, met his troubled gaze. “Tell me, my dear. What troubles your soul?” she spoke with a gentleness that had cradled him through countless uncertainties.

“I tried to do what’s right, Mama, but… but I found myself wanting to punish a boy who hurt another. And when I tried to befriend the fighting children, it all went wrong… ” Fyodor admitted, doubt coloring his words.

In that tender moment, his mother drew him into a comforting embrace, her touch a balm to his troubled spirit. “Sometimes, the path to righteousness is clouded, my child. Seek guidance from the priest; perhaps he can offer the clarity you seek.”

Following his mother’s advice, Fyodor found himself standing at the threshold of the priest’s abode, a place revered in their small, religious town. The air inside carried a weight of sanctity, and candles cast dancing shadows on the tapestry of symbols adorning the walls.

Approaching, the priest, a figure of wisdom and respect, welcomed him with a knowing smile. The wrinkles etched on the priest’s face seemed to tell tales of countless souls seeking guidance. The familiarity between Fyodor and the priest, nurtured through constant visits, created an unspoken bond.  

Fyodor hesitated, then poured out the conflict churning within him. The priest listened intently, nodding sagely as Fyodor spoke of his desire to punish the bully and the chaotic events among the children. In response, the priest commended Fyodor for his perseverance and restraint, praising him for not acting on troubling thoughts. Yet, the praise, though well-intentioned, cast a shadow over the clarity Fyodor sought.

Leaving the priest’s abode, Fyodor’s mind echoed with unanswered questions. If his actions were deemed commendable by the priest, would the townspeople also applaud him for choosing a lesson fitting in their eyes? The chasm between his internal moral compass and external validation deepened the uncertainty, leaving Fyodor entangled in the complexities of righteousness. The anticipation placed upon him by those he held in high regard became a weight he carried.

***

As the weight of external expectations grew, Fyodor found himself entangled between his internal moral compass and the burgeoning perception of him as a godsend. The conflict between his genuine intentions and the townspeople's expectations deepened, creating a sense of isolation. Fyodor, with his keen intelligence, often found solutions to problems effortlessly. This aptitude, coupled with the perception of being divinely chosen, intensified his sense of obligation to help everyone else, pushing him to ignore his own interests and problems. He believed himself to be set apart from the ordinary townspeople, fostering a deep loneliness within him.

Despite his inner turmoil, the townspeople's whispers of perceived divinity enveloped Fyodor, creating an aura of reverence around him. The delicate balance between authenticity and the assigned role became increasingly precarious.

As he navigated their vision, Fyodor's actions were scrutinized under the lens of perceived holiness. Every interaction became a reflection of divine grace in the eyes of the townspeople.

The townsfolk, oblivious to Fyodor's internal struggle, continued to commend him. "Truly, Fyodor, you are a blessing among us," they would declare, reinforcing the godsend narrative that took root in their collective consciousness.

Amidst the accolades, Fyodor's sense of self became entangled with the image projected onto him. The once-sincere devotion transformed into an unsettling act to fulfill external demands.

The church, once a sanctuary of solace, now bore witness to the conflict within Fyodor. The flickering candlelight that had once painted an aura of sacredness now cast shadows on the fabric of his internal struggle.

In the midst of this dichotomy, Fyodor sought refuge in the familiar embrace of his mother. As they shared moments of devotion, the tranquility of their home became a sanctuary for him to confide in the woman whose unwavering guidance had shaped his understanding of faith.

His mother, sensing the turmoil in his voice, spoke with reassurance, "My dear, remember that true goodness comes from the sincerity of your heart, not the expectations of others. Seek solace in your connection with the divine, and let your actions be guided by the purity of your intentions."

Yet, the conflict lingered, casting a shadow on Fyodor's once-unshakeable faith. The godsend persona, though bestowed upon him with good intentions, had become a heavy mantle that threatened to suffocate the authenticity he once held dear.

One day, the townspeople, in their misguided devotion, began a ritual. They believed that by gathering Fyodor’s blood, they could partake in the essence of a higher power. As the misguided ritual persisted, performed repeatedly with fervent devotion, Fyodor’s body began to bear the burden of its consequences. The townspeople, driven by their distorted beliefs, continued to extract his blood, convinced it held the essence of divinity.

With each ritual, Fyodor’s once-vibrant demeanor waned. The toll on his physical and mental well-being became evident. The weight they put on him, coupled with the excruciating repetition of the ritual, pushed him to the brink.

The once-quiet town transformed into a fervent congregation, their chants echoing with misplaced zeal.

Fyodor, bewildered and overwhelmed by the sudden reverence, tried to dissuade the crowd, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. The ritual persisted, and the townspeople, in a frenzy of misguided faith, approached him with implements meant to draw his blood.

Unable to bear this burden of their expectations and the sacrilegious act unfolding before him, Fyodor’s distress reached a breaking point. In an involuntary surge of his latent ability, a force beyond his control lashed out.

The consequences were catastrophic—the once serene town transformed into a haunting symphony of despair. The well-intentioned but misguided townspeople lay still, their ritual cut short by the unintended consequences of their actions.

Amidst the debris, Fyodor, gripped by a terror that echoed through his very core, found himself immersed in a nightmarish reality. The air hung heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the acrid stench of death.

As the townspeople’s anguished cries melded with Fyodor’s internal torment, a pervasive sense of dread saturated the air. The weight of profound loss pressed on his chest, and the chilling realization of the destruction he had inadvertently unleashed clawed at his sanity.

Surveying the lifeless forms, an unsettling truth gripped him — he was the harbinger of their demise.

Fyodor’s mind descended into a horrifying realm of self-blame. The relentless whispers of doubt painted a vivid portrait of hell, and Fyodor found himself convinced that the consequences of his actions condemned him to eternal damnation.

His mother’s lifeless form lay before him, a painful reminder of the unintended tragedy. In her final moments, her eyes, once pools of warmth and love, seemed to accuse him from beyond the veil. The notion that his actions had severed the connection with the divine haunted Fyodor, creating a void that no amount of self-punishment could fill.

As the townspeople’s prayers reverberated, echoes of his mother’s anguished cries haunted his tormented mind. The air became thick with the scent of despair, and shadows danced in grotesque patterns, mirroring the chaos within Fyodor’s fractured psyche.

Struggling to find a glimmer of hope amid the wreckage, Fyodor’s psyche teetered on the brink of collapse. The conviction that he was destined for hell became an oppressive weight, dragging him further into the abyss of self-condemnation.

Amidst the devastation, Fyodor's gaze sought solace in his mother's familiar form, now lifeless among the fallen. His heart wrenched as he realized the harrowing truth—he had inadvertently ended the life of the woman who had given him everything.

Desperation etched across his face, Fyodor leaned over his mother, a cry caught in his throat. He longed for the warmth of her embrace, the reassurance of her voice. Yet, all that met him was the chilling silence of death.

In a desperate plea, Fyodor whispered, "Mama, I didn't mean to... I didn't know it would be you." His voice trembled with a mixture of grief and disbelief, the weight of guilt crushing his spirit.

His mother's once-vibrant eyes, now dulled by the inexorable hand of fate, stared back at him, offering neither comfort nor condemnation. He longed for the solace of her last words, a final connection that death had cruelly denied.

As he clutched the cross she had given him in his trembling hands, Fyodor's heart ached with the absence of closure. The cross, once a symbol of her love and faith, now felt heavy with the burden of his actions.

In the midst of this psychological maelstrom, Fyodor clung to the fragile strands of his sanity. A desperate need for redemption gnawed at him, and in a twisted turn of defense, he began to entertain the notion that perhaps this destructive power was not a curse but a divine gift—a purpose to be fulfilled at any cost.

A flicker of realization sparked within him—an unsettling conclusion that if God had gifted him with this ability, it must be a divine calling. In a desperate attempt to reconcile his actions with a higher purpose, Fyodor clung to the belief that he was chosen to cleanse the world from sin, even if it meant sacrificing his own humanity in the process.

The air thickened with the oppressive weight of loss as Fyodor whispered, "You were right, Mama. Your soul is safe. You can finally rest." The words, though uttered with love, hung in the air, echoing the tragedy that had befallen the once-quiet town.

In the silence that followed, Fyodor grappled with the absence of his mother's guidance, the void left by her untimely departure. His ability, unforgiving and relentless, offered no solace, leaving him to navigate the tumultuous sea of guilt and grief alone.

Chapter Text

Nikolai emerged from the tumultuous whirlpool of his ability, landing in the silence of the forest—a reflection of the internal turmoil he couldn’t escape. Fyodor’s words reverberated in his mind, each syllable a sharp blow, every accusation a devastating hit to the fragile bonds they had painstakingly formed.

Fyodor, the one person who seemed to grasp the complex layers of Nikolai’s soul, had shattered that illusion. The pain persisted, an ache in his chest refusing to subside.

In the dying light of the setting sun, Nikolai found himself immersed in the quietude of nature, yet haunted by the remnants of their argument. Shadows danced among the trees, imitating the turmoil in Nikolai’s heart. He couldn’t evade the pain, the yearning for understanding that he believed only Fyodor could provide.

In an unguarded moment, Nikolai found his thoughts unintentionally drifting towards Fyodor, a man seemingly incapable of standing on his own, weakened by injuries. The image of Fyodor struggling, his breath caught in fits, flashed through Nikolai’s mind. It struck him that Fyodor might not be able to care for himself, a realization that tugged at a thread of worry buried beneath the surface.

Yet, as he acknowledged these concerns, another thought crept in. It had been at least three hours since he left Fyodor’s side. Nikolai nonchalantly rationalized, ‘It’s not like Fyodor will crumble in these hours, and he did get better last time.’ Despite the facade of indifference, a genuine undercurrent of concern lingered within Nikolai’s thoughts.

With these conflicting emotions swirling within him, Nikolai faced the decision to leave the city, choosing to walk through the forest to the outskirts rather than resorting to the ease of using his ability. If anyone questioned this choice, he would simply attribute it to “too much ability usage fatigue.”

Amid the solemn trees, Nikolai stood in the silence of the forest, intensifying the cacophony within him. Fyodor, a man entrenched in religious zeal, envisioned himself as a chosen servant with a divine purpose, the pursuit of the Book and the subsequent transformation of the world eclipsed everything else. For Nikolai, it went beyond their shared work for Decay of Angels; he longed for an elusive freedom, but within him, a distinct desire for connection unfurled, surpassing their common goals.

He traced the complex threads of their relationship, from the moment they crossed paths to the shared objectives that bound them together. When Fukuchi stumbled upon Nikolai through a dossier of crimes and a convenient ability, hinting at Fyodor’s subtle influence, Nikolai crafted the persona of “Demon” as a mysterious, egoistic, and manipulative figure, traits he typically disdained. Yet, reality unfolded differently: Fyodor, with his complex blend of beliefs and ambitions, shattered Nikolai’s expectations, reshaping the narrative of Nikolai’s life into distinct chapters of before and after.

In the course of Decay of Angel’s detailed planning sessions, typically routine affairs, the entire team convened this time. As discussions about future plans unfolded, Fyodor, known for his reserved nature, smoothly articulated tasks, this time purposefully calling out “Nikolai” as it was his turn to be given major details. Surprisingly, his name sounded beautiful in the Russian’s voice, and Nikolai found himself yearning for him to use his name more often. To his delight, Fyodor complied, offering a knowing smile, even though Nikolai joked as if not grasping the essence of the plan. Fyodor, seemingly aware and strategically reserved in using Nikolai's name, uttered it only on rare occasions, perhaps leveraging its impact for his own gain. Their gazes met in silent conversations, lingering beyond spoken words. A fleeting touch carried a subtle promise that resonated in the tense air between them. The crackling tension, akin to electricity, hinted at unspoken closure.

In the hidden chambers of his memories, his thoughts inevitably gravitate back to that poignant exchange where Fyodor’s words, like tendrils, burrowed deep into him, etching within his heart and soul. Lingering doubts assail his thoughts, questioning the sincerity of that profound moment, wondering if they were genuine expressions or merely scripted lines.

“Fantastic. In opposition to god, you are fighting to lose sight of yourself.”

Slumped against the tree, Nikolai allowed his body to give in to the rough bark. He always knew that their relationship was unconventional and connected by a common understanding of each other's complexities. Fyodor, with an unwavering belief in the structured order of their world, stood as a stark contrast to Nikolai. Despite the divergence in their goals and philosophies, these disparities seemed inconsequential. The small connection that existed between them was enough for Nikolai—the grains that Fyodor good-naturedly placed in his palm felt like offerings bestowed upon a faithful worshiper.

However, the revelation stung. The searing awareness that Nikolai fell short, his understanding and spirit of camaraderie insufficient for Fyodor’s grandiose plan. While never naive about a potentially deeper connection, Fyodor’s portrayal of him as a foolish jester dancing to the king’s tune disgusted Nikolai. Accepting Fyodor’s faith and controlling nature was one thing, but the idea of becoming a puppet to his capricious whims turned Nikolai’s stomach. He couldn’t bear being a pawn in someone else’s scheme. Despite the repulsion and the sense of insult, Nikolai reluctantly accepted the role. For Fyodor, it seemed the only way to demonstrate devotion to his God, while for Nikolai, the acceptance, though illogical, became a path of lesser resistance.   

Throughout the time spent together, Nikolai believed he grasped Fyodor’s essence, glimpsing the man behind the self-imposed burdens and the holy facade. Yet, as time unfolded, he faced a harsh reality: he knew little about what transpired within Fyodor’s mind, barely scratching the surface of its depths.

It dawned on him that perhaps Fyodor never comprehended the complexity of human emotions. At times, Nikolai pondered the paradox of a man with the psychological prowess to manipulate and deceive, shaping not only perceptions but also the very fabric of emotions. How can such a master of psychological intricacies navigate life without genuine emotion, enduring a self that exists solely to serve, hidden behind a lonely facade burdened by the consuming act of deception? How does he endure a life without a true sense of self?

Nikolai grappled with the challenge of maintaining composure while drowning in the turbulent seas of anguish and remorse. The overwhelming helplessness in the face of these tumultuous waves became a relentless storm.

Beneath the burden of his own conscience, Nikolai finds himself entangled in a web of guilt, the gravity of it pressing down on him as he witnesses the fragility of Fyodor’s physical state. During moments of reflection, he can’t escape attributing blame to himself, tormented by the haunting idea that different choices might have spared Fyodor from this condition.

Did he, in a twisted sense, find solace in Fyodor’s dependency on him? The confusion deepens, creating a turbulent sea of thoughts where Nikolai fearfully questions whether, on some subconscious level, he purposefully engineered a situation where Fyodor would become reliant on him for support. His mind reels with this possibility, unsure which conclusion he prefers, his heart screaming no, and his head demanding an answer.

The darkness that enveloped the sky grew thicker, like a heavy cloak settling upon the world, suffocating the remnants of light that dared to linger. 

For Nikolai, emotions were lifelong companions that failed to offer solace. Fyodor, holding the elusive key to emotional mastery, demonstrated the art, yet Nikolai found himself ensnared by the grip of guilt and fear. These emotions became a corrosive force, a relentless cancer eating away at Nikolai’s essence until he was left feeling nothing.

In this poignant narrative, Nikolai’s profound understanding of loneliness was born from witnessing the profound impact of emotions on others. Choosing a poetic path, he embarked on a daring waltz with liberation, shedding the heavy cloak of feelings and empathy. His journey sought the answer to the profound question of existence, a yearning to uncover a tranquil haven within himself where true belonging awaited. 

 Nikolai released a heavy sigh, yearning to bury his thoughts and emotions in the forest, seeking solace from his troubles. However, the persistent weight of his past deeds anchored him to the present, denying him the escape he so fervently desired.

Compelling himself to move forward, Nikolai felt the ground beneath his feet grow firmer. A gentle wind tenderly brushed against his face, whispering of the night and the promise of freedom. It carried the earth’s scent, hinting at peace and redemption. Yet, deep down, Nikolai acknowledged that peace was no longer within his grasp. There were too many unspoken words, too much pain to overlook, and wounds too deep to heal. With unwavering resolve, he pressed onward into the night.

Chapter Text

Slowly, Fyodor began to stir, awakening to a reality shrouded in disorientation. The cold tiles beneath him hinted at the sterile surroundings of a bathroom. A fleeting awareness of dampness reached his consciousness, and upon closer inspection, he realized it was blood, his own, staining the floor.

His gaze descended to the fallen scissors and razor, discarded instruments of a distressing moment. As the pieces of his predicament fell into place, a cascade of expletives erupted in Russian, each word laced with frustration and disbelief.

"Пиздец, блять…” (“Fuck, damn…”)

He groaned in pain, muttering to himself, expressing his dismay, “Боже…” (“God…”) Fyodor winced sharply as he attempted to move, pain radiating through his body. His vision swam, and the pulsating throb in his gaze and ears intensified. “… Да вы издеваетесь…” (”… Are you kidding me..”)

Fyodor's mind raced, attempting to reconcile the harsh reality with the fragments of memories that began to resurface. The situation unfolded like a nightmare, and he grappled with the aftermath of his own desperate actions.

The eloquence of his native language was poised to continue its fervent flow, but an abrupt halt came with the realization of his struggle to breathe. 

Fyodor, summoning strength from the depths of his weakened state, managed to lift his torso  with trembling hand. He staggered, seeking support against the sturdy cabinet, his breaths labored and uneven. His gaze fixed on the fallen scissors, a closer one within reach.

As his fingertips brushed against the cold tiles, a surge of anguished thoughts flooded his mind. The air itself seemed burdened by the weighty contemplation of forsaken faith, a haunting question echoing through the desolation—had God abandoned him in this moment of profound despair? The specter of his own perceived  wrongdoings loomed, casting a shadow on any hope for redemption.

In the hushed confines of the bathroom, Fyodor grappled with the sinister allure of an end to the torment, a final escape from his own assumed transgressions.

In the delicate balance between despair and resolution, Fyodor's hand hovered over the cold, glinting steel of the scissors. Each blade held the weight of a decision, a choice that could sever the tethers binding him to a world he so passionately wished to cleanse. The moment poised as a crucible for his anguished contemplation.

Thoughts of divine abandonment echoed in the hollow chamber of his mind. Was he forsaken by the very deity he had devoted his life to? The whispering doubt, the gnawing uncertainty, clawed at the edges of his faith. The crimson reminder of his own blood on the floor, a stain that mirrored the chaos within.

In the cavern of his doubts, a counterargument emerged, whispering through the shadows: he was still alive, albeit mutilated. Perhaps this was his trial?

Dark thoughts swirled in the vortex of his mind. The burden of sins, both real and perceived, bore down on him, threatening to crush the remnants of his fractured spirit.

In the contemplation of whether to end it all, Fyodor found himself suspended between the desire for release and the chains of survival. The scent of iron mingled with the dampness of the bathroom, creating a sensory landscape that mirrored the collision of his mortality with the intangible threads of divine purpose, a haunting choir that whispered of a soul steeped in darkness.

His hand, still clasping the scissors, hovered before him, the pulse point of his own neck within its ominous reach. His internal struggle intensified with every heartbeat, a relentless clash between surrender and the tenacity to endure. In the silent, chilly room, the lingering question persisted—was salvation to be found in the finality of this desperate act?

The bathroom walls, bearing witness to his silent agony, pressed in around him—a stifling grasp mimicking the tight hold of his inner turmoil. The scissors, burdened with significance, felt like an anchor to a sinking ship, and for his broken hand, even this weight proved too much, a cruel reminder of his physical state.

As Fyodor stood at this precipice, contemplating the abyss that yawned before him, the universe held its breath, teetering on the edge of revelation or irrevocable loss. The oppressive burden of every misdeed hung heavily, a tangible representation of all his failures, of all his failures of faith, and the haunting echoes of those whose ties to life he had severed. 

If the decision was to be made on the brink of death, then perhaps this moment offered a final chance to make amends, even if only in his last fleeting moments. With unwavering resolve, his hand tightened around the handle of the scissors, and he turned, slowly lifting it high above his neck.

The sharp edge of the scissors cut through the tender skin, leaving a crimson trail as they embedded into the plain fabric of his shirt. Fyodor winced as the cold metal penetrated his flesh. The act might have been swifter if not for the unsteadiness of his non-dominant hand.

With his fingers trembling, he forced himself to move his hand upwards, until he reached the base of his neck, where he positioned the blades so as to carve a straight line from his ear to ear, cutting caratid arteries in the process.

It seemed inevitable somehow, even though Fyodor tried his utmost to keep a hold on his sanity amidst the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. If there was to be an answer to his prayers, it was either this or the gallows. Either way, at least this would serve as an epitaph of his sins, a testament to his own weakness, and thus the reason why salvation couldn't come without paying a terrible price. No one would mourn his passing.

And so, Fyodor raised the scissors higher, bringing them to the edge of his skin, his heart rate quickening with the thought of being freed of the hell that he'd endured. For as long as it took.

And then, just when he was about to plunge the blades through the flesh of his throat, an unexpected noise rang out from the other side of the bathroom door.

“Fyodor?!”

Nikolai’s abrupt voice yanked Fyodor back from the brink, the scissors slipping from his grasp. 
The metallic thud underscored the gravity of the situation. His breath caught in his throat, a gasp escaping his lips as his eyes widened in confusion and disbelief. The world around him seemed to come alive once more, colors sharpening, sounds amplifying. 

“What are you doing?” Nikolai’s voice trembled with shock and concern, the words reverberating through the tiny bathroom space. It was as if time had momentarily suspended itself, allowing Fyodor a fleeting glimpse of the consequences of his impending actions.

As seconds stretched, Fyodor’s mind raced. The abyss he had faced retreated, replaced by an unexpected presence. The sound of Nikolai's voice, laced with genuine concern, cut through the fog of despair that had clouded Fyodor's mind. It was a lifeline, an unexpected reprieve from the shadows that had beckoned him so seductively.

Frozen in the midst of a life-altering decision, Fyodor’s eyes searched Nikolai’s face for answers. Their gazes met in the hushed tension. Nikolai, not merely a friend but the singular confidant in Fyodor’s isolated world, now stood as an unwilling spectator, confronted with his darkest moment. In that instant, Fyodor saw the reflection of his own desperation mirrored in Nikolai’s eyes.

As the weight of the situation pressed upon Nikolai, he couldn’t conceal the shock that flashed across his features. “Fyodor?!” he exclaimed again, his voice a blend of disbelief and concern.

The bathroom seemed to close in around them, a tense silence filling the space. Nikolai’s eyes searched Fyodor’s face for any sign of recognition, any hint of understanding. “What is happening?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with a subtle urgency. The lines of their recent argument lingered in the air, but Nikolai pushed aside his own hurt, focusing on the immediate need to comprehend the turmoil before him.

“Fyodor, talk to me,” Nikolai implored, a plea for communication rather than a direct confrontation. In the charged atmosphere, he felt a sense of responsibility, a shared history urging him to bridge the growing chasm between them.

Caught in the grip of desperation, Fyodor attempted to shift the focus away from his own actions. "Why did you return? Did you forget something?" he asked, a calculated diversion to steer the conversation away from the precipice he had teetered upon.

“Yes, I'm here, as you can see!” Nikolai's voice, fraught with shock, cut through the heavy air of the bathroom. ”Fyodor, what are you doing?"

Fyodor, his hand hovering over the scissors, shot back accusingly, "What does it look like I'm doing, Kolya? Trying to salvage what's left of this wretched existence."

Nikolai, wide-eyed and desperate, implored, In the charged silence of the bathroom, as Fyodor stood frozen in the aftermath of his desperate act. Nikolai couldn’t conceal the shock that flashed across his features. “No… No! ” he exclaimed, his voice a blend of disbelief and concern, “That’s not… not something you would do! Is this some morbid joke, Fedya? Are you taking after Dazai or something?” 

Defiance etched across Fyodor’s features as he stared back, leaving Nikolai grappling with conflicting emotions. 

Nikolai’s eyes bore into Fyodor’s, searching for answers, yet finding only stubborn resolve. “Fyodor, please… But why? What's gotten into you? I’m serious; just give me an answer. Please?” Nikolai begged, desperate for an explanation, his voice cracking with anguish and anxiety searching for reassurance in Fyodor’s eyes, hoping that it would inspire him to open up about whatever was causing the inexplicable pain. The silence lasted for a short while.

In any other situation, perhaps before recent events unfolded, Nikolai might have laughed at the irony. The idea of seeing Fyodor on the brink of taking matters into his own hands would have been a source of dark amusement. Yet... laughter eluded him.

Fyodor’s voice, though laced with bitterness, remained soft as he questioned, "Why offer help? Would you lend a hand now? Your disdain for me has been crystal clear."

Nikolai, with a wry smile, replied, “Взаимно,” (“Likewise”) a retort to Fyodor’s past accusations, acknowledging the mutual disdain between them. He continued, his voice betraying both frustration and concern, retorted, "I may despise you, Fyodor, but I won't stand by and watch you destroy yourself. Leaving you alone in this state is something I couldn't bring myself to do."

Fyodor, seizing on the apparent contradiction, accused sharply, "Your actions speak louder than your words. You made it clear you wanted to leave."

Nikolai, in a desperate plea, confessed, "I did want to leave, but realizing you couldn't take care of yourself, I came back. I'll be here until you recover, ти дурень!“ (”You are fool!”)

The tension in the bathroom heightened with each exchange, a tumultuous back-and-forth reflecting the complexities of their relationship and the fragile state of their emotions.

…

..

.

Fyodor responded quietly, his gaze distant yet contemplative, “…you came back.” A realization seemed to dawn upon him. As Nikolai braced for indignation, he noticed an uncharacteristically sincere expression on Fyodor’s face – a unfiltered sincerity, not the deceptive facade he had witnessed Fyodor wear on occasion. The over-the-top innocence of that act looked almost comical on Fyodor’s gaunt face to Nikolai. - This revelation struck Nikolai, exposing a raw and vivid quality, something simultaneously eerie and innocent that resided deep within Fyodor. He found himself awestruck by this discovery, freezing up in the face of such sincerity.

There was an admittance and tired softness in Fyodor’s weary, bloodshot eyes. “Despite everything, you returned… Even then, you saved me. I assumed everything, even the possibility of losing, but I didn’t expect you to save me. You thought I’d rather keep my ability than opt for more accepted treatment.” Fyodor acknowledged, referring to the prosthetic that would strip him of his unique ability embedded within him. “Mykola…”

The statement caught Nikolai off guard, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. How could he possibly respond? To the question posed by the man standing in front of him.

Why did he feel warmth in his chest now? A cruel irony of life, a semblance of freedom granted by vile feelings he thought imprisoned him in a cage. He questioned whether this cell ever existed or if he had created it himself.

Overwhelmed by Fyodor’s unexpected confession, Nikolai couldn’t help but giggle, “Fyodor, you’re not making any sense, maybe even driving me mad.”

Fyodor, seemingly pulled from his deep thoughts, responded in a monotonous tone, “You’re right, I’ve been too emotional lately,” unaware of the impact of his words on Nikolai. “Forgive me… I guess I should get my head on straight.”

As Fyodor laid bare his emotional turmoil, Nikolai, caught in the snarl of his own ambivalent emotions and the unwavering pursuit of freedom, felt a sharp pang in his chest. The irony of their shared emotional struggle echoed in his mind, bringing forth a bitter realization that the quest for liberation wasn’t a solitary journey confined to the depths of his psyche.

Within the bounds of introspection, Nikolai grappled with the essence of freedom he had long sought. Was it an elusive ideal, a mirage fashioned by the human desire to break free from constraints? The very concept of freedom, as he had envisioned it, seemed to blur and morph into a complex interplay of conflicting emotions. The more he yearned to soar like a free bird, the tighter the threads of his own complexities entwined him.

Nikolai questioned the validity of the freedom he had envisioned. Was it a refuge from the tumult within, or did true liberation lie in embracing  the struggles of the human soul and the intricacies of one's own existence?

Contemplating the possibilities within such a lofty goal, Nikolai felt the beginnings of a familiar melancholy settle over him. It mirrored the same melancholy he experienced as a child, witnessing the ease with which everyone succumbed to societal and individual manipulation—an aspect he preferred not to recall, disillusionment settled in as he questioned whether there existed anything beyond the walls he sought to escape. His aim was to understand his true self, questioning if struggling against societal expectations meant being pushed toward an unfulfilling goal.

Meanwhile, Fyodor, succumbing to the strain of holding on, blinked frantically, fighting to maintain focus despite the encroaching darkness. The atmosphere in the small bathroom grew more stifling with each passing moment. Cold beads of sweat dripped down Fyodor’s pallid face, a visible manifestation of the internal tempest raging within him.

A sense of desperation enveloped Fyodor as he grappled with the overwhelming urge to escape the confines of his own body. Nausea gnawed at him relentlessly, and he yearned to shed the physical vessel that seemed to betray him. In his mind’s eye, he pictured shedding the weight of his form and stepping into the cool night air, a desperate escape from the suffocating sensations.

His head wobbled precariously, a clear sign of his weakening state. In response to Fyodor’s abrupt movement towards the toilet, Nikolai, now acutely aware of the severity of the situation. In the cramped space, Fyodor began to retch.

Returning to the present moment, the jester, knelt beside Fyodor, offering support. A mixture of concern filled his eyes as he gently held Fyodor’s hair, the strands falling gracefully, a stark contrast to the turmoil within.

As Fyodor mostly gagged, producing nothing but empty heaves, Nikolai couldn’t help but think, “Well, I guess that’s what happens when you’ve only eaten poor fruit, and that was yesterday night.” Lately, Fyodor had closed himself off, resisting nourishment. He, in his own way, attempted to break through these barriers, insisting on small gestures like forcing him to eat, be it chocolate or fruit.

While Nikolai held Fyodor’s hair, he noticed the dampness, and a sinking feeling settled in his stomach. As he withdrew his hand, stained with blood, panic gripped him, realizing Fyodor was bleeding from the head.

“You’re bleeding,” he exclaimed, the worry evident in his voice.

Fyodor’s response was dismissive, a nonchalant “I’m fine.”

But Nikolai couldn’t shake off the worry. “No, you’re bleeding. We need to stop it.” 

Driven by a mix of panic and determination, Nikolai began to search the cramped bathroom for something to use as a makeshift bandage. The urgency in his movements mirrored the concern etched across his face.

In the frantic search for a makeshift bandage, a sense of helplessness washed over Nikolai. He found a cloth and attempted to apply pressure to the wound. As he fumbled with the makeshift bandage, Fyodor reassured him, “I can’t die from this.” Despite the reassurance, hesitation lingered in his actions, interpreting Fyodor’s words as stubbornness.

Fyodor smiled, a soft and strangely serene expression, and declared, “I remembered something. It makes me happy.”

Perplexed, Nikolai questioned, “What do you mean?”

Fyodor, in a calm tone, shared, “Now I have some good memories, even if they’re always a bit blurred. It was so long ago. ”

Nikolai, with a nervous giggle, brushed off Fyodor’s words as delusional. “You’re not making any sense, Fedya.”

However, an undercurrent of anxiety surfaced as he recalled the time he had saved Fyodor from peril, witnessing his struggle with blood loss and a head injury.

Almost oblivious to Nikolai’s unease, Fyodor continued smiling to himself, repeating in a soft murmur, “Я вспомнил.“ (“I remembered.”)

In an attempt to lighten the mood, Nikolai joked, “I’m not supposed to be the sane one, remember?”  He pointed out the irony, recalling Fyodor’s previous accusation of insanity.

Fyodor, with a touch of literary flair, responded, “Нет, Николай, I can fully assure you that I’m perfectly conscious.” (”No, Nikolai,”)

In an attempt to shift the atmosphere, Nikolai quipped, “Well, maybe you are.” 

Acknowledging Fyodor’s claim to consciousness, Nikolai mused, Perhaps you are. But that smile of yours seems haunted rather than happy. Are you sure you’re not just a bit broken?

He sensed a subtle breaking of Fyodor’s mask, the cracks revealing a deeper, more vulnerable layer beneath. As Nikolai observed the delicate fissures forming in the mask, the once impenetrable facade began to crumble under the weight of the unseen burden that haunted him. The mask, a carefully crafted shield that concealed the complexities within, now revealed its true nature. It was a visceral unraveling, akin to the slow disintegration of a spider's web caught in an unforgiving storm.

Each crack felt like a fracture in the foundation of Fyodor's identity, threatening to expose the raw, unguarded core beneath. The mask, once a seamless projection of composure, now echoed the torment within, and its disintegration was an unsettling picture of pain.

Nikolai, who once fantasized about witnessing this breakdown, found himself uncomfortably close to the reality of it, a realization that this uncomfortable feeling was a common thread through his recent thoughts about Fyodor’s demise. The actuality of Fyodor's distress, etched in the lines of his breaking, was a stark departure from the romanticized dream. It felt like peering into an abyss of anguish, the unraveling of a soul laid bare, leaving Nikolai uneasy in the face of this poignant revelation.

Nikolai gently cupped Fyodor's face, his touch a blend of comfort and concern. "Whatever it is you remembered, don't let your past cage you," he uttered, his words hanging in the air like a fragile thread.

Fyodor's eyes widened in surprise, as if Nikolai had unraveled a secret unimaginable to him. Despite Fyodor being well aware of Nikolai's aspirations and having discussed them multiple times, hearing those words from Nikolai’s lips carried a weight beyond their past conversations. Sometimes, even Fedya needed to hear such sentiments voiced by someone else, a reminder echoing in the caverns of his own soul.

Fyodor, his mind still grappling with the unexpected revelation, felt the edges of consciousness slip away. The disorienting swirl of emotions and the physical toll of the moment finally took their toll. As if surrendering to the fatigue that enveloped him, Fyodor's eyes closed, the world around him fading into darkness.

"I..." Fyodor whispered, a hesitant admission hanging in the air. Yet, as if changing his mind, he declared, "I'm going to lose consciousness now." The weight of those words settled in the space between them, a prelude to the impending descent into the realm of unconsciousness.

Nikolai, now cradling Fyodor's head, watched as the man before him succumbed to unconsciousness. As Fyodor's breathing steadied, Nikolai couldn't shake the lingering tension in the air. The gravity of their intertwined past, the shattered facade, and the unsettling truth pressed down on Nikolai’s shoulders, compelling him to wrestle with the unfolding events.

Chapter Text

Fyodor’s head throbbed, a persistent reminder of the injury he had sustained. Waves of pain radiated through his skull, accompanied by a dull headache that settled in like an unwelcome guest. 

Slowly, Fyodor began to awaken, blinking as he attempted to discern shapes in the enveloping darkness. An unpleasant realization washed over him about his recurring habit of slipping into unconsciousness for days on end. This occurrence was becoming all too frequent.

Stirring from his slumber, he noticed the sound of the wind outside and caught whiffs of fresh air. The room had a slight chill, but it wasn't uncomfortably cold, thanks to the heavy woolen blanket enveloping him. Running his fingers over its coarse texture, he couldn't help but feel discomfort against his thin skin, yet it provided effective insulation.

With his eyes adjusting to the dim light, he discerned the bluish hue of the room's walls, the torn wallpaper a stark contrast to his own surroundings. Across from him stood cabinets filled with an assortment of colorful trinkets, including a deck of playing cards. Fyodor noticed a half-eaten sandwich on the cabinet, though it seemed almost untouched, a remnant of a hasty meal.

It was unmistakably Nikolai's room, a fact he had contemplated venturing to earlier, though in his current state, crawling would have been a more accurate description. Despite its spaciousness, the cooler temperature and signs of wear and tear over time were evident.

Fyodor’s eyes wandered toward the balcony where the cold wind swept in, stirring a glimmer of hope within him. Was he yearning to see Nikolai, or had he resigned himself to facing solitude once more?

As Fyodor’s gaze swept across the balcony, it landed on Nikolai, bathed in the soft moonlight that cast an ethereal glow around him. His long silver hair danced in the gentle breeze, and the sway of his cardigan seemed to synchronize with the rhythm of the wind. Fyodor found himself mesmerized by the presence of the elusive jester, as if he were a vision brought to life.

Yet, despite the beauty of the moment, an unsettling silence hung in the air. Fyodor felt a pang of guilt wash over him, a nagging awareness that he should apologize to Nikolai. But the notion of offering a sincere apology felt foreign to him. In all his years, he couldn't recall ever extending genuine remorse to anyone. His relationships were transactional, his interactions devoid of heartfelt sentiment.

Struggling to find his voice, Fyodor felt it caught in his throat, a painful reminder of his physical and emotional exhaustion. Try as he might, words eluded him, leaving him grappling with the weight of his own silence. He coughed, attempting to clear his throat, but Nikolai remained unresponsive, his gaze fixed on the sky above as if he were lost in contemplation.

‘Do you envy the stars in the sky for their freedom unconstrained by life’s problems?’ Fyodor pondered, a note of bitterness creeping into his thoughts.

"Nikolai," Fyodor called out hoarsely, but still, there was no reaction. Surely, if not before, Nikolai must have noticed his awakening by now. "Nikolai, what are you doing? I know you can hear me."

"Hmm... I'm not talking to you," came Nikolai's dull response. He turned slightly, an unusual seriousness etched on his features, perhaps even a hint of sadness, the bluish light casting playful shadows on his whitish eyelashes that framed his heterochromic eyes.

"You're being childish," Fyodor retorted, meeting Nikolai's gaze, though the man avoided looking him in the eye.

"On the contrary. I don't see any point in continuing or trying to discuss anything," Nikolai shrugged. Fyodor knew he was right, but the conflicting emotions swirling within his chest made it difficult to concede. He merely lifted his eyebrows in acknowledgment, indicating that he was listening.

"And if you... I'll find someone or I'll be here while you get to your feet, and then we'll go our separate ways as it was. That's what I wanted to say when I came in. If you hadn't tried to commit suicide!" Nikolai's words hung heavy in the air, casting a shadow over the room.

Fyodor avoided Nikolai's gaze, shaking his head as he diverted his attention to the peculiar skeleton trinkets adorning the room. One of them sported an ushanka on its head, a whimsical detail that momentarily caught his attention. As Nikolai hesitated, seemingly wavering in his resolve, Fyodor braced himself for what was to come.

"You're not someone to give up," he heard Nikolai mumble to himself, more a reflection of his inner thoughts than an attempt to communicate with Fyodor directly. "Why? What's gotten into you?"

"I thought we weren't on speaking terms," Fyodor retorted caustically.

"Ha! And who is being childish now?" Nikolai shot back.

Fyodor pursed his lips, his expression turning somewhat sullen. "Well, then it means we're both childish!"

Nikolai approached, but he remained rooted in place, his eyes betraying the myriad of thoughts swirling within him, words he struggled to articulate.

Fyodor sensed a newfound openness in Nikolai, a departure from his previous demeanor. It was as if Nikolai was undergoing a transformation, maybe for the better. However, this change brought with it the unsettling realization that there might no longer be room for Fyodor in his life.

Fyodor brought his hand to his forehead, concealing his face as he massaged his temples in a futile attempt to alleviate the persistent fatigue and throbbing headache.

“I didn’t... That’s not what I intended,” Fyodor murmured weakly.

“Oh, of course not! My mistake for assuming you were attempting self-harm when I found you with scissors at your throat,” Nikolai retorted, his tone laced with sarcasm and frustration.

He shook his head and paced across the room, clearly agitated. “How could you do something like this? Why would you think that this was alright?”

“It isn’t alright!” Fyodor exclaimed, sitting up. The movement aggravated the ache in his skull, and he winced at the sharp stab of pain. “This has nothing to do with you! I never asked for your pity, let alone your help! I can manage myself; it has always been my nature, as you well know.”

Nikolai’s eyes softened, a hint of understanding flickering within them. “Then why did you do it?” he asked, his voice tinged with genuine concern.

Fyodor hesitated, his resolve faltering as he met Nikolai’s gaze. “I’m sick of running around in circles,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I thought…I thought it would be easier this way. But I was wrong.”

Nikolai’s eyes were filled with a mix of regret and sadness, as if he were contemplating deeply. “You don’t have to face everything alone,” he repeated, his voice tinged with genuine concern. But then, a bitter laugh escaped him. “But who am I telling, you know better,” he added sarcastically, his tone heavy with resignation.

Fyodor took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to convey the complexity of his situation. “It’s more complicated than you think,” he murmured, his voice barely audible above the soft rustle of the wind outside. “And it wasn’t a suicide attempt.”

Nikolai’s brow furrowed in confusion, a mix of concern and curiosity etched on his features. “Complicated? What do you mean?”

Fyodor let out a heavy sigh, grappling with how much to reveal. “I… I can’t die,” he finally admitted, the words feeling like lead on his tongue.

Nikolai’s eyes widened in disbelief, a myriad of emotions swirling across his face before settling into a mix of astonishment and concern. “You can’t… die?”

Fyodor’s lips twitched with a hint of amusement at Nikolai’s reaction. “It’s my ability,” he confessed, his voice soft but firm.

The disbelief etched deeper into Nikolai’s expression, his jaw dropping slightly as he processed the revelation. “Wait… You can’t be serious… you’re saying you’re immortal? Like, you can’t die at all?”

Fyodor nodded seriously, his expression grave. “I wish I weren’t. But it’s the truth.”

Nikolai stumbled back a step, his mind racing to comprehend the weight of Fyodor’s words. “So that’s Dostoevsky’s grand secret,” he murmured, awe and shock blending into his tone.

Fyodor’s explanation was accompanied by a faint smile, a subtle acknowledgment of the irony of his situation. “Yes, it seems so. But it’s not always as glamorous as it sounds.”

Nikolai’s initial enthusiasm dimmed as he grappled with the implications. “Then what were you trying to do? Why suffer injuries if you can’t die?” His words were laden with concern, reflecting the seriousness of the situation. “So, you can’t die… but you also can’t heal,” he murmured, his mind racing with the consequences.

Fyodor affirmed with a nod, his gaze fixed on a distant point as if lost in thought. “Exactly. Every ability has its weaknesses. What I attempted relates to this. If I die, my body undergoes a sort of rebirth.” His tone carried the weight of his words, the significance of his revelation palpable.

Nikolai’s eyes widened in understanding as the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. “So, you tried to kill yourself to trigger this rebirth?” he ventured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Fyodor’s solemn expression remained etched upon his features as he replied, “Yes. I hoped that by ending my life, I could start anew. But even that proved futile.”

Nikolai’s curiosity piqued at Fyodor’s mention of the rebirth process. “What happens when you’re reborn?” he asked, his tone tinged with fascination.

Fyodor’s expression darkened slightly as he delved into the more grim aspects of his ability. “It’s not a pleasant experience,” he admitted. “My body feels frozen and decayed for some time. It’s as if I’m trapped in a state of limbo between life and death.”

Nikolai’s brow furrowed in concern. “And what about your memories?” he inquired, his curiosity growing.

Fyodor’s gaze turned distant as he pondered the question. “I lose them,” he admitted quietly, pursing his lips as if reluctant to reveal this aspect of his existence. Then, with a hint of amusement, he remarked, “You’re quite the curious one, aren’t you?” in a slightly playful tone.

Nikolai flashed a charming grin in response, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “What can I say? I’ve always been intrigued by mysteries,” he quipped, his tone light and teasing.

Fyodor chuckled softly at Nikolai’s response before continuing, “Every time I’m reborn, it’s like starting from scratch. I feel disoriented and lost, not knowing what I am.”

Nikolai’s eyes widened in astonishment. “So, you’ve died before?” he asked incredulously, a sudden realization dawning upon him. It was why Fyodor had expressed such relief earlier when he mentioned remembering something from his past life.

Fyodor shrugged nonchalantly. “Obviously,” he replied with a wry smile. “I’m speaking from experience.”

“How long have you lived again?” Nikolai pressed on.

Fyodor sighed heavily, averting his gaze away from Nikolai. “Since the beginning,” he whispered. “From the moment I was cast out of heaven.”

Nikolai felt a chill run down his spine at those haunting words. His eyes widened in awe as he processed Fyodor’s words. “You were an angel?” he breathed, feeling a shiver of reverence run down his spine.

In Nikolai’s imagination, Fyodor took on an otherworldly aura, his features delicate yet strong, like those of a celestial being. His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of magenta, seemed to hold the secrets of the universe, captivating Nikolai’s gaze with their depth and beauty.

Fyodor chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I’m just kidding,” he replied with a wry smile. “Honestly, I don’t remember exactly how long I’ve been around. Time tends to blur together when you’re… immortal.”

Nikolai’s expression shifted from awe to confusion. “But you said you forget everything after being reborn,” he pointed out.

Fyodor nodded, his gaze distant as he recalled the sensation of awakening in unfamiliar surroundings. “That’s true. But the memories usually return gradually,” he explained. “I may not remember every detail, but I never forget my goals or my identity.”

As Fyodor spoke, flashes of disjointed memories flickered through his mind. He remembered waking up in desolate forests, his body cold and stiff as if it had been lying there for centuries. He remembered stumbling through shadowy cemeteries, the earth beneath him damp with decay. But most of all, he remembered the confusion and disorientation that gripped him every time he emerged from the darkness of death.

“It’s like… waking up from a nightmare,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of unease. “Except the nightmare never really ends.”

Nikolai listened in rapt attention, the impact of Fyodor’s words sank in deeply. The notion of being ensnared in an endless cycle of death and rebirth was enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine.

Yet, for Fyodor, it was a harsh reality he had begrudgingly accepted. Despite his reluctance, there was a strange sense of gratitude intertwined with his resignation. The irony of his predicament was not lost on him – of him being resurrected and forced to relive the same cycle again and again, only for it to inevitably end with him falling prey to death once more. Fyodor swallowed thickly against the lump forming in his throat. And, to him, the fact that he may very well end up living out a life of perpetual agony for as long as he remained on Earth seemed almost laughable, something he couldn’t quite wrap his head around. But, still, there were times where it didn’t seem all that farfetched.

“Тиць-пиздиць, Федор,” (“That’s fucked up, Fyodor,”) Nikolai muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed on the wooden floorboards as if searching for solace.

Despite his inclination to refute Nikolai, Fyodor recognized that his friend had yet to endure similar trials. There were moments when he wandered the world alone, seeking purpose and direction. Countless times, he scoured for documents and information about himself, piecing together fragmented memories and snippets of his past life. Occasionally, he stumbled upon intentionally left information, strategically placed for his own retrieval in case of his demise.

“With each passing cycle, my recollections fade, possibly tainted by fabricated or inaccurate memories,” Fyodor admitted, his voice tinged with a sense of resignation.

Nikolai’s brows furrowed in contemplation as he glanced downward. Fyodor couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind, though he couldn't quite decipher the expression on his friend's face. After a moment of silence, Nikolai lifted his gaze, curiosity evident in his eyes.

“How can you even discover that some of your memories were actually false?” he inquired, meeting Fyodor’s gaze.

Fyodor hesitated for a moment, his expression pensive as he carefully chose his words. “There was a time when I was captured,” he began, his tone heavy with the weight of the memories. "After each death, I found myself disoriented, vulnerable to exploitation. They sought to weaponize my ability, subjecting me to relentless tests in pursuit of its secrets. The constant questioning blurred reality, each repetition chipping away at the clarity of my recollections. With every cycle, my answers grew increasingly muddled and distorted. It wasn’t about fake memories per se, but rather the gradual erosion of truth in the wake of each rebirth.”

Nikolai’s eyes widened in horror, a mixture of disbelief and anger flickering in their depths. “So, they were killing you repeatedly just to exploit your ability?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

Fyodor nodded, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yes,” he confirmed, his gaze distant as he recalled the harrowing experience. “It was a never-ending cycle.”

Nikolai was taken aback by Fyodor's casual response. "But that's terrible, Fyodor. I can't imagine..." he trailed off, unable to find the right words to express his shock and disbelief.

Fyodor just gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Что было, то прошло,” he said, loosely translated as “What happened, happened.”, he remarked casually, as if discussing the weather. "Let's not dwell on it."

As Fyodor grappled with these conflicting thoughts, a sense of desperation crept over him. He had never considered taking his own life before. To him, it felt like a misuse, an abuse even, of the ability bestowed upon him. It went against everything he believed in, against the very essence of his being. But faced with the prospect of an eternity trapped in this cycle of suffering, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was the only way out.

As he reflected on his injuries and the obstacles they presented, he questioned whether he would ever be able to achieve his goals. Still, the idea of intentionally ending his own existence felt inherently wrong, a violation of the sanctity of life.

Fyodor’s gaze lingered on Nikolai, his expression unreadable as he tentatively broached the subject. “Now that you know about my ability, and why I was trying to end it all, do you think you could… end it for me?” he asked, his voice betraying none of the uncertainty that churned within him.

Nikolai’s response was immediate, his mask of indifference slipping just slightly to reveal a flicker of pain in his eyes. “No,” he stated firmly, locking eyes with Fyodor.

Fyodor’s brow furrowed in mild irritation, a defense mechanism against the tumult of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. “But… why?” he questioned, unable to comprehend Nikolai’s refusal.

Nikolai’s lips curled into a wry smile. “Because it wouldn’t be you,” he replied, his words carrying a weight of understanding and a trace of longing. “And I refuse to be the one to erase who you are.”

Fyodor’s thoughts churned with inner conflict. He had never thought of it that way before. For him, the idea of death and rebirth had never equated to dying, even though he emerged changed each time. He wanted to argue against Nikolai’s logic, to resist the notion that his own demise wouldn’t truly be his. And yet, amidst the turmoil of his thoughts, a strange sense of relief washed over him. He couldn’t comprehend why.

As Nikolai’s words sank in, Fyodor’s expression softened, a glimmer of understanding breaking through the turmoil within. “I see,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You always find a way to surprise me.”

Nikolai chuckled softly, the tension between them dissipating as he reached out to grasp Fyodor’s hand in his own. Fyodor savored the touch of Nikolai’s hand, a subtle warmth spreading through him at the contact. It had been too long since he had felt the comfort of another’s touch, and he found himself longing for more. As Nikolai’s eyes lingered on their intertwined fingers, a silent yearning evident in his gaze, Fyodor’s heart clenched with a mixture of emotions.

“And you always underestimate me,” he responded, his voice laced with both affection and regret “But I suppose that’s what makes us who we are.”

Fyodor felt a pang of guilt wash over him at the unspoken longing in Nikolai’s eyes. He wanted to apologize, to bridge the gap between them, but the words caught in his throat, trapped by the burden of their unresolved issues.

As Nikolai mentioned needing to attend to something, Fyodor watched him go, the bittersweet ache of their unspoken emotions lingering in the air. He couldn’t help but wonder if they would ever find a way to truly mend what was broken between them.

Chapter Text

Fyodor watched as the morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over Nikolai's room. Despite not sleeping, he had closed his eyes for a while, hoping to ease the fatigue that weighed heavily on him. The room felt strangely empty, with no sign of Nikolai in sight. Perhaps he had decided to sleep in another room.

As Fyodor reclined in bed, his head throbbed relentlessly. He noticed a cup of water, headache pills, and some ice placed near the counter, a silent gesture from his companion using his ability to ease Fyodor’s discomfort. A blend of warmth and discomfort swept over him at the thought, though he hadn’t noticed when they had been placed there through his overcoat.

After spending some time exploring every cabinet and shelf, despite his weakened state from coma-induced muscle atrophy, Fyodor stumbled upon several beautifully sewn items and an array of trinkets. It was a surprise to him, as he had not suspected that Nikolai could sew. Days seemed to blur together after Fyodor requested to be teleported back to his room to avoid inconveniencing the clown. He knew Nikolai was aware of his limitations.

Weeks later, Fyodor decided to be stubborn and attempt to walk to the first floor. The emotional escape from his room was a terrible experience, but it also instilled a newfound sense of confidence in his ability to walk again. He ignored the discomfort in his replanted hand, unwilling to dwell on that unresolved issue. He could twitch his fingers and feel pain, a bittersweet reminder of his progress. He had already planned to seek help from someone with healing abilities, though he couldn't think of anyone other than the member of the detective agency who could assist him. Would Nikolai be willing to help?

Feeling more active and in control, Fyodor made his way to the first floor, guided by the sound of Nikolai's faint mumbling and footsteps echoing through the thin walls. Despite his progress, he still clung to the walls and railing for support as he descended. It struck him that he rarely saw the jester lately, their encounters fleeting and infrequent.

As Fyodor descended to the first floor, his gaze landed on a makeshift hoop suspended from the ceiling, a remnant of Nikolai's impromptu acrobatics. He couldn't help but shake his head at the sight, a small grin playing at the corners of his lips.

However, as he reached the bottom of the stairs, a series of clattering and banging noises emanated from the kitchen. Curious, Fyodor peeked around the corner to find Nikolai clumsily attempting to cook, his movements more akin to a whirlwind of chaos than a graceful dance.

Watching Nikolai’s chaotic cooking scene unfold, Fyodor couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast to the delicious meals his companion typically prepared. Nikolai fumbled with pots and pans, his movements erratic and uncertain. He occasionally mistook salt for sugar and vice versa, and his chopping technique left much to be desired, resulting in unevenly diced vegetables scattered across the countertop.

The kitchen quickly devolved into a battlefield of ingredients, with flour dusting the air like a soft snowfall and spilled milk forming small puddles on the countertop. Despite his best efforts, Nikolai’s culinary skills seemed to have abandoned him in the midst of his turmoil.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the room as the frying pan slipped from Nikolai’s grasp and clattered to the floor. Fyodor winced at the sound, but before he could react, the reason for the mess in the kitchen turned to see him standing at the bottom of the stairs. Blinking in amazement, the individual’s expression quickly shifted to indignation.

"What are you doing there?" Nikolai exclaimed, his voice a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "You're not physically ready to be walking around on your own yet!"

Amidst the chaos of the kitchen, Fyodor couldn’t help but notice a troubled expression flitting across Nikolai’s face, a hint that something was gnawing at the clown’s mind.

“I was simply bored. I can’t sit and do nothing all day,” Fyodor calmly declared as he shakily continued to descend the stairs and carefully lowered himself into a chair, opting to recline rather than sit upright.

From his strangely slouched position on the chair, Fyodor lifted an eyebrow at Nikolai, who stood nearby looking like a lost child who had been scolded.

“Scared I will poison you?” Nikolai quipped, offering a saccharine smile.

“Oh, not at all, Kolya. I doubt it, and besides, you now know that with my ability, it’s pointless,” Fyodor continued, his tone light despite the weight of the conversation.

“Yep, it’s a dead joke, unforgivable,” Nikolai shook his head in mock exasperation. “Can’t wrap my head around it. Fedya is a dinosaur,” he added with a teasing smirk.

“Very funny,” Fyodor deadpanned.

“So, were you acquainted with historical figures, like… Jesus himself?” Nikolai continued, his tone playful yet curious.

“I’ll go back up to my room again,” Fyodor replied, his tone monotonous and tinged with a hint of annoyance, feigning a dramatic rise from his seat as if about to depart. Despite his words, he remained seated, a mischievous glint in his eyes suggesting he had no intention of leaving just yet.

“Of course, Nikolai. I’ve rubbed shoulders with all the big names,” he added with a chuckle.

Nikolai laughed in response, the tension in the room dissipating as he resumed his culinary endeavors. As the aroma of food filled the air, Fyodor watched with interest, occasionally offering a playful comment or suggestion.

Once the meal was ready, they sat down to eat in companionable silence. As Fyodor took a bite, he couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under Nikolai’s eyes.

“Haven’t you been getting enough sleep lately?” Fyodor asked, concern lacing his tone.

Nikolai’s expression softened briefly before he mustered a playful grin. “Sleep is overrated, Fedya. Who needs it when there’s so much to do? Besides, I’ve got to keep an eye on you. Who knows what trouble you’ll get into next?”

Fyodor raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You make a valid point,” he conceded, taking another bite of his meal.

As the meal progressed and the conversation lulled, Fyodor eventually excused himself and returned to his room, signaling the end of another mundane day.

In the complex realm of his thoughts, he stood at the precipice of victory, relishing the sweet taste of triumph. His grand plans were on the verge of fruition, success within his grasp. Yet, in an instant, the narrative shifted with cruel unpredictability. 

Then, the scene morphed into a nightmare within the dream. Fyodor felt an excruciating pain, a violent force piercing through his chest. Blood pooled around him, staining the ground, a stark contrast to the euphoria that had filled the air moments before. Each breath, once a symbol of assured conquest, now sent searing pain through his lungs, as if an unseen force relentlessly struck him with each inhale. Despite any success, his mouth would only fill with more blood, intensifying the torment.

Amidst the crimson chaos, Dazai emerged, a distorted version of the adversary Fyodor knew. The familiar cheeky smile was replaced with an unsettling expression, shrouded in darkness. The once-beautiful sky they had shared moments before transformed into an abyss, a void devoid of light. Fyodor stood alone with his only equal, his adversary, a figure representing the uncertainties that haunted his meticulously laid plans.

As Fyodor struggled for breath, the air seemed to betray him, laden with an oppressive weight. With each gasp, a malevolent force struck at his chest, intensifying the agony. 

Mumbling fragmented words, Fyodor's subconscious blurred the lines between dream and reality. "Dazai-kun…how?.." His trembling hand futilely clutched at the metal that pierced his entire torso. Dazai's words, laced with confident cheekiness, teased at the edges of Fyodor's consciousness.

“Unlike you, I don’t have control over all things,” Dazai’s voice echoed with a programmed cadence. “I found myself with a handful of uncertain cards, while you harbored a single weakness: your inability to trust anything beyond your control. Allies were my strength.” he added, the words carrying an eerie weight in the darkness that surrounded them.

"Somehow, I knew it…" The words hung in the air, a poignant echo that lingered in the silent space, mingling  with bittersweet emotion, whether born from the dream or his physical pain, burned unbearably in his chest.

The rhythmic thud of a helicopter’s blades resonated, filling the air with an eerie anticipation. As the helicopter took flight, the atmosphere shifted, the walls of the metallic beast starting to warp and melt.

Fyodor found himself engulfed in a cruel nightmare, molten pieces of metal cascaded like fiery raindrops, scorching everything in their path. The acrid scent of burning filled the air, making it hard to breathe. In the chaos, he struggled, his attempts to inhale met with the suffocating realization that the air itself had turned toxic. Gasping for breath, he felt his lungs seize, the sensation of breathing turning into a desperate struggle. Engulfing fire seared not only his body but his very soul.

The flames danced menacingly, casting distorted shadows on the walls of the helicopter. As the fire encroached, Fyodor felt a searing pain, not just from the burns but from the stifling confinement of the enclosed space. His surroundings blurred into a nightmarish tableau of agony and despair.

Then, with a disorienting twist, Fyodor found himself strapped in darkness, a haunting echo of some forgotten torment. The weight of unseen restraints pressed against him, an oppressive reminder of past sins that lingered in the recesses of his memory.

As Fyodor tried to pierce through the consuming darkness, he longed for a shred of humanity—a distant murmur of people or any sign that he wasn’t entirely abandoned. But amidst the silent void, his realization loomed: he craved connection, yet the weight of his own sins convinced him that no one would, or should, come to his rescue. In this desolate darkness, the isolation wrapped around him.

His ability, a double-edged sword, became both his gift and curse. The clandestine corridors echoed with sinister secrets, tales of blood-stained sanctuaries and the mournful toll of lives lost.

Fyodor woke abruptly, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he felt the weight of suffocation from his dream linger in reality. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, evidence of the intensity of the night terror. Nikolai, always vigilant to these episodes, was by his side, a comforting presence in the midst of the lingering nightmare.

“It’s okay, Fedya. Another episode, right? Just focus on your breath,” Nikolai reassured, his voice a steady anchor in the disorienting aftermath of Fyodor’s night terror. His hand rested gently on Fyodor’s shoulder, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t alone in the darkness, and that every nightmare had its dawn.

Nikolai reached for the small inhaler on the nightstand, a familiar routine in these moments. “Breathe, Fedya. Slow and steady,” he urged, a tenderness in his voice that transcended the boundaries of friendship. As Fyodor followed the rhythmic pattern, he felt Nikolai’s hand providing comforting support. The physical touch, so unusual to him, was both comforting and unsettling in its warmth. Fyodor felt as if he were being burned and soothed simultaneously, a contradiction.

In the dimly lit room, Fyodor’s vision was clouded by dark spots, a manifestation of the overwhelming darkness that lingered from his nightmares. Turning to Nikolai, he whispered, “Talk to me, Nikolai. I need to hear something other than…”

Nikolai, with a hint of tired shakiness but still gleeful, obliged by sharing random facts about birds. He spoke of their colorful feathers, the melodies that danced through the air, and the freedom they found in flight. As he shared these intriguing yet beautiful stories, a subtle joy illuminated his eyes, a happiness derived from the simple act of comforting someone he cared for deeply.

In Nikolai's soothing words, the room changed. Shadows faded, replaced by the imagined flutter of wings and the comforting presence. It was a simple, calming conversation that slowly eased the turmoil in Fyodor's troubled mind.

As their conversation flowed, Nikolai, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness, suggested, “Maybe you’d prefer me to leave, Fedya. I can stay on the sofa and watch over your breathing, or if you’d rather, I can go.” He left the choice to Fyodor.

Fyodor, his senses still entangled in the aftermath of the nightmare, felt a strange vulnerability. The idea of Nikolai leaving stirred an unexpected wave of discomfort within him. After a moment of hesitation, he softly murmured, “Stay.”

Nikolai settled back into the chair, his gaze fixed on Fyodor with a mixture of concern and something deeper. In the quiet of the room, punctuated by Fyodor's rhythmic breathing, a silent understanding passed between them.

As the night unfolded, Fyodor found solace in the presence of the one person who had managed to breach the walls he had meticulously built around himself. The dim light revealed a certain softness in Nikolai’s expression, a tenderness that Fyodor hadn’t anticipated.

In the hushed exchanges that followed, Nikolai spoke of trivial things—theatre, the changing seasons, and random facts. The simplicity of the conversation offered a stark contrast to the complex discussions and planning they had before.

As midnight approached, Fyodor’s breathing steadied. With the night’s terrors fading into the background, Fyodor allowed himself to rest, comforted by Nikolai’s presence. With his breathing gradually finding its natural rhythm, he took note of Nikolai’s appearance—disheveled and tired, yet steadfast in his silent support.

The weariness etched on Nikolai's face did not go unnoticed. Fyodor, momentarily liberated from the confines of his own turmoil, found himself acknowledging the toll it took on his companion. There was an unspoken fatigue in Nikolai's eyes.

Softened by the lingering night, Fyodor’s voice held an unusual caress. “Nikolai, you look exhausted. Lay down. Sleep here,” he said, genuinely concerned for the man.

With a cute yet tired expression, Nikolai playfully shook his head, insisting he needed to watch over Fyodor. However, a small yawn escaped him, and he sheepishly admitted, “Maybe just a quick nap, but I’ll be right here, Fedya.” As they settled in, a gentle quietude enveloped the room. In the serene embrace of dawn, they both succumbed to the peaceful lure of sleep, sharing a bed that had become a refuge from the haunting echoes of the past.

Chapter Text

As Nikolai slowly woke up to the dim pre-dawn light, he felt the faint warmth of Fyodor’s body beside him, a stark contrast to the chilly air that permeated the room. Fyodor’s touch seemed to hold a coolness reminiscent of celestial bodies, like the gentle caress of a moonlit breeze even amidst their shared warmth. It was akin to holding a living statue, his skin cool and smooth, evoking the sensation of marble touched by the first light of dawn. This physical peculiarity of him became a metaphorical dance, embodying the quiet elegance of a mythical being, their closeness a delicate blend of warmth and distant grace.

Gazing at pale, serene sleeping face, Nikolai couldn't help but acknowledge the complex emotions swirling within him. His feelings for Fyodor were akin to an addiction, a bittersweet craving that left him wanting more yet aware of the inherent sadness that came with it. It was like being captivated by a beautiful but fragile piece of art, knowing that it could easily shatter with the slightest touch.

Lost in these introspective thoughts, Nikolai's gaze shifted to the window where the soft glow of the approaching dawn struggled to penetrate the darkness. When he returned his gaze to Fyodor, a fleeting moment of surrealism enveloped him, as if the demon’s presence held secrets of a world beyond their own, a realm of hidden desires and unspoken yearnings.

As Fyodor stirred, rising slightly on top of Nikolai, his disheveled appearance under the dim, flickering light cast unsettling shadows around him, creating an aura of eerie allure. In that transient instance, Nikolai felt as though he was in the presence of a deceptive enchantment, a creature of captivating beauty veiled in shadows that seemed to coil and writhe, hinting at a darker and more dangerous essence lurking beneath the surface. It was as if Fyodor’s allure was a mask, hiding something unnerving and unsettling, like a predator cloaked in the guise of a fallen angel.

Under the silvered moonlight, Fyodor's alabaster skin takes on an ethereal glow, almost translucent in its beauty. It's as though a sheer veil drapes over his pronounced bones, inviting the desire to explore its delicate nature. The temptation to trace the thinness, leaving intricate patterns of blood on his sunken abdomen, becomes a morbid fascination, relished with each taste of the metallic essence.

However, the reality of their situation soon intruded as Fyodor's sleepy voice broke through the introspective silence. "Nikolai, you make a terrible pillow," Fyodor murmured, a hint of playful complaint in his tone. The abrupt end to the fleeting moment of intimacy brought them back to the mundane yet comforting reality of their shared space. Nikolai couldn't help but smile, realizing that their connection, though tinged with darkness and longing, was also filled with moments of levity and ease.

He responded lightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he fought off the urge to nuzzle his nose into Fyodor’s neck. “Is that so? Well, you wouldn’t have fallen asleep on my chest if I weren’t so comfortable,” he teased with a playful grin.

A moment of silence passed before Fyodor’s expression turned unexpectedly serious as he regarded Nikolai. “Так точно, извини меня, мой дорогой друг, за столь грешное поведение,” (That's right, forgive me, my dear friend, for such sinful behavior,) he said, a brief solemnity crossing his features before a teasing smirk appeared.

Nikolai’s heart skipped a beat at Fyodor’s playful density, a flicker of mock hurt flashing in his eyes before he managed a small smile.

The jester greeted the morning with a soft murmur. “Good morning.”

Fyodor shifted slightly and then laid beside Nikolai, his eyes reflecting a thoughtful demeanor as he quipped, “Planning to discuss how you woke me up just now? You can be quite the troublemaker,” a playful glint in his eyes reflecting Nikolai’s own mischief.

He added with a touch of mock seriousness, “Your shifting, or was it your breathing, disrupted my peaceful slumber.”

Nikolai’s grin widened at Fyodor’s playful jab. “Ah, the perils of sharing a bed with a restless soul,” he remarked, his tone light and inviting. “But really, since we are both awake… what shall we discuss?”

Fyodor paused, a hint of contemplation in his expression. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, his tone softening. “Perhaps we could discuss the dreams that kept us both awake, or simply discuss how restful your night was. Whatever suits your fancy.”

Nikolai chuckled softly. “Well, you did spend the night in my arms, which is certainly nice,” he joked, the warmth of their shared moments evident in his tone.

Fyodor’s cheeks warmed at Nikolai’s words, but behind his playful facade, he noticed a hesitance, a distance that hadn’t been there before. As Nikolai snuggled closer, a contemplative look on his face, Fyodor sensed an opportunity to delve deeper into their conversation.

“Isn’t it fascinating how the night brings out different thoughts?” Fyodor mused, his tone relaxed yet probing. The soft glow of the lamp created a cozy ambiance around them, adding to the intimacy of their exchange.

Nikolai, his eyes reflecting the moon’s serene light, nodded in agreement. “It does indeed. And what about your thoughts, Fedya?”

Fyodor leaned back slightly, choosing his words carefully. “Oh, you know, the usual musings,” he replied, offering a cryptic smile.

Nikolai raised an eyebrow playfully. “The usual, huh? I’m not buying it. There’s always something intriguing lurking in your thoughts.”

“Perhaps,” Fyodor chuckled softly, savoring the dance of their conversation. “Ah, but those engaging discussions we used to dive into, Nikolai. They were quite pleasant, weren’t they?”

Nikolai’s expression softened with nostalgia. “Absolutely, they were. Those passionate debates were like fuel for the mind, igniting curiosity and sparking new ideas.”

“Exactly,” Fyodor agreed eagerly, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up his eyes. “That sense of liberation and discovery—it’s what keeps us alive and thriving.”

Nikolai’s gaze turned introspective for a moment, his expression shifting with unspoken thoughts. “Lately, I’ve found myself lost in thought,” he confessed, his voice tinged with reflection and yearning.

Fyodor nodded understandingly, acknowledging Nikolai’s change in demeanor. “Life has a way of tossing us into unexpected currents.”

“Right,” Nikolai murmured, his eyes wandering to the dimly lit pre-dawn sky outside. “But there's something invigorating about the idea of freedom. It's like soaring through the skies without a care in the world.”

Fyodor joined Nikolai in contemplation, the faint light of early morning casting subtle shadows across the room. “Freedom is indeed a powerful concept,” he remarked thoughtfully, the weight of their shared musings hanging in the air. “I once heard that our fate in heaven or hell is predetermined... To resist this is to challenge the very fabric of the universe.”

Nikolai, visibly affected by Fyodor's words, leaned back with a hint of hurt in his eyes, as if the belief being expressed struck a chord within him. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he spoke with a mixture of resignation and longing, “It’s a heavy thought, I’ll give you that.” Pausing briefly, he continued, “But why should I continue living in misery when everyone else seems to lead blissful lives of ignorance?” His question hung in the air, laden with melancholy and introspection

Fyodor listened intently, his eyes reflecting the moon’s gentle glow. “Misery is a choice, isn’t it?” His voice took on a somber tone, inviting deeper reflection. “But perhaps it’s not just about bliss versus misery. It could be about finding purpose in the struggle, in the very journey itself.”

Nikolai's gaze turned inward, his vulnerability surfacing. “Finding meaning in the struggle… That’s a concept I’ve grappled with,” he admitted, his voice carrying the weight of uncertainty. “For so long, I’ve reveled in chaos, in the unpredictability of life. But lately, it’s felt suffocating, like I’m ensnared in a cycle I can’t break free from.”

“But does true freedom exist if every step feels predetermined?” Nikolai's mumble carried a tinge of desperation. “It’s as though we're trapped in a narrative we didn't author.”

Fyodor turned to fully face Nikolai, his gaze steady and understanding. “Has this burden been weighing on your soul all this time?” Fyodor inquired.

Nikolai paused, his eyes drifting away momentarily. “No,” he responded quietly, a flicker of sadness crossing his features.

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken thoughts, the room enveloped in a palpable atmosphere of introspection.

“Then why bring it up now?” Fyodor prodded gently, curiosity lacing his tone, inviting Nikolai to delve deeper into his thoughts.

Nikolai's gaze drifted toward the ceiling, his voice carrying a hint of contemplation. “Do you ever feel like we're living in a self-imposed cell? That our own perceptions could be the very shackles we wear?”

Fyodor, propped up on one elbow, regarded Nikolai with a thoughtful expression. “It's an intriguing thought,” he admitted. “Our minds construct the world we live in, shaping it based on our beliefs and fears.”

“But what about freedom?” Nikolai's voice held a touch of defiance, as if challenging the very notion of liberation. “Can we break free from these mental constructs, or are we destined to remain bound by them?”

Fyodor sighed quietly, his gaze softening with a blend of empathy and resignation as he looked at Nikolai. He had explored this topic with Nikolai before, and the weight of their differing beliefs hung silently between them.

Nikolai’s expression softened, a veil of remorse shadowing his eyes as he met Fyodor’s gaze. “I know where you stand on this,” he replied softly. “I think… Maybe I’m finding my peace with that.”

Their shared silence carried a heavy introspection until Fyodor finally broke it, his tone carrying a hint of seriousness and concern beneath his usual neutrality. “Mykola, I don’t like the way you look at me,” he said, his eyes searching Nikolai’s for a deeper understanding.

Nikolai tilted his head, a playful glint in his eyes. “And how am I looking at you?” he asked, curious yet light-hearted.

Fyodor paused, considering his words carefully.“It’s as if you’ve already condemned yourself to a fate you believe I represent. As if I were something otherworldly, not quite human. It’s more about the weight of your gaze, like you’re searching for answers within me that even I may not have,” he explained, his voice tinged with a touch of vulnerability.

Nikolai chuckled, the sound breaking the tension. “Why would you think that?” he countered, his playful demeanor softened and replaced by genuine curiosity. “Maybe I’m just trying to understand,” he admitted, a touch of vulnerability in his voice.

“Understanding comes with time, Nikolai,” Fyodor exhaled, a faint hint of exhaustion in his tone, “I wouldn’t want you to see me as something beyond human. Earlier, maybe…”

Nikolai burst into laughter, the sound echoing in the room.

“What's so funny?” Fyodor asked incomprehensibly, piercing the other with his gaze.

Having calmed down, with a slight smile on his lips, he replied, “No way. Don’t you think, my friend, that you’re projecting your own image onto me?”

Fyodor's expression shifted slightly, a shadow of displeasure crossing his features, his mind drifting to a past conversation with Dazai.

A yellow hue washed over their surroundings, highlighting the features of the brown-haired man’s curly locks that had grown longer during their time in prison. Dazai’s face, framed by these curls, bore a playful yet sharp smile that seemed almost artificial, his eyes carrying a sense of liveliness and playfulness that felt strangely empty to Fyodor.

Fyodor saw a reflection of himself in Dazai during those moments, a shared understanding born from their mutual detachment from humanity’s norms and expectations.

Their closeness once felt unbreakable, but now, a palpable distance hung between them like the eternal gloom of a Russian winter. Their first encounter with the demon, a young and arrogant brunette with an equally sharp wit, marked a turning point. It was in his company that Fyodor first experienced a sense of entertainment and camaraderie that made him feel less alone in his struggles.

In the heart of St. Petersburg, amidst the grandeur of a cultural gathering, Fyodor Dostoevsky found himself surrounded by a sea of faces, each hiding a multitude of secrets and desires. It was a night like any other, yet little did he know that fate had woven a thread that would entwine his life with another's in ways unforeseen.

The event was a celebration of art and intellect, a perfect masquerade for those who sought refuge from the mundane realities of the world. Fyodor, known for his sharp mind and introspective nature, mingled with the elite of Russian society, his gaze ever observant, searching for inspiration amidst the social chatter.

It was then that he first caught sight of him—a figure shrouded in mystery, with a demeanor that spoke of untold tales and hidden truths. Osamu Dazai, having recently fled the shadows of his past in search of redemption or perhaps oblivion, entered Fyodor's world like a tempest, disrupting the calm with his presence.

Their initial encounter was not marked by grand gestures or overt flirtation but rather by a subtle exchange of glances across the crowded room. Fyodor, accustomed to deciphering human behavior like a skilled detective, felt a curious pull towards this stranger whose eyes held a depth that mirrored his own turbulent thoughts.

As the evening progressed, conversations shifted from the superficial to the profound, and Fyodor found himself drawn into discussions that delved into the very essence of existence. Dazai's words were like poetry laced with melancholy, each syllable a reflection of his inner turmoil and existential ponderings.

This connection, though nascent, sparked a curiosity within Fyodor—a desire to unravel the layers of complexity that shrouded Dazai's past and present. Their interactions became a dance of intellects, with each probing question and cryptic response revealing fragments of their true selves.

In the days that followed, their paths crossed again, sometimes by chance and sometimes by design. Fyodor couldn't deny the allure of Dazai's charisma, the way he effortlessly navigated between charm and vulnerability, left Fyodor yearning to uncover more, aching to delve deeper into the mystery.

Their romance, if it could be called such, blossomed in the secrecy of twilight rendezvous along the obscure alleys of St. Petersburg. Each clandestine meeting added layers to their shared intrigue, fueling a mutual hunger to unravel the secrets that lay beneath their facades.

Fyodor, with his sickly, bony appearance and piercing gaze, radiated an uncanny mystique and intellect. The danger that seemed to elude him came with his rumored ability—death by touch, as everyone believed. His sharp mind was matched only by his enigmatic charm, a combination that drew Dazai like a moth to a flame.

Dazai, on the other hand, was a study in contrasts. With his devil-may-care attitude and disheveled elegance, he exuded a dangerous allure. His eyes, though often masked behind a facade of nonchalance, held a depth that hinted at untold stories and hidden pain. It was this complexity that kept Fyodor captivated, kindling the flames of their clandestine attraction.

As months passed, Fyodor found himself drawn deeper into the enigmatic allure of Dazai's world. Their encounters evolved from mere conversations into a dance of exploration, where whispered confessions mingled with stolen touches, and hidden desires simmered beneath the surface.

In secluded corners and abandoned rooftops, they found solace in each other’s presence, their encounters nothing short of electrifying. They found themselves irresistibly drawn to each other’s touch, a magnetic attraction that ignited a primal desire on their skin. The sensation was both exhilarating and daunting, a mix of thrilling excitement and gentle trepidation. As their fingers intertwined and their bodies met, a symphony of sensations unfolded, each touch carrying the weight of unspoken longing and undeniable passion.

Their passion was not just physical but intellectual—an exchange of ideas, philosophies, and desires that left them both yearning for more. In those stolen moments, they shed their inhibitions and embraced the intoxicating freedom of being together, if only for a fleeting night.

Despite the transience of their liaison, each embrace kindled a fire within them, a flame of desire that burned bright in the darkness. They both understood the unspoken rules of their entanglement, seeking solace in the physical closeness they craved without the expectations of permanence or commitment.

The connection, shrouded in secrecy and shared understanding, was a paradox of intimacy and detachment, a reflection of two souls entwined yet destined to remain separate.

However, beneath the veneer of their passion lay a stark reality—they were bound by different aspirations and worldviews. While Fyodor yearned for change and held lofty ideals, Dazai’s heart was shrouded in darkness and acceptance of chaos.

When Dazai, true to his unpredictable nature, announced his departure, it signaled a pivotal moment. He had a promise to keep, an obligation to fulfill—a promise to a departed friend that led him to Yokohama, to a new life in a detective agency.

Fyodor watched as Dazai faded into the distance, his heart heavy with a mixture of longing and acceptance. Their paths diverged, one seeking order in chaos, the other embracing the chaos as an intrinsic part of life.

As the fleeting connection they shared seemed like a distant memory, Fyodor couldn’t shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed within them both, leaving behind a lingering sense of longing for the past.

Now, each of them fights for their beliefs, and therein lies the intrigue. Fyodor found himself drawn to this struggle, finding a peculiar delight in these clashes of wit and will.

“You really don't understand God at all," Dazai's laughter echoed, loud and mocking, devoid of sincerity—a mere parody of human emotion. If there’s one thing Dazai knows how to do, it’s to hurt others’ feelings. Fyodor understood this well; he too possessed a knack for piercing through veils, wielding words as weapons to inflict unseen wounds.

The raven-haired prisoner couldn’t help but roll his eyes at Dazai’s theatrics. “Listen, my dear dramatist, I’ve got five centuries on you. So, hush now.” but wisely chose to keep it to himself.

It was unlikely that his words would shut Dazai up; he was generally difficult to silence. Fyodor sighed inwardly, remembering how Dazai’s antics often defied all attempts at calm reasoning.

But in front of him now was Nikolai, the clown, clearly tired but smiling brightly. Despite all the rot that had filled his soul, Nikolai now reminded Fyodor of a ray of sunshine, with his hair unraveling and wrapping around his face and pillow in a beautiful waterfall.

That sunshine, so beautiful yet capable of scorching everything in its path, much like Nikolai’s unpredictable nature. Fyodor couldn’t help but draw parallels between Nikolai and the sun—full of life yet harboring destructive potential, casting blinding rays that sear and scorch, shining for others even as it consumed itself in a hellish inferno.

In Nikolai’s eyes, Fyodor saw a reflection of resilience—a defiance against the inevitable despair that often clouded their world. It was a stark contrast to Dazai’s worldview, where the value of life was questioned and the allure of death held a mysterious fascination, yet equally compelling in its own right.

“I have no illusions about my humanity,” Fyodor revealed the fact, emerging from his thoughts.

As he gazed at Nikolai’s tired yet bright smile, Fyodor couldn’t help but feel a sense of admiration. Nikolai’s ability to embrace life’s challenges with a touch of humor and defiance was a refreshing contrast to the solemnity that often accompanied Fyodor’s thoughts. Nikolai’s presence brought liberation, reminding Fyodor that life’s beauty lies in experiencing its chaotic splendor rather than trying to control it.

Although Nikolai's desire to find unpredictability and complete freedom intrigued him, Fyodor could not shake the feeling of wanting to change his naive point of view. This desire was intensified by the fact that Nikolai was now closer to him than ever, raising questions about the true nature of their connection and whether this closeness was a problem in itself.

Chapter Text

“I have no illusions about my humanity,” He revealed the fact, emerging from his thoughts.

Fyodor's revelation about his humanity lingered in the air, met with a subtle shake of Nikolai's head. “Yes, but you've taken on such an unnecessary burden," the sonorous voice resonated with a tinge of concern as he remarked. "I've always seen you as an equal, Fedya. I appreciate your intelligence and insight, but you're still just a person to me, not some unreachable ideal…" Nikolai, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, pretended to be deep in thought. "Even though you’re now a hundred years old..." he began, teasing Fyodor about his ability.

The possessor of this very ability tsked, his wine-colored eyes narrowing as he challenged Nikolai to dare to continue. The jests were pushing his patience, but he had no intention of letting this impudent jester escape the conversation.

"My question remains unanswered," Fyodor interjected, his tone turning serious.

"Really?" Nikolai responded, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Yes," Fyodor continued. "Why don’t you leave and live? I’m not forcing you to stay."

Nikolai's reply was swift. "It seems like we've had this discussion before," he retorted, his tone carrying a mix of familiarity and contemplation.

“But you didn’t explain it at all. Of course, the situation didn't allow for it... You've come to realize that you can't leave me, forgive me, Kolya, but this sounds like a plot from a poorly written melodrama. Are you planning to leave once I recover? Where does this sacrificial gesture come from?” Fyodor smiled sharply, his words laced with sincere curiosity rather than malice.

“Ah-ah, I understand. Fyodor wants to question what kind of relationship we have? Usually, people don't address that so directly," Nikolai remarked, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He allowed himself to jest, given the lack of hostility in Fyodor’s words this time.

"Hmm.. I'm just trying to understand you," Fyodor shrugged, neither confirming nor denying Nikolai's interpretation. He found himself missing the unpredictability of his life; any unknown element sparked an unhealthy curiosity within him.

"By removing my closest companion, I might attain freedom. Yet, l've learned that the price is too steep; emotions will always find a way, and I'll be shackled in return by sorrow. Maybe there's truth in your observation of my troubled nature. Still, there's something undeniable about my feelings for you, Fedya." Nikolai confessed earnestly. “In fact, I love you.” 

Fyodor regarded him silently, a mix of confusion and doubt evident in his expression. "..Do you love? Are you certain? I question whether either of us truly understands love."

Nikolai's eyes brightened with emotion. "So let it be imperfect love! Why can't that be considered love?" he exclaimed with fervor.

Fyodor gently placed his hand on the jester's cheek. "You're unusually poetic today. Truly troubled," he remarked softly.

Their proximity intensified, their breaths mingling, and Fyodor's lips inched closer. Nikolai approached cautiously, as if dealing with a skittish creature. His fingers traced through silver hair, conveying a tenderness that belied his usual demeanor. Fyodor reciprocated but seemed preoccupied, lost in his thoughts as usual. He withdrew, leaving Nikolai with a puzzled frown.

"What if you change your mind again? Would you consider ending my life again?" Fyodor asked, his tone thoughtful.

Nikolai's enthusiasm waned slightly. "You've said it yourself, death holds no fear for you. Isn't that remarkable!" he exclaimed, though his enthusiasm seemed forced, lacking genuine joy.

"Would you be willing to embrace a distorted version of me?"  Fyodor's smile was feeble, yet beneath its lightness lay a painfully caustic quality, akin to poison. "I may not even remember you."

"Do you truly believe... I'm that insignificant?" Nikolai’s smile turned stony, though his dual-toned eyes remained enigmatic, masking any hint of bitterness or acceptance.

"No. I don't believe that," Fyodor softened, his fingers tracing the scar gently, almost affectionately. It felt too intimate, too caring, and he hesitated, considering retracting his hand. "I might even be tempted to end you."

The clown chuckled, cupping Fyodor's face in his hands—a gesture unusually tender and familiar, imbued with warmth. "To meet my end at the hands of my dearest, would that grant me freedom? Or perhaps not. Perhaps yes. It's almost ironic, isn't it? We might just come full circle, don't you think?"

Fyodor smiled back, his eyes closing in a mix of emotions. “Боже, Коля,” (God, Kolya,) he sighed slightly, a tinge of accusation in his tone. His hand traced Nikolai's face, following the contours of his cheekbones and jaw before pausing at the temple. The touch felt more like a threat than a caress, the clown thought.

"Hmm... I would have to use a knife," Fyodor mused cryptically. "Do you want to know more about me? You've always been curious about my secrets, haven't you?"

“Knife?” Nikolai's voice held a curious blend of fascination and playfulness. He had already conjured the most poetic deaths from his beloved's lips—a paradoxical irony that wasn’t lost on him. “Ah, the mysterious killer touch... Can you slay a soul with a kiss?” he teased, the words carrying a melodramatic flair.

Dost-kun tapped his temple lightly, prompting a mock reaction from Nikolai. “Ouch,” he whined, playing along with the theatricality of the moment.

“My ability is intertwined with the soul. I wield influence over consciousness, but these intricacies can be rather taxing, especially on one's mental well-being,” Fyodor explained, a hint of weariness touching his words.

Nikolai grimaced in pure disgust, his mind flashing to Fyodor's hodman, Ivan Goncharov. The mere thought of him stirred the usual jealousy, but this was on another level. Manipulation of consciousness and control—what could be worse? He wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy.

“This is disgusting, Fyodor,” Nikolai spat out.

Fyodor, catching the sentiment, only nodded. "I know it. Well, what can you do?" There was an air of resignation rather than excuse in his tone. Then, lifting his burning gaze, he asked, "Have you changed your mind?"

“Dream on, Fedya!” Nikolai snorted, his disdain clear in his response. “…Feelings don’t just bend to our wills, you know.”

Nikolai found it difficult to conjure up genuine hatred towards Fyodor, even with the knowledge of his abilities and the burdens. It was as if he needed something unimaginable to fuel such a strong emotion, yet this revelation didn't quite meet that mark. It was, perhaps, the minimum he anticipated from someone of Fyodor's wit and burdened with the curse of immortality.

"Oh, but isn't this a diversion?" Nikolai interjected theatrically, sensing the conversation drifting off course. "You accused me earlier, yet here we are veering off-topic."

“In no case,” Fyodor replied firmly. “My ability also allows me to take a soul through touch or, for example, blood, since it is part of me… I know what you will say or joke about, so don’t you dare,” he looked sternly at Nikolai, his tone warning against any inappropriate jests. The clown pouted, knowing he had been preemptively caught.

Nikolai, trying to lighten the mood, tenderly clasped Fyodor's slender, trembling hand, the slight tremor hinting at the injuries it bore, enveloping it in his own warm grasp.. “So, can you kill me or not?” he asked, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips, despite the serious topic.

Fyodor sighed. “Not exactly. I can indeed take the soul of the person possessing the ability, but the ability itself remains within the body, continuing its existence like an empty shell,” he explained, the weight of his words emphasizing the complexities of their situation.

Nikolai's eyes widened in amazement as he absorbed Fyodor's explanation.

"I would imagine that your ability would continue to seek freedom, but without the former spark and full understanding of why," Fyodor concluded, his tone tinged with melancholy.

Nikolai's excitement was palpable. "Oh, this is intriguing! So, my ability also shares my goal. It's like a part of me," he exclaimed, finding a certain simplicity in the concept that Fyodor might secretly envy.

Fyodor withdrew his hand, resting it against his chest pensively. "That's why having an Ability is akin to a sin."

Nikolai smiled apologetically, his eyes reflecting both amusement and contemplation. "I can't say for certain, Fedya."

Fyodor's expression turned serious. "But what if this world leaves us feeling so lost, each of us yearning for freedom because of our abilities? What if we're all under some influence? Dazai feels incomplete, Fukuchi's touch amplifies the essence of things, yet his thirst for more remains unquenched, and I can't find peace... There are so many examples." His smile was wide but lacked any real joy, hinting at a deep search for understanding.

"After everything I’ve been through, it's difficult not to feel like an impostor," he admitted with a shaky exhale, his emotions raw and unfiltered. "... But you and the others seem to share these feelings. There's still hope in that."

Nikolai was struck silent by this unexpected vulnerability. For once, he felt powerless to offer a solution or words of comfort. All he could do was hold onto Fyodor's hand tightly, seeking solace in their shared connection.

Leaning against Fyodor, Nikolai rested his head on his lover's shoulder, The term "lover's shoulder" drifted into Nikolai's thoughts. Could their connection truly be labeled as such? finding peace in the rhythmic cadence of Fyodor's breathing. Despite his own inner turmoil and the clamor for clarity in his mind...

“Perhaps," Nikolai responded softly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "I can't provide the answer you're seeking, my dove." His voice quivered ever so slightly.

Feeling Fyodor's arm tighten around his shoulders, Nikolai found a moment of solace as Fyodor's lips brushed lightly against his hair, a gesture that brought a sense of calm and understanding to their shared moment.

"Nikolai," he began, his deep, magenta eyes locking onto Nikolai's gaze. "What if someone possessed your mind and body?" he inquired tentatively.

…

..

.

Nikolai felt a shiver run down his spine at the thought. His heart raced, and his grip on Fyodor's hand tightened, betraying his inner turmoil. This person already held considerable sway over him. The idea of losing autonomy over his own being was daunting, to say the least.

The thought crossed his mind—he could use his own ability and extract the demon's void of a heart. It was tempting, a fleeting desire born out of frustration and fear. Yet, beneath it all, Nikolai yearned to keep his thoughts and feelings guarded, hidden from manipulation. Despite this inner turmoil, his pride ultimately triumphed, compelling him to face whatever lay ahead with determination.

His initial instinct was to guard himself, to keep his vulnerabilities hidden. However, the intimacy of their bond and Fyodor's gentle presence nudged him to speak honestly. "Then possess my heart too," he murmured softly in reply.

Fyodor's chuckle, warm and reassuring, wrapped around Nikolai like a comforting embrace. It was a moment of shared understanding, where words weren't needed to convey the depth of their connection. His breath tickled his ear as he said, "I see."

"If I ever lose control of my mind," Nikolai continued, a bit louder and firmer this time. "I'll destroy myself first." He closed his eyes, his heart racing at the thought. "And I will live on my own terms," he whispered harshly, his eyes fluttering open again to meet Fyodor's penetrating stare.

He met the challenge and refused to look away. They sat staring at each other for several moments, neither speaking. Nikolai’s hold on his hand relaxed and his head dipped down so their foreheads touched. Their breaths mingled in the silent room, each of them struggling to contain the emotions they felt, to keep themselves in check. They were both trapped within an impossibly tight embrace, each unwilling to part ways.

Chapter Text

Fyodor furrowed his brow, gingerly adjusting his injured hand to grasp the cutlery properly. Fortunately, his sensitivity had returned somewhat, along with increased dexterity. Descending to the second floor, he grasped the railing with his right hand, feeling the rough wood beneath his fingertips and the warmth of a mug filled with fragrant tea.

 “God, I missed this feeling,” he muttered to himself, savoring the sensation of the tea’s heat against his palm.

As he recalled the morning’s events, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “Nikolai, your tea nearly sent me to an early grave,” he teased, casting a playful glance toward the kitchen.

Nikolai chuckled from the other room. “Sorry about that, Dos-kun. I’ll make sure to brew it to perfection next time.”

Fyodor’s heart swelled with warmth at Nikolai’s response. Despite their differences, there was an unspoken understanding between them that brought comfort in even the smallest gestures.

Lost in thought, Fyodor’s mind drifted to the cello he had longed to play again. The image of its smooth curves and rich tones flooded his mind, igniting a longing within him that he had suppressed for too long. He sighed wistfully, the desire to feel the instrument beneath his fingers overwhelming him. 

Perhaps he should have asked Nikolai to steal the cello for him. Despite his hidden savings, purchasing anything as notorious world criminals seemed unwise and unlikely to improve his already tarnished karma.

“Perhaps one day,” he whispered to himself, his gaze lingering on the empty space

Reflecting on the morning's events, he remembered how he had pushed Nikolai away from the teapot with a sullen expression. The tea Nikolai had prepared had nearly made him spit it out. Kolya had whined in offense, stepping back with widened eyes, while Fyodor, despite his trembling hand, had managed to perform the miracle of making tea.

“Damn it,” Fyodor muttered, frustration evident in his voice as he struggled to hold the teapot steady. “Why do you have to be so clumsy now?” He glanced over at Nikolai, who stood nearby, concern etched on his face.

Nikolai approached him slowly, reaching out a hand. “Let me help you, Fedya.”

Fyodor brushed him off with a scowl. “I can manage,” he insisted, though his hand shook noticeably as he poured the tea into the waiting mugs.

Nikolai watched him quietly, his expression a mixture of sympathy and understanding. “You’re doing great,” he murmured softly, giving Fyodor an encouraging smile.

Despite his trembling hand, Fyodor felt a surge of determination wash over him. With a steadying breath, he continued pouring the tea, refusing to let his injury dictate his actions.
 
The clown had annoyingly compared him to a sorcerer brewing a potion, but deep down, Fyodor had felt a sense of pride, as he savored the perfectly brewed tea.  

The day unfolded with a pleasant ambiance, the slight coolness in the air complemented by the gentle sunlight filtering through the aged, greenish wallpaper. Some sections were peeling off, adding character to the room. The white cabinets and table provided a pleasing contrast, contributing to the tranquil atmosphere.

Seated peacefully by the window, Fyodor felt the light breeze brush against his face, playing with his hair as he took in the serene surroundings. Meanwhile, Nikolai had offered him a small show, albeit at his own request, or so he claimed. Fyodor had once expressed a desire to witness Nikolai's skill with a hoop, and now it seemed Nikolai had taken it upon himself to stage his performances almost daily. However, as Fyodor observed the unfolding acrobatic routine, a seed of doubt took root within him regarding the safety of the self-fashioned contraption—a hoop suspended delicately by ropes. Despite the confident finesse displayed by Nikolai, Fyodor found himself questioning the durability of the setup.

As he pondered, Fyodor couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at the thought. After all, one injured person in their duo was quite enough. Besides, he couldn't deny the role played by the expanse of the high ceiling on the first floor, contrasting starkly with the limitations of the second floor.

Nikolai, clad in an ordinary sports T-shirt and trousers, moved with a grace that belied his unassuming attire. With each pirouette, his strong body became a living canvas, bending and twisting like a work of art. His long legs traced simple yet mesmerizing patterns in the air, drawing the eye with their fluid movements.

As he gracefully executed each turn, Nikolai made a sharp circle in the air, his head dipping low enough for his whitish strands to brush against the floor. Yet, instead of faltering, he smiled and winked at Fyodor, his entertainer's charm shining through.

In this inverted position, Nikolai's milky skin and tense muscles were on full display, the T-shirt slipping down to reveal  his toned waist, Fyodor watched in awe, a mixture of admiration and longing stirring within him. Despite the tension that often tainted their interactions, there was an undeniable beauty in the way Nikolai moved—a beauty that both captivated and haunted him.

Nikolai’s long neck was stretched taut, the muscles visibly tense as he maintained his position with effortless poise. Despite the strain of the acrobatic maneuver, Nikolai’s expression remained serene, a calm determination etched on his features. 

The jester continued his mesmerizing performance, each graceful movement seemed to echo the flutter of a dove confined within a cell—beautiful yet constrained, yearning for the freedom it may never attain. It was as if each pirouette and somersault was a silent plea for understanding, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity.

As Fyodor watched, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy at Nikolai’s freedom—to move with such grace and fluidity, unhindered by the constraints. And yet, there was also a sense of awe—a recognition of the courage it took to defy the odds and embrace life’s uncertainties with unwavering determination.

Nikolai finished his captivating show, his movements still lingering in the air like echoes of a distant melody.

“So, how was it?” he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow, his voice tinged with anticipation.

“It’s already better. I told you that you just had to practice after a long pause,” Fyodor replied casually, taking a sip of his tea. Despite his nonchalant demeanor, his gaze had not strayed from Nikolai’s graceful form during the performance.

Nikolai’s thin waist and beautiful hips had not escaped Fyodor’s notice, though he made a point not to dwell on such thoughts.

“So, I’m saying the same! I mean about your health,” Nikolai pressed, concern evident in his voice.

As the conversation shifted, Fyodor broached the topic of recent events, his mind already whirring with plans and strategies. “I need access to the computers,” he stated matter-of-factly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I want to know what the Agency is up to, what happened to the other members.”

Nikolai nodded in understanding, knowing all too well the extent of Fyodor’s capabilities when it came to information gathering and manipulation. “And what about Fukuchi?” Fyodor continued, his voice tinged with a hint of curiosity. “Is he truly lost to Fukuzawa, or is there more to the story?”

Nikolai hesitated for a moment before responding, “It’s hard to say for certain, but it seems Fukuchi’s fate is sealed.”

Fyodor’s expression remained impassive, betraying none of the thoughts swirling in his mind. “And Sigma?” he inquired, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nikolai’s gaze darkened slightly, a shadow passing over his features. “Sigma is in a perpetual sleep state,” he explained, his tone grave. “After touching you, his mind was overwhelmed with information, rendering him unable to function properly.”

Fyodor absorbed the information in silence, his mind already plotting the next move. Despite the gravity of the situation, a small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “Well, it seems the Detective Agency and the Mafia are busy picking up the pieces and restoring Yokohama,” he mused aloud, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Nikolai regarded him warily, sensing the wheels turning in Fyodor’s mind. “Are you sure about this, considering your condition?” he asked tentatively.

Fyodor waved off his concerns with a dismissive gesture. “I’ll manage. And besides,” he added with a sly smile, “I have a feeling you’ll be able to assist me in more ways than one.”

With that, Fyodor leaned back in his chair, a plan already forming in his mind. It was time to make his move, to disrupt the delicate balance of power in Yokohama. And perhaps, if he was being honest with himself, to indulge in a bit of petty revenge, especially when it came to Dazai.

As if sensing his thoughts, Nikolai nodded silently, his eyes reflecting a mix of understanding and concern.

After their conversation, Nikolai fulfilled Fyodor's wish regarding the computers, teleporting the necessary equipment and information to aid in his scheme.

Later, as the evening descended and the soft glow of yellow lamp light filled Fyodor's bedroom, Nikolai's touch was firm yet tender as he kneaded the knots from Fyodor's muscles, each stroke sending a jolt of pleasure coursing through his veins. The soft strains of music filled the room, adding to the sensual atmosphere as they moved in sync with the rhythm of the evening. Fyodor had a penchant for setting the mood with music, particularly instrumental and classical pieces that enveloped the space in a timeless elegance. As the melodies swirled around them, intertwining with the gentle dance of their movements, Fyodor felt himself melting into a state of blissful relaxation, surrendering to the harmony of body and soul.

Shadows danced across the walls, casting a seductive allure over their intimate encounter. As Nikolai's hands worked their magic, kneading away tension and stress, a primal heat simmered between them, igniting a fire that burned with a fierce intensity. At first, they lied to themselves, convincing their hearts that this was merely to ease his physical pain. But deep down, they both knew it was more.

Their gazes locked, a silent communication passing between them as they surrendered to the intoxicating passion that enveloped them. In that moment, the boundaries blurred, and they became lost in each other, their bodies moving in perfect harmony with the rhythm of desire.

And then, without a word, their lips met in a searing kiss—a collision of desire and longing that left them both breathless. It was a raw, unbridled expression of their primal urges, a testament to the untamed passion that simmered beneath the surface.

In that moment, as they lost themselves in each other, there was no room for softness or restraint. They were consumed by the fiery passion that raged between them, a hunger that could not be denied.

And as they pulled away, their chests heaving with exertion, a knowing smirk passed between them. For Fyodor and Nikolai, sharing kisses was not just a habit-it was a declaration of their unyielding desire, a promise of the wild, untamed love that bound them together.

Nikolai's large hands traversed the delicate expanse of Fyodor's torso, caressing the slender frame with a reverence that bordered on worship. His touch danced over the sculpted contours of Fyodor's shoulder blades, akin to severed wings. The skin, as ethereal as gossamer, whispered secrets of vulnerability, so fragile that it seemed the slightest pressure would cause it to yield, , as if his own bones threatened to pierce through and spill forth crimson tales. Yet, there was a haunting beauty in this fragile facade, a poignant reminder of the ephemeral nature of existence, reflected in the depths of Nikolai's eyes.

With a tender kiss upon the graceful curve of Fyodor’s neck, Nikolai became lost in a whirlwind of emotions, momentarily swept away from his primary fear by the allure of desire. It was a rare moment of abandon, a fleeting glimpse into a world where passion eclipsed apprehension. But as always, Fyodor, mindful of his fears and reservations, gently pushed away, drawing back from the edge of desire even as his heart ached to surrender to the intoxicating allure of Nikolai’s touch.

“Why?” Nikolai uttered, his voice quiet, pleading. He looked at Fyodor, his eyes full of uncertainty and sadness. “Please.”

Despite his efforts to restrain his feelings, his lips trembled with restrained emotion. He had expected many things from Fyodor—from rejection, to anger, to scorn. But despite his best efforts, his heart still yearned for those feelings, and he knew that he would always crave them, no matter how desperately he tried to repress them.

“Tell me,” he demanded softly, his voice sounding like an echo of the past,reaching out for Fyodor and grasping the soft, smooth flesh of his wrists, trying to convey his sincerity. 

It was only after seeing the anguish etched into Nikolai’s beautiful features that Fyodor found his resolve crumbling, crumbling away piece by piece. With a heavy sigh, he pulled Nikolai closer by the collar of his shirt, pressing their bodies flush against one another. A faint sense of déjà vu flashed across his vision as their noses brushed against one another, foreheads almost meeting.

His hand traced down the line of his jaw, the pads of his fingers trailing delicately along the delicate lines of his face as he searched Nikolai’s eyes, looking for any sign of remorse or betrayal. 

Nikolai gazed deeply into Fyodor’s intense gaze, dark magenta eyes, which shone with the passion he had felt earlier. There was regret in them, but also determination, an inner drive that never ceased to surprise him.

Fyodor turned away, his face a mask of conflicting emotions. “Nikolai, this isn’t right. 

”We’re dangerous men. We’ve both done things that… We don’t get to have normal lives, normal relationships.”

Nikolai shook his head, frustration mingling with his sadness. “You keep saying that, but it doesn’t change anything. We’re in this together, whether you want to admit it or not.”

Fyodor sighed, the weight of his past heavy on his shoulders. “You don’t understand. I would change you, Nikolai. I would destroy your wish for freedom. And I don’t even know if I can love you the way you deserve. I’ve lived too long, seen too much. I don’t feel things the way you do.”

Nikolai grabbed Fyodor’s wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. “You’re not dragging me anywhere. I’m here by choice. I know what I want, and I know what I’m risking. We’re already tainted, Fyodor. But that doesn’t mean we can’t find something real in this mess.”

Fyodor looked into Nikolai’s eyes, seeing the unwavering determination there. “I don’t want to destroy you,” he said softly. “But I fear that’s all I’m capable of.”

Nikolai’s grip tightened. “Let me decide what’s too much for me. I can handle it. We can handle it, together.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the room filled with unspoken tension. Fyodor knew the risks, knew the darkness that followed him. But looking into Nikolai’s eyes, he saw something he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for—an acceptance of their shared darkness, a willingness to face it together. Maybe, just maybe, they could carve out a place for themselves in the shadows. Fyodor nodded his consent.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Fyodor awoke in the early morning light, cradled in the warm embrace of Nikolai. The feeling of Nikolai's body against his was both comforting and disconcerting. As Fyodor gently extricated himself from the hold, he noted the dryness in his throat. Moving slowly and carefully, he slipped out of bed, mindful not to wake Nikolai.

As he made his way to the small kitchen area, Fyodor’s mind buzzed with thoughts of the looming threats and his plans for vengeance against Dazai. The recent turmoil had left them vulnerable, and the daring rescue orchestrated by Nikolai had not gone unnoticed. It was all over the news, painting a target on their backs.

At this point, Fyodor had almost gotten used to doing most things with his non-dominant arm. Thankfully, he was dexterous, but the difficulties arose with more detailed movements, like writing or delicate tasks. His injured hand had improved over time, a testament to what Nikolai called his “painful stubbornness.” He could hold a cup and move his hand, though his fingers trembled like shaking leaves, and the pain persisted.

Fyodor poured himself a glass of water, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. He considered the precariousness of their situation. His injuries had severely compromised his ability to defend himself. While Nikolai possessed formidable strength and a powerful ability, Fyodor doubted whether Nikolai could fend off such threats alone.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Fyodor contemplated the potential adversaries they might face. He envisioned the strongest ability users and perhaps even non-human agents dispatched to hunt them down. Names of individuals known for their prowess in battle flickered through his mind, beings whose existence posed a threat in the abnormal world they navigated.

As Fyodor’s thoughts turned darker, a sense of urgency gripped him. They needed to relocate, find a safe haven to regroup and strategize. Yet, amid plotting their next move, the ache in his body reminded him of his limitations. A recurring thought surfaced—he could allow himself to be killed, relying on his immortality to resurrect and continue his mission. But Nikolai… Nikolai complicated things.

Nikolai’s presence was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, Nikolai was an asset, a powerful ally in their twisted dance. On the other hand, he was a potential liability. The thought of Nikolai being captured or worse, tortured for information about Fyodor’s ability, sent a shiver down his spine.

Glancing at the morning dawn through the window, Fyodor watched the leaves rustling in the wind. What would losing Nikolai mean? The thought stirred a mix of sorrow and practicality within him. Yet, despite his calculated detachment, the idea of Nikolai dying left a bitter taste in his mouth. Nikolai had become more than just a tool; he was a companion, someone who had wormed his way into Fyodor’s cold heart. Losing him would be a blow, not just to their mission but to Fyodor’s carefully constructed emotional defenses. It was a weakness he hated to admit, even to himself. 

Fyodor sighed, rubbing his temples as he tried to dispel the dark thoughts. He considered their options, contemplating various places they could go. Siberia came to mind, its vast, remote expanses offering a potential haven. The idea of enduring the bitter cold made him smirk wryly. “Я могу замёрзнуть насмерть ещё до того, как они нас найдут,” (“I might freeze to death before they even find us,”) he joked to himself, knowing his notorious resilience to the cold would be put to the ultimate test.

He also thought of a few acquaintances in Russia who owed him favors, though trusting them was another matter entirely. Each potential refuge carried its own risks and complications. There was also the Rats, but returning to them meant they wouldn’t sit idle; they’d demand direction. Frankly, he yearned for some peace of mind.

Taking another sip of water to clear his mind, Fyodor focused on strategizing without letting emotions cloud his judgment. Returning to the bedroom, he observed Nikolai’s serene expression amidst the chaos. There was a tranquility in Nikolai’s presence that grounded Fyodor. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Fyodor felt the weight of their predicament. “Мы не можем здесь оставаться.” (“We can’t stay here,”) he murmured to himself, his mind already working on the logistics of their escape. They needed to stay ahead of their pursuers. He had to gather resources and information to maintain the upper hand. As he stood up, a wave of determination washed over him. He would protect Nikolai, but he would also use him. That was the nature of their relationship—complicated, toxic, and yet, in some twisted way, deeply connected.

With a resolute glint in his eyes, Fyodor resolved to turn the tables on those who hunted them. They would not be easy prey. And somewhere, deep in the recesses of his mind, a flicker of hope persisted—hope that amidst the struggles, they could carve out a space for themselves, free from the shadows of their past.

Weeks later, the morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the room. Fyodor lay in bed, cocooned in blankets to ward off the chill of his anemia. His body still weak from his injuries, he worked from the comfort of his bed, a laptop perched on his knees. He couldn’t sit for long stretches as he used to, and the warmth of the blankets provided a small comfort.

A knock on the door broke his concentration. Nikolai entered, his usual exuberance tempered by concern. “Are you up for a walk?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Fyodor didn’t look up from his screen. “I’m busy gathering intel and talking with some acquaintances,” he replied dismissively, his fingers flying over the keyboard, despite the discomfort in his injured hand.

Nikolai lingered at the door, a hint of frustration in his eyes. “You haven’t talked to me since that night,” he said, his tone a mix of hurt and jealousy. “Day and night, you’re working in here. It’s like you’re possessed with your revenge.”

Fyodor finally looked up, meeting Nikolai’s gaze. There was a spark of bitterness in Nikolai’s eyes, a jealousy that hinted at more than just professional rivalry. It was about Dazai, and the intellectual connection Fyodor had with him. Fyodor knew that, and it complicated things further.

“Revenge is a powerful motivator,” Fyodor said softly, his fingers pausing over the keyboard as he glanced away from the screen. “But it’s not just about that. We’re not safe here, and you know it.”

Nikolai stepped closer, his expression softening slightly. “I know, but… can’t you take a break? Just for a little while?”

Fyodor’s heart ached at the plea in Nikolai’s voice. Despite everything, he cared for him, in his own twisted way. He reached out, gently taking Nikolai’s hand. “Soon,” he promised. “Just let me finish this.”

Nikolai nodded reluctantly, a small smile trying to mask the sadness in his eyes. "I'll hold you to that," he said softly before turning to leave the room.

As Nikolai's footsteps faded down the hallway, Fyodor’s thoughts lingered on their precarious situation. They needed to stay ahead of their enemies, and for that, he needed to be vigilant. But the weight of his relationship with Nikolai, the duality of his feelings, and the constant danger they faced made it increasingly difficult to focus. It was then that he heard Nikolai's voice echoing faintly from the other room, weak yet carrying a bittersweet melody.

Nikolai's broken tune lingered in the air, its melancholic notes reaching Fyodor's ears like a gentle plea. "Two or three weeks, and you still haven't seen the light of day," he murmured to himself, half-jokingly but with an undertone of genuine concern.

Initially, Fyodor's instinct was to respond with sarcasm or dismissiveness, a barb aimed at Nikolai’s childish behavior and impatience. But as the words formed in his mind, he halted suddenly, realizing just how much time had passed. He often lost track of time, days and weeks blending into an indistinguishable blur. With his immortality, time seemed to stretch endlessly, its passage almost meaningless. And being a loner, it was easy to fall into the trap of isolation.

Retorting to Nikolai would only lead to another argument, and the last time it ended terribly. Fyodor had come to realize that he didn’t want Nikolai to leave. He didn’t want to rot in the safeness of his incurable loneliness. He enjoyed Nikolai’s company, and the thought of pushing him away now felt wrong.

As he stopped typing, Fyodor became acutely aware of his own physical exhaustion. His body ached, his eyes hurt, and his head throbbed. He always believed he needed someone who was his equal, an intellectual partner to challenge him. But maybe he didn’t need to be thinking, plotting, and intellectually sparring all the time. Maybe he didn’t need to feel like he was constantly fighting.

The small moments they shared—Nikolai’s borscht, brewing tea together, the warmth of cuddles and kisses—brought unexpected comfort.

Fyodor glanced towards the doorway where Nikolai had just left the room, realizing he wanted to bridge the gap between them. “Maybe we should go for a little walk in town and get some flowers, like you wanted,” he called out, hoping Nikolai could hear him. “I mean, if you still want that.”

There was a brief pause before Nikolai’s voice drifted back from the corridor. “Of course, Fedya,” he replied with a hint of excitement in his tone. “I’d love that.” Fyodor smiled to himself, relieved that Nikolai had heard him. 

Nikolai returned to the room, his face still glowing with excitement. His usual guarded demeanor had melted away, replaced by genuine joy. Fyodor couldn’t help but smile back, a small but sincere gesture. As he stood up, wincing slightly from the pain, he felt a strange mix of hope and determination.

“Good. It’ll be a short break from everything,” Fyodor remarked, his voice tinged with a rare optimism.

Nikolai’s giddy expression persisted, the genuine smile still playing on his lips. He moved closer to Fyodor, unable to contain his enthusiasm.

“But that would surely make us get caught quicker,” Fyodor deadpanned.

Nikolai laughed loudly, the sound echoing through the room. “Oh, come on, I can always do some dressing up! I’ve gotten pretty good at camouflaging myself,” he said, his fingers tracing the faint scar on his cheek. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Fyodor pursed his lips, recalling the time Nikolai had disguised himself as a secretary for a mission—a dull and uninteresting look. He didn’t want to see that again. With a deadpan delivery, he commented, “You know, you're quite beautiful as you are. That's why I didn't want you to dress up.” He paused for a moment before adding, “Besides, I’m the one more wanted by the media. I wouldn’t mind blending in for a change.”

Nikolai’s face lit up with excitement. He sprang to his feet, his movements lively and exaggerated. With a theatrical flourish, he even produced a small beanbag from his cardigan, tossing it playfully in the air.

“I’ve always wanted to dress you up, Fyodor,” he proclaimed theatrically, mischief dancing in his sparkling eyes.

Fyodor observed Nikolai’s antics, a strange mix of amusement and nausea swirling within him. It was absurd, really, how much he found himself cherishing these moments. Despite his inner resistance, a faint smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched Nikolai’s exuberance. He couldn’t help but acknowledge how foolishly sentimental he was becoming.

But perhaps, just perhaps, it was permissible to savor these fleeting moments of joy.

“Alright,” Fyodor relented with a resigned smile and a shake of his head. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

Nikolai beamed, practically bouncing with joy. He moved closer, already envisioning the transformation he could work on Fyodor. The thought of it seemed to energize him even more. Fyodor, despite his initial reluctance, found himself looking forward to it as well. It was a brief escape from their reality, a moment of levity in their tumultuous lives.

Suddenly, Nikolai teleported them both to his cooler room, and Fyodor would have fallen if not for Nikolai’s hand securing his waist. Fyodor shivered slightly in the sudden change of temperature, watching as Nikolai immediately dashed to his closet and began rifling through it with reckless abandon. Clothes flew everywhere, and the once neatly organized white wooden closet quickly became a casualty of Nikolai’s enthusiasm.

“What kind of aesthetic are we going for?” Nikolai called out, his voice muffled by the pile of clothes he was buried in.

Fyodor shrugged, still shivering slightly. “Something basic and warm.”

Nikolai pouted, emerging from the closet to give Fyodor a disapproving look. “That’s not an aesthetic, Fedya.”

Fyodor returned the look with a blank stare. “I don’t care about aesthetics.”

With a theatrical sigh, Nikolai pulled out a wig with blonde hair, somewhat similar to Fyodor’s haircut. He held it up with a grin. “What if you were blonde?”

Fyodor tilted his head, considering it. “It would just look like I dyed my hair blonde. My eyebrows are still my natural color.”

Nikolai giggled, eyes sparkling with mischief. “If you don’t mind, I could do some makeup and color your eyebrows for you.” He tossed a long black-haired wig towards Fyodor, who caught it and walked over to the mirror that stood just behind the balcony doors.

Fyodor stared at the reflection, imagining himself with the long black hair. “I always thought you’d look good with long hair,” Nikolai said, coming up behind him.

Fyodor thought about how his own hair grew so slowly. “It’s a struggle,” he murmured absentmindedly.

Nikolai made an excited noise, holding up another wig, this one with a long, copper-colored braid. “What about copper? It’s so vibrant!”

“We’re supposed to be inconspicuous, not dress up with long, noticeable hair,” Fyodor replied, though he couldn’t help but smirk at Nikolai’s enthusiasm.

Fyodor finally sighed, feeling a strange warmth at indulging Nikolai. “I feel like I’m just indulging you at this point. Choose whatever you want.”

Nikolai’s face lit up with joy, an almost predatory expression of happiness appearing on his face that made Fyodor a little afraid for his life—and his appearance. “Oh, this is going to be fun!” Nikolai exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement.

As Fyodor watched Nikolai’s exuberance, he felt a rare sense of contentment. Despite everything, these moments of shared joy and normalcy were precious. And as Nikolai began to work his magic, Fyodor allowed himself to relax, trusting that, for now, he was in safe hands.

After some time of sifting through various fun makeup and dressing choices, many of which Nikolai dismissed as unsatisfactory, Fyodor finally ended up with a blonde wig and a ruffled shirt. The shirt was a rich cream color, made of soft, flowing fabric that draped elegantly over his frame. It had an open collar that showcased his sharp collarbones, tied together with delicate, silken strings. The sleeves were billowy and adorned with intricate lace, adding an air of old-world charm.

Nikolai, with a mischievous grin, commented that the sight of Fyodor’s exposed collarbones made one want to bite.

“Barbarian,” Fyodor muttered disapprovingly, though there was a hint of affection in his voice.

Nikolai chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh, but a charming barbarian, my dear Fedya. It suits you,” he teased gently, reaching out to straighten the wig on Fyodor’s head.

The shirt fit snugly around his waist like a corset, accentuating his lean frame. The pants were a stark contrast, bright and colorful, made of a luxurious brocade fabric. They were covered in a riot of blue, violet, and red flowers and leaves, woven with gold thread that caught the light with every movement. The vivid pattern was almost hypnotic, a bold statement against the more subdued top.

When Fyodor first saw himself with white eyebrows, courtesy of what Nikolai called “concealer,” he couldn’t help but comment that he looked like an unnerving owl. His dark magenta eyes and the black circles under them were starkly visible against his gaunt face and high cheekbones. The blonde wig didn’t help, making him look even more sickly than he already was. But after Nikolai drew in his eyebrows, Fyodor was flabbergasted, much to Nikolai’s delight. Nikolai also dusted some red powder on Fyodor’s cheeks, giving him an appearance of health he hadn’t seen in centuries. Despite Nikolai’s efforts, Fyodor refused to wear lipstick, finding the texture irritating on his skin.

The final outfit closely resembled Nikolai’s usual flamboyant style. As he looked in the mirror, Fyodor barely recognized himself. The transformation made him appear almost charming and healthy. Yet, his face, scarred from the helicopter incident, and his emaciated frame resembled that of a walking skeleton. Fyodor had always been aware of his attractiveness—not strikingly handsome, but enough to garner attention. Yet, now, post-injuries, he struggled to fathom why Nikolai desired him. His gaunt appearance seemed sickly.

Yet, Nikolai’s actions and murmured affirmations suggested the opposite. Nikolai’s passion was evident in his every touch and glance. Fyodor had never understood physical desire, preferring mental intimacy. Kisses and cuddles were pleasant, offering warmth and closeness, and he could appreciate their beauty. But the act itself felt like a sweaty marathon to him. His immortality and preference for intellectual connection explained his indifference.

Despite this, he didn’t mind exploring new experiences. Sinfully curious, he was willing to indulge his partners.

In this new guise, he felt a strange sense of renewal. “Fedya, you look so pretty and cute,” Nikolai voiced his thoughts, albeit in less literary terms.

“Thank you,” Fyodor replied with a small smile. “Though I might freeze like this. Would you mind lending me one of your cardigans?” He gestured towards Nikolai’s wine-colored cardigan.

With a flourish, Nikolai removed his cardigan and draped it over Fyodor’s shoulders, pulling him into a gentle embrace from behind and resting his chin on Fyodor’s shoulder. They gazed at their reflection in the mirror.

“We look like a real couple like this, with matching outfits and all!” Nikolai exclaimed cheerfully.

Fyodor’s smile faltered briefly. “Right, a real couple.” His thoughts darkened momentarily. They weren’t a genuine couple; they were two fugitives on the run, bound by circumstance. This was just another role in Nikolai’s repertoire of games. He prepared himself for when the dynamics inevitably shifted.

But his dark musings were interrupted as Nikolai twirled him around in playful circles. Fyodor, usually stoic, found himself unexpectedly swept into the dance, allowing himself to lean back as Nikolai spun him around and then dipped him gracefully, the final flourish of their impromptu performance.

For a moment, they lingered in the dip, their breaths mingling in shared exhilaration. Fyodor’s heart, usually shielded by layers of calculated detachment, fluttered with a strange mix of amusement and something he dared not name.

Nikolai gazed up at him with a bright smile, their eyes locked in a silent exchange that spoke volumes more than words ever could.

Breaking the spell, Nikolai straightened up and took a step back, his hand still resting lightly on Fyodor’s arm. “We make a good team, Fedya,” he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of sincerity beneath the playful facade.

Fyodor nodded in agreement, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Despite the complexities and dangers that surrounded them, there was an undeniable truth in Nikolai’s words. They complemented each other in ways neither fully understood.

With a sigh, Fyodor glanced towards the window, noticing the sun casting long shadows as it began its descent toward the horizon. “We should get going,” he remarked, aware of the time slipping away.

Nikolai nodded, his expression briefly flickering with disappointment before he masked it with a determined grin. “Sure, but first…” He reached out and pulled Fyodor into a quick, spontaneous kiss, catching him off guard.

Fyodor froze for a moment, his mind racing with conflicting thoughts, before he gently pulled away. “Nikolai…” he started, unsure how to respond.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist,” Nikolai chuckled softly, though there was an edge of vulnerability in his eyes that Fyodor couldn’t ignore.

“It’s okay,” Fyodor replied quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Before they departed, Nikolai leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed with an air of casual curiosity. “Fedya, you’ve barely left your room for weeks. What’s the next move?”

Fyodor shrugged nonchalantly, a slight tilt to his head. “Just reconnecting with acquaintances, seeing who’s still around.”

Nikolai arched an eyebrow thoughtfully. “And what about the book? It’s still in Yokohama. Are you considering a return?”

Fyodor scoffed lightly, a bitter edge creeping into his laugh. “Returning to Yokohama now would be folly. I’m essentially starting afresh. All that meticulous planning, and yet here I am—pathetic.” He shook his head with a touch of self-deprecation lacing his tone. “Revisiting in my current weakened state would be imprudent. It’s wiser to leave the investigators guessing about our whereabouts, even my survival. Let them ponder. We’ll strike at the opportune moment.”

Nikolai nodded thoughtfully, his gaze softening with understanding. "You’re right. But that doesn’t mean we can’t relish a taste of freedom as we contemplate our next move." With a playful glint in his eyes, he extended his hand toward Fyodor. "Shall we?"

Fyodor hesitated momentarily, then clasped Nikolai's hand, allowing himself to be guided into the evening's embrace.

Taking a deep breath, Fyodor adjusted the wine-colored cardigan draped over his shoulders. "The sky is remarkably beautiful tonight," he murmured, his voice steady yet carrying a hint of apprehension in his eyes.

Nikolai beamed with enthusiasm. "Absolutely!" he exclaimed, intertwining his fingers with Fyodor's and leading them forward.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, its golden rays enveloped the city in a warm, ethereal glow. The bustling streets teemed with people reveling in the evening air, punctuated by the harmonious hum of laughter and conversation. With each step, Fyodor's gaze flitted about, his senses attuned to any potential threat. Though he knew it was likely mere paranoia, he couldn't shake the unsettling feeling of being under scrutiny.

They hadn’t ventured far when a cheerful voice rang out, “Mykola!” A middle-aged woman with a gentle smile approached them, waving enthusiastically. “It’s wonderful to see you!”

Nikolai’s grin widened as he released Fyodor’s hand to embrace the woman warmly. “Hello, Marina! It’s been too long,” he greeted with genuine warmth.

Marina’s gaze shifted to Fyodor, her smile growing even broader. “And this must be the friend you always speak so highly of,” she remarked, extending her hand toward Fyodor.

Nikolai nodded amiably. “Yes, this is Fyodor. Fedya, meet Marina.”

Fyodor offered a polite nod, his manner reserved yet courteous. “Hello,” he greeted softly.

Marina beamed at Fyodor. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fyodor. Mykola has spoken so fondly of you.”

Fyodor’s smile was faint, his eyes attentive to their surroundings. “Likewise.” Was Marina trustworthy? Could she pose a threat? He maintained his guard, ever vigilant.

Marina noticed the way Nikolai’s hand found Fyodor’s again, holding it gently yet firmly. She raised an eyebrow, a playful spark in her eye. “Mykola, you’ve talked about Fyodor so often, I feel as if I already know him. And now I see why you hold him in such high regard.”

Nikolai chuckled, squeezing Fyodor’s hand affectionately. “He’s quite extraordinary, isn’t he?”

A warmth spread through Fyodor at the words, though he quickly masked it. “You must be mistaken; I’m merely here to assist,” he replied lightly, trying to deflect the compliment.

Marina laughed softly, her eyes knowing. “If Mykola speaks of you this fondly, you’re clearly more than just a colleague.”

Sensing Fyodor’s unease, Nikolai smoothly shifted the conversation. “We’re just out for a stroll, perhaps a visit to the fair,” he interjected cheerfully. “Let’s catch up soon, Marina.”

Marina nodded, offering Fyodor a final friendly smile. “Enjoy your day, both of you. It warms my heart to see Mykola so joyful.”

With that, Marina bid them farewell, her departing glance filled with warmth and goodwill. "Enjoy your evening!" she called back over her shoulder before continuing on her way.

As they continued their walk, Nikolai gave Fyodor’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, looks like something’s weighing on your mind,” he said softly.

Fyodor nodded, though his tension remained. “I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching us,” he admitted, his voice tinged with unease.

Nikolai’s expression softened with understanding. “I know. But right now, we’re just two people enjoying a night out. Let’s try to savor this moment.”

Fyodor took a deep breath, attempting to release his worries. “Alright,” he said, forcing a smile that gradually became more genuine.

The fair was a whirlwind of colorful lights, lively music, and the enticing aroma of street food. Nikolai led Fyodor through the bustling crowd, pausing at various stalls to admire trinkets and play games. Fyodor’s initial reluctance began to dissolve as he allowed himself to be swept up in the festive atmosphere.

Nikolai, ever the enthusiast, dragged Fyodor from stall to stall, sampling different foods and trying his hand at the games. At one point, he insisted Fyodor try some pirozhki. “Come on, Fedya, you have to eat something,” he urged, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Fyodor rolled his eyes but complied, taking a tentative bite. The warm, savory pastry was surprisingly comforting. He glanced at Nikolai, who was watching him with an expectant grin.

Fyodor nodded, finishing the pastry. “It’s not bad,” he admitted, a genuine smile breaking through his usual reserve.

Nikolai beamed, clearly pleased. “See? I told you it would be good. You should trust me more often.”

As they wandered through the fair, Nikolai continued to coax Fyodor into trying various foods and games. Fyodor’s initial paranoia gradually gave way to a sense of enjoyment, the lively atmosphere beginning to wear down his defenses.

Their path led them to a small group of street musicians. The music, lively and melodic, evoked memories of Fyodor’s cello playing. He paused, letting the sounds wash over him. “This music reminds me of the cello,” he remarked, his voice tinged with wistfulness.

Nikolai’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “I’d love to hear you play again, Fedya. It’s been too long.”

Fyodor glanced at his injured hand, flexing it slightly. A small, rueful smile played on his lips. “With this, I doubt I’m any good anymore.”

Nikolai shrugged, his playful grin returning. “I’m sure you’re still amazing.”

Fyodor pondered Nikolai’s words as they continued to meander through the crowd. They paused at a game stall where Nikolai insisted on trying his luck. Fyodor watched, bemused, as Nikolai skillfully knocked down all the targets, earning a small stuffed bear.

“For you, Fedya,” Nikolai said, handing over the bear with a flourish.

Fyodor accepted it, a rare look of genuine amusement on his face. “Thank you, Kolya” he said softly.

Leaving the fair behind, they ventured into a quieter area, a small park with greenery and trees. The peace and tranquility of the place contrasted sharply with the bustling fair.

They found a bench beneath a large tree and sat down, enjoying the serenity. Fyodor stood close to Nikolai, feeling a strange sense of contentment. Despite the ever-present danger, these moments of normalcy brought a rare peace to their turbulent life.

“This is nice,” Fyodor admitted. “A moment of peace.”

Nikolai nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It is. We should do this more often.”

Fyodor chuckled softly. “If only our lives allowed for such luxuries.”

Nikolai turned to him, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Who says we can’t make time for it?”

Fyodor shook his head with a rueful smile. “Easier said than done.”

Nikolai’s playful grin returned. “Well, we’ll just have to try harder, won’t we?”

Fyodor was about to reply when Nikolai suddenly stood up. “I’m going to get us some more pirozhki. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

As Nikolai disappeared into the crowd, Fyodor watched him go, feeling the faintest flicker of unease. He settled back on the bench, taking a deep breath as he tried to enjoy the peaceful surroundings. The sounds of the fair, the distant laughter, and the soft rustle of leaves provided a brief respite from their usual tension-filled existence. Fyodor allowed himself to relax, savoring the momentary tranquility.

Minutes passed, and Fyodor’s initial calm began to waver. He glanced at his watch, noting how much time had elapsed since Nikolai left. He told himself that it was nothing, that Nikolai was just taking his time, but the nagging feeling of unease began to grow.

As he looked around, his eyes picked up on every detail: the families enjoying their evening, the teenagers laughing over a shared joke, the elderly couple walking hand in hand. Yet, the longer Nikolai was gone, the more his thoughts turned inward, calculating the potential risks. Had someone spotted them? Were they in more danger than they realized?

Fyodor’s mind began to race, scenarios playing out with increasing urgency. His fingers drummed against his knee, a subtle manifestation of his growing anxiety. He had learned to anticipate every possibility, to prepare for every eventuality, but Nikolai’s absence unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

The crowd seemed to close in, each unfamiliar face a potential threat. Fyodor’s gaze sharpened, scanning for anything out of the ordinary. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, that something was amiss. His thoughts turned to their enemies, the people who would stop at nothing to find them. What if Nikolai had been recognized? What if he was in trouble?

Just as he was about to rise, ready to search for Nikolai and confront whatever danger lurked, he saw him. Nikolai was weaving through the crowd, a bag of pirozhki in hand and a mischievous grin on his face. The sight brought a rush of relief, though Fyodor masked it with his usual composed demeanor.

“Miss me?” Nikolai teased, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Fyodor nodded, taking the bag from him. “You took your time,” he said, his tone measured, though the underlying tension was still palpable. He couldn’t help but feel a mix of frustration and relief. He had been preparing for the worst, and now, seeing Nikolai safe, he allowed himself to exhale.

Nikolai chuckled. “Got caught up chatting with the vendor. Don’t worry, I have the best ability to run if something happens, remember?”

Fyodor nodded, still feeling a residual unease. But as they sat back down and Nikolai handed him a pastry, he allowed himself to relax a little. The night wasn’t over, and for now, they could enjoy this rare moment of peace.

Chapter Text

The stars began to twinkle in the evening sky, their gentle light casting a serene glow over the park. Fyodor and Nikolai continued to enjoy their peaceful respite from the bustling fair, the tension from earlier slowly melting away.

Fyodor finished his pirozhki and glanced at Nikolai, who was watching him with a contented smile. "You know, Kolya, despite everything, it's moments like these that make it all worthwhile," he said softly.

Nikolai chuckled, leaning in closer. "I couldn't agree more, Fedya. It's nice to just... be."

Fyodor nodded, his expression thoughtful. "We should savor these moments while we can. Who knows when we'll get another chance."

Nikolai's eyes sparkled with affection. "You always were the sentimental type, even if you don't show it often."

Fyodor shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "Maybe so. But I've learned to appreciate the little things."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, enjoying each other's company. Fyodor's gaze eventually drifted towards the horizon, where the silhouette of a church spire stood out against the darkening sky.

"There's a church nearby I'd like to visit on our way back," Fyodor said, his tone casual but with an underlying seriousness. "Do you think you could teleport us there if I give you the location?"

Nikolai raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin forming. "You’ve really done your homework, haven’t you? Checking out all the church locations beforehand?"

The violet eyes twinkled with a hint of amusement. "Preparation is key, Mykola. Besides, I never actually asked how your ability works. I know it extends only to a 30-meter range, but... I’ve never fully grasped its nuances."

Nikolai raised an eyebrow, giving Fyodor a teasing look. “Seriously? You didn’t dig up every detail about me? I’m surprised. Thought you’d have all my secrets by now.”

Fyodor chuckled, his gaze playful. “Guilty as charged. I focused more on the practical aspects and assumed you had it under control. Care to fill in the blanks?”

Nikolai laughed, leaning back against the bench. "Well, if I have the location, I could try, but there's a risk we might end up inside a wall or something equally unpleasant. It's safer if I've been there before."

Fyodor's curiosity was piqued. "How did you first discover your ability?"

Nikolai's gaze turned introspective. "I was in a tight spot once, needed to hide quickly. I curled up in my outer clothes and suddenly found myself in a completely different place."

Fyodor’s interest took on a more serious tone. "Hide?"

The jester grinned, pointing to his hair and eyes. "I tend to stand out a bit, don't you think? Not exactly easy to blend in with a crowd."

Fyodor regarded him with a solemn, knowing look. "People always want to destroy beautiful things."

Nikolai's face reddened at the compliment, and he started babbling nonsense in a flustered attempt to deflect. "Well, I mean, it's just... you know, practicality and all... can't have people noticing me, right? Not that I'm anything special, but..."

Fyodor chuckled softly, his eyes softening. "You're quite unique, Nikolai. Don't ever doubt that."

The blush deepened, a charming contrast against his white hair, as he looked away, mumbling softly. "You really know how to embarrass a guy, don't you?"

Fyodor reached out, gently taking Nikolai's hand in his. "It's not embarrassment, Kolya. It's the truth."

Nikolai's heart swelled with a mix of emotions—embarrassment, affection, and something deeper he couldn't quite name. He squeezed Fyodor's hand, feeling the warmth and strength in that simple gesture. "Thank you, Fedya."

They sat there for a few more moments, the silence between them filled with unspoken understanding and a deep sense of connection. As the evening grew darker, Fyodor finally stood up, glancing towards the church spire.

Fyodor’s expression shifted slightly, showing a hint of weariness. “I’m afraid I’m feeling quite tired after the day’s activities. I’m still recovering, and walking there might be a bit much for me right now.”

Nikolai’s expression softened with concern. “Of course, Fedya. I can always carry you if need be!”

Fyodor smirked, shaking his head. “Ah, yes, because nothing says ‘romantic outing’ like being toted around like a sack of potatoes.”

Nikolai laughed, the sound light and warm. “Alright, alright, I’ll keep my superpowers to myself.”

Fyodor chuckled, his weariness momentarily forgotten. “Shall we?”

Nikolai nodded, standing up as well. “Lead the way, Fedya. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

With that, they began their walk towards the church, their hands still entwined, the night air cool and crisp around them, their hearts light with shared companionship and the promise of a quiet evening together.

As they walked toward the church, the sky above them transitioned into a deep, velvety indigo, punctuated by the first stars of the night. The warm glow of the setting sun had given way to the cool, serene blanket of twilight, casting a tranquil aura over their surroundings.

The church stood at the end of a quiet cobblestone street, its tall spire piercing the night sky. The building was an awe-inspiring example of Eastern European ecclesiastical architecture, with its domes and intricate frescos. The golden crosses atop the domes reflected the faint light, adding a mystical quality to the structure.

As they approached, Fyodor's eyes were drawn to the large wooden doors, each adorned with wrought iron handles and intricate carvings that depicted biblical scenes. He felt a sense of reverence and calm wash over him as they stepped closer. Nikolai, ever the observer, glanced up at the church, his playful grin still in place despite the solemn setting.

"You know, Fedya, this place looks pretty creepy at night. You might look like some kind of black magician or something in there."

Fyodor's eyes narrowed, his voice cutting through Nikolai's jest with a sharp edge. "Stop talking nonsense, Mykola. I'm simply here to pray, or have a moment of reflection. If that doesn’t suit you, you’re welcome to wait outside."

Nikolai's grin faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "Okay, I get it," he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "I didn't mean to offend you."

Fyodor softened slightly but remained resolute. "Let's go inside."

They pushed open the heavy wooden doors, which creaked softly in the silence of the night. The interior of the church was bathed in a dim, golden light from the numerous candles scattered throughout the nave. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows on the stone walls, creating a serene atmosphere. The air was cool and carried the faint, comforting scent of incense.

The pews were arranged in perfect rows, their dark wood polished to a deep sheen. Each one was adorned with hymnals and prayer books, neatly tucked into holders. At the front of the church, the ornate altar stood as the focal point, dominated by a large crucifix that seemed to glow softly in the candlelight. The stained glass windows, now barely visible from the inside, hinted at the colorful scenes they depicted, their muted hues adding to the tranquil ambiance.

Fyodor walked slowly down the central aisle, his footsteps echoing softly in the vast, open space. He felt a profound sense of humility and reverence as he approached the altar. The quiet majesty of the place seemed to amplify the weight of his thoughts and prayers, making him acutely aware of the sacredness of the moment.

Nikolai hesitated at the entrance, feeling slightly out of place in the solemn setting. He watched Fyodor with a mix of curiosity and respect, his usual bravado tempered by the tranquil atmosphere. He took a few tentative steps inside, the door closing softly behind him, and leaned against a pillar near the back, giving Fyodor the space he needed.

Fyodor moved with a deliberate grace, lighting a candle at a nearby stand and placing it carefully among the others. The warm glow of the candlelight added to the peaceful ambiance, casting a soft light on his face. He then approached the altar, bowing his head and making the sign of the cross. His lips moved in silent prayer, and he appeared completely absorbed in the moment.

Fyodor continued his prayers, Nikolai observed him with a blend of fascination and admiration. It wasn’t the religious aspect that moved him but rather the confidence and serenity with which Fyodor navigated this sacred space. He admired the ease with which Fyodor embraced this moment of tranquility amidst the chaos of their lives.

As Fyodor continued his prayers, Nikolai began to wander around the church, admiring the art and architecture. The intricate frescoes, the solemn statues of saints, and the colorful stained glass windows captivated his attention. He moved quietly, almost reverently, as he explored the space.

Fyodor's prayers were a series of practiced movements and whispered words, each step deliberate and meaningful. He knelt before the altar, his hands clasped together, his eyes closed in deep concentration. The dim light and the echoing silence of the church seemed to amplify his devotion, making the moment feel almost otherworldly.

A sudden noise broke Fyodor's concentration. He looked up, his eyes scanning the dimly lit church. For a moment, he felt a pang of anxiety, wondering if they had been followed. His eyes darted around, seeking any sign of movement. It took him a moment to realize that Nikolai was no longer in sight.

Fyodor's heart rate quickened, his mind racing through the possibilities. Was someone watching them? Had Nikolai been taken? He took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising panic. It would be rude, sacrilegious even, he thought, to attack someone in a place like this. But he couldn't afford to take chances. He raised his hand slightly, ready to use his deadly ability if necessary.

Just then, Nikolai reappeared from behind a column, a thoughtful expression on his face and a slight smirk. Fyodor let out a quiet sigh of relief, lowering his hand.

"Kolya," Fyodor said, his voice low but firm. "Don't wander off like that."

Nikolai grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "Oh, come on, Fedya. Have you come to the realization to get rid of me through your prayers?"

Fyodor gave him an unimpressed look. "If I wanted to get rid of you, I'd hardly need divine intervention."

Nikolai laughed softly, the tension easing as he walked back to Fyodor's side. "Point taken."

Fyodor nodded, his tension slowly easing. "Let's finish up here and head back."

Nikolai nodded, standing beside Fyodor as he completed his prayers. The atmosphere remained charged with a quiet intensity, the silence broken only by the soft flicker of the candles and the faint sound of their breathing.

“Thank you for waiting,” Fyodor said quietly, his voice measured but sincere. “Shall we go?”

Nikolai nodded, pushing off from the pillar and joining Fyodor as they made their way back toward the entrance. The tension between them had eased somewhat, and as they stepped outside, the cool night air felt refreshing. The sky was now a deep, star-studded expanse, the faint outline of the church’s spire silhouetted against it.

Fyodor glanced at Nikolai, a rare, soft smile gracing his lips. “The sunset was beautiful earlier, but it’s a truly beautiful night now.” he remarked, his tone contemplative. “Maybe I’m getting sappy.”

Nikolai returned the smile, his usual bravado softened by the tranquility of the moment. “It is,” he agreed. “Feels like the world’s giving us a show tonight.”

As they walked side by side, their footsteps echoing softly in the stillness of the night, Fyodor glanced up at the now-dark sky, the stars twinkling above. “It’s strange,” he murmured. “For so long, I’ve thought about my goal every day, and yet, I don’t think I’ve ever been able to truly appreciate the beauty of the night until now…” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. After a brief silence, he sighed. “In any case…”

As they lingered outside the church, a middle-aged man entered quietly. He seemed out of place in the serene atmosphere, moving with an odd purpose that caught Fyodor’s eye. Fyodor watched him closely, his vision blurring slightly from the lingering effects of blood loss. He shook his head, trying to clear his sight, but the man’s movements appeared strange and distorted.

“Did you see that?” Fyodor whispered, his tone urgent but uncertain.

Nikolai followed his gaze but saw nothing amiss. “See what?” he asked, bemused.

“That man,” Fyodor insisted, his voice strained. “He was doing something… strange.”

Nikolai looked back at the man, now seemingly just another visitor lighting a candle and saying a prayer. “Fedya, you’re overthinking it. He’s just a random person seeking solace.”

Fyodor frowned, his mind struggling to reconcile what he thought he saw with the man’s mundane actions. “Maybe,” he muttered quietly, but his unease didn’t dissipate.

They exited the church and began their walk back through the quiet streets. Fyodor’s thoughts churned with suspicion, a critical edge to his usually calm demeanor.

“That man,” Fyodor began again, his voice tinged with skepticism. “There was something off about him.”

He exchanged a glance with Nikolai, who raised an eyebrow in amusement and remarked lightly. “You’re seeing shadows where there are none. Come on, let’s get back. We’ll be safe there.”

Fyodor sighed, his thoughts swirling with suspicion. “I hope you’re right.” he muttered quietly, following Nikolai back towards their hideout.

Chapter Text

The sun set on the outskirts of town, painting the sky in vibrant hues of red, orange, and purple. By the time night turned to morning, darkness still blanketed the room as the first light of dawn filtered through the window blinds, casting a dull gray glow. Fyodor yawned softly, sitting up and rubbing his tired eyes. He stretched, reaching for the cup of water resting beside him and taking a sip. The cool liquid soothed his throat, grounding him in the reality of the new day.

Nikolai woke a short time later, his eyelids still heavy with sleep. He rubbed his eyes, smiling softly as he noticed the familiar silhouette in the dim morning light. The tumultuous events of the past weeks seemed distant, like a fading dream. A genuine smile formed on his lips as he realized how content he actually felt.

Nikolai watched quietly as Fyodor dressed for the day. His gaze lingered on the pale purple shirt that draped loosely over the slender frame and the long, loose pants gathered around his hips. As the shirt was pulled over his head, Nikolai marveled at the quiet strength and elegance exuded in those graceful movements. Despite all the difficulties he had faced—some of which were hidden from view, and others that Nikolai could only guess at—there was an unexpected beauty in the way Fyodor’s body moved. It was a blend of quiet power and refined grace that captivated him.

Despite knowing they wouldn't leave the safe house today, Nikolai could tell something was bothering Fyodor. Ever since yesterday, the usually composed man had been restless, his sleep troubled.

Nikolai tried his best not to stare as Fyodor adjusted his hair and tied it back. He failed to stifle a small smile when the demon glanced his way, his eyes as dark and enigmatic as a moonless night.

“What is it?” Fyodor asked, raising one finely arched brow curiously.

Nikolai cleared his throat quickly. “Your makeup is all smudged.”

“Is it?” Fyodor chuckled dryly, running a hand absently across his face and tracing the edge of a fresh scar. “Well, it’s not like we’re going anywhere. What difference does it make if our makeup is smudged?”

Nikolai shrugged noncommittally, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a smile. “Fair enough. Just give me a minute.”

He slipped on his shoes, reached for his overcoat… no, cardigan, he corrected himself, opting for the lighter garment instead. He then grabbed a few of his favorite weapons, just in case of an emergency, before leaving his room. Once he was certain no one was around to witness him, a small smile crept onto his lips. It was almost funny how different things had become in such a short amount of time. Before, Nikolai never would have imagined spending so much of his life next door to Fyodor or spending so much time together.

Fyodor’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Nikolai, this makeup is annoying. How do you remove it?”

Nikolai laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Warm water and soap usually do the trick, Fedya. Or, if you’re feeling fancy, a makeup remover wipe.”

Fyodor smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Warm water and soap it is, then. I suppose I’ll survive without looking perfect for a day.”

Nikolai shook his head, still smiling. “You look perfect enough as it is.”

Fyodor rolled his eyes, but a faint blush colored his cheeks. “Лестить мне не стоит, Коля. Но всё равно спасибо.” (“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kolya. But thanks.”)

As they settled into their morning routine, the ease between them was palpable. Despite the looming uncertainties, they found solace in each other’s company, a rare moment of peace amidst their tumultuous journey.

Nikolai's long hair was a tangled mess, strands falling haphazardly across his face. Fyodor noticed and reached out, his touch gentle as he began to work through the knots. “Your hair is all over the place. Let me take care of it.”

Nikolai stilled, surprised by the tender gesture. Fyodor’s right hand, still recovering from injury, shook slightly, but he worked with careful precision, using his uninjured hand for most of the task. He retrieved a brush from a nearby drawer and returned, the brush gliding smoothly through Nikolai’s hair.

Each stroke of the brush was gentle yet efficient, as Fyodor worked to untangle Nikolai’s hair. Despite the tremor in his right hand, Fyodor’s touch was steady and soothing, transforming the chaotic mess into something orderly. Nikolai closed his eyes, enjoying the calming rhythm.

When Fyodor finished, he gathered Nikolai’s hair into a loose braid, using his uninjured hand to carefully weave the strands together. “There, that’s better,” Fyodor said softly, smoothing down the last of the unruly strands. The braid lay neatly against Nikolai’s back, a testament to Fyodor’s attentive care. He met Nikolai’s gaze, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.

Nikolai looked up at Fyodor, noticing the faint tremor in his hand and feeling touched by the gesture. “I didn’t expect you to be so meticulous,” he remarked, his voice carrying genuine appreciation. “Thanks,” he added quietly, acknowledging the care Fyodor had put into it.

Fyodor met Nikolai’s gaze with a soft smile. “I’m glad I could help,” he replied, the warmth in his eyes clear despite the weariness in his voice. “Now, let’s get on with our day.”

As they were preparing to head out for breakfast, Nikolai checked his watch and muttered a curse under his breath. “I almost forgot, I have something to take care of,” he said quickly, grabbing his coat again. “Don’t wait up for me, okay?”

Fyodor’s gaze sharpened with interest. His sharp mind noted the subtle signs—Nikolai’s swift, almost too-casual movements, and the fact that he had slid his hand into the coat’s inner pocket just before leaving. “What’s so urgent?” Fyodor inquired, a hint of skepticism in his voice.

Nikolai flashed him a wry smile. “Top secret, Fedya. You know, spy stuff.” With a last, enigmatic glance, he slipped out the door.

Fyodor watched the door close, his mind quickly piecing together the clues. His keen eyes noted the details others might miss. Nikolai had opted for a different coat today—a longer, more formal one than usual. This subtle alteration did not escape Fyodor’s sharp observation. The coat’s length and cut, combined with Nikolai’s discreet mannerisms, suggested a purpose beyond a simple errand. The nonchalant exit and meticulous preparation hinted at a mission shrouded in secrecy.

“Idiot,” Fyodor muttered under his breath, more amused than annoyed. The sense of unease lingered, but it was overshadowed by a hint of admiration for Nikolai’s skillful deception. As Fyodor turned back to the quiet room, his thoughts turned to the possible implications of Nikolai’s clandestine task.

He tried to shake off the distraction and focus on his own pressing concerns. Checking his phone, Fyodor’s gaze narrowed as he reviewed the latest report. Pushkin, one of his key operatives, remained imprisoned “Incompetents,” he muttered, irritation lacing his voice. “No one can manage anything without my oversight.”

He scrolled further, searching for updates on Ivan’s whereabouts, but found nothing. It was as if Ivan had vanished without a trace. This was highly unusual; Fyodor prided himself on his ability to locate anyone. The absence of information was both unsettling and puzzling.

“Ivan, where are you hiding?” Fyodor murmured, drumming his fingers against the table. An uneasy feeling settled over him, exacerbated by the mysterious disappearance and the recent encounter at the church.

Just then, Fyodor’s phone buzzed softly, displaying a message from an unknown number. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at the screen, where a simple question stood out: “You wanted to talk?”

After a brief moment of contemplation, he responded with a terse, “Yes, let’s discuss recent developments.”

Later that evening, as darkness enveloped the room, Fyodor’s phone rang with another unfamiliar number. He paused, weighing the potential risks, before answering with a cautious, “Hello?”

“Fyodor,” came the voice on the other end, measured and tinged with authority. “Still lost in your underground, my old friend?”

Fyodor’s posture relaxed marginally at the sound of the familiar voice. “Lev,” he acknowledged, his voice carrying a hint of relief. “I wasn’t sure if it was safe to talk.”

Lev’s voice shifted to their native Russian, as it often did when discussing sensitive matters. “We’re as safe as we can be,” he said cryptically, his tone hinting at a deep understanding of their precarious situation. “Still managing to stay one step ahead, my old philosopher?”

Fyodor allowed himself a small smile, appreciating the familiar banter. “Always a gamble, isn’t it?” Lev replied, his voice a steady anchor in the uncertainty. “How are you holding up?”

“As well as can be expected,” Fyodor replied cautiously. “I need a secure arrangement in Russia. Off the grid.”

“I anticipated this,” Lev responded, his tone calm and reassuring. “I have a place in mind. Hidden, but significant. It will take some time to arrange, but I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thank you, Lev,” Fyodor murmured gratefully, his trust in their clandestine acquaintance unspoken but implicit.

“Stay vigilant,” Lev cautioned, his words carrying a weight of experience. “Remember, we’re not out of danger yet, my introspective friend.”

He hung up, his mind already processing the implications of their conversation.

Turning to find Nikolai watching him with a mix of curiosity and concern, Fyodor felt a pang of self-reproach for not noticing his presence sooner. “My acquaintance is arranging our next move,” he explained vaguely, deliberately omitting specifics to protect both Nikolai and the integrity of their plans.

Nikolai’s expression shifted to one of mild discomfort. “Another mysterious friend?” he asked lightly, though a hint of unease tinged his voice.

The brunette met his gaze with a sigh, recognizing the need to bridge the gap that had formed. “Yes,” he said quietly, “An old friend, one who understands the necessity of moving in shadows.”

Nikolai smirked, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. “Well, as long as your friend isn’t dragging us into another ideological war,” he quipped, his tone light but underscored by genuine concern.

Fyodor allowed himself a brief, appreciative smile. “I sincerely hope not, Kolya. I sincerely hope not.”

As he glanced up, he noticed Nikolai approaching with an unusual gleam in his eye. “Everything alright?” Fyodor asked, intrigued by the shift in his friend’s demeanor.

The jester nodded, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Actually, I have something for you.”

Curiosity piqued, Fyodor raised an eyebrow “A gift?”

Nikolai confirmed with a nod, producing a small, intricately wrapped package from his overcoat. “Open it,” he urged, eyes twinkling with anticipation.

As he carefully unwrapped the package, his violet eyes widened in surprise. Inside lay a custom-made prosthetic device designed to enhance his injured hand’s mobility while preserving its natural movements. The thoughtful gesture touched Fyodor deeply.

“Я даже не знаю, что сказать, Коля.” (“I don’t know what to say, Kolya,”) Fyodor murmured, overwhelmed with gratitude.

Nikolai shrugged nonchalantly. “Just promise me you’ll put it to good use.”

Fyodor nodded earnestly, his heart warmed by Nikolai’s kindness. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “For everything.”

Nikolai grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Anytime, Fedya,” he said warmly, the earlier mischief replaced by genuine affection.

Nikolai’s expression wavered between surprise and warmth. Sensing the moment, Fyodor gently tugged on Nikolai’s braid, drawing him closer. Their lips met in a tender kiss, Fyodor’s hand resting softly on Nikolai’s cheek. The kiss deepened, blending gratitude with a touch of desire. Nikolai responded eagerly, his arms encircling Fyodor as they lost themselves in the moment.

As they parted slightly, Fyodor bit his lip, his gaze searching Nikolai’s for any sign of discomfort. Nikolai’s eyes, however, radiated admiration and a newfound understanding.

“I didn’t expect that,” Nikolai said softly, a smile tugging at his lips.

Fyodor chuckled softly, his fingers tracing Nikolai’s jawline. “Sometimes words aren’t enough,” he whispered. “Thank you for the gift. It means more than you know.”

Nikolai’s thumb brushed gently over Fyodor’s cheekbone. “You’re welcome, голубчик,” (-, dove,”) he said softly. “I’m glad you like it.”

Fyodor leaned in, their lips meeting again in a lingering kiss. His hands threaded delicately through Nikolai’s hair, gripping slightly as Nikolai leaned back, giving Fyodor easier access. A shiver ran down Fyodor’s spine, his body craving more contact with Nikolai. The kiss deepened, charged with the warmth of their mutual affection.

Nikolai broke the kiss reluctantly, resting his forehead against Fyodor's. His voice, though slightly trembling, carried a note of hopeful anticipation. "Do you... want to continue this somewhere else?"

Fyodor smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to Nikolai's lips. "I'd love to, my dear."

They moved towards the bedroom, their urgency tempered by a shared tenderness.

Fyodor's heart raced with anticipation as they crossed the threshold, the air between them charged with unspoken promises.

Nikolai gently guided Fyodor onto the bed, their bodies aligning as he leaned down to kiss him again. This time, the kiss was slow and deliberate, their breaths mingling as they lost themselves in each other.

Fyodor's hands explored Nikolai's back, tracing the contours of his muscles and feeling the heat radiating from his skin. He could sense Nikolai's heartbeat quickening in sync with his own. Nikolai's lips wandered down Fyodor's neck, each kiss sending waves of shivers through him.

"Are you sure about this?" Nikolai murmured, his voice husky with a touch of concern.

Fyodor's response was immediate and confident. "Kolya, you act as if I'm some delicate thing. I've lived for centuries, remember?"

Nikolai paused, a playful smirk lighting up his face. "You always have to remind me," he said, his smile widening.

Fyodor's eyes sparkled with a mix of sarcasm and affection. "Someone has to keep you grounded," he replied, his tone both teasing and sincere.

Nikolai's lips wandered down Fyodor's neck, each kiss igniting a fervent response within him.

Nikolai chuckled softly, capturing Fyodor's lips in a renewed kiss, their intensity deepening. "Yeah, I guess there's that," he agreed softly, a faint trace of humor in his voice.

His fingertips danced across Fyodor's skin, his nails leaving trails of sparks in their wake. They kissed feverishly, their tongues meeting with a frenzied passion, a spark igniting inside Fyodor. Nikolai continued the assault with reckless abandon, his actions growing more desperate.

Fyodor gasped softly when Nikolai trailed open-mouthed kisses along his throat, his tongue teasingly brushing against the sensitive underside of his Adam's apple, causing Fyodor to shudder with arousal.

As Nikolai nibbled down to his collarbone, Fyodor let out a low moan of pleasure, his head thrown back helplessly, his fingers gripping the sheets as his entire body pulsed with need.

With a sense of urgency, Fyodor reached for the waistband of his trousers, deftly unfastening it while rolling Nikolai's shirt aside. His hands explored the bare expanse of Nikolai's stomach, each touch deliberate and appreciative.

Fyodor rolled on top of Nikolai, eliciting a soft whimper of protest from his companion.

Fyodor pressed a lingering kiss to Nikolai's lips, breathing heavily as he gazed down at him, his violet eyes glowing brightly.

Reaching down to stroke his face gently, Fyodor gave him a fond smile. "You have no idea how much I want to ravish you right now," he whispered heatedly, his voice rough with longing, his eyes dark and burning with need.

Nikolai grinned, his own breath coming in short, excited bursts. "Then what's stopping you?" he teased, wrapping his arms around Fyodor's neck and pulling him closer.

Fyodor's eyes narrowed with a playful intensity. "Nothing at all," he replied, his voice a husky murmur.

Their lips met in a searing kiss, their bodies melding together in a frenzy of heated desire. Hands roamed over bare skin, exploring with primal need as they quickly discarded the clothes that had become unnecessary barriers.

Nikolai's fingers gripped Fyodor's hips, the sharp sting adding to the sensations coursing through him. His eyes, clouded with lust, remained fixed on Fyodor. Fyodor's breath hitched, his body shuddering with arousal as his hands traced Nikolai's ribs, leaving red streaks in their wake. Each touch intensified their hunger.

Nikolai arched his hips up, creating delicious friction between their heated skin. "Oh god, Kolya," Fyodor breathed, his voice strained, his hands tangling in Nikolai's hair. "Don't stop."

Fyodor buried his nose in Nikolai's hair, nipping gently at his neck, his hands moving soothingly over Nikolal's back. The room filled with frantic panting, rustling sheets, and low, throaty moans.

Fyodor ran his fingers gently over Nikolai's side, relishing the sensation of his lover beneath him. Each touch ignited a new flame, the heat of their passion spreading through their bodies like wildfire. Nikolai's fingers tangled deeply in Fyodor's hair, drawing him ever closer, their lips meeting in a fevered kiss that left them both breathless.

A low groan emanated from Fyodor's throat, a sharp contrast to his quiet moans. Nikolai responded with equal fervor, his hands exploring every inch of Fyodor's body, mapping out every curve and dip. Their movements synchronized in a dance of love and desire, Fyodor's lips traveling down Nikolai's neck, leaving kisses and gentle bites. Nikolai arched into him, gasping in short, ragged breaths.

When Fyodor's hand wrapped around

Nikolai, the tender yet commanding touch elicited a whispered, "Oh, Fyodor," trembling with need. Fyodor looked up, a smirk playing on his lips as he began to move, his hand guiding them into a rhythm that had Nikolai's head thrown back, eyes closed in ecstasy.

Fyodor moved up, capturing Nikolai's lips in a heated kiss as he positioned himself. The initial sensation drew a sharp breath from both of them, their bodies reacting to the intense closeness. Fyodor began to move, slowly at first, savoring the feeling, then gradually increasing the pace as he rode Nikolai.

Nikolai's fingers dug into Fyodor's back, the mix of pain and pleasure sending shivers down his spine. Fyodor's breath came in short, hot bursts against Nikolai's neck, his whispered words of encouragement sending sparks of electricity through Nikolai's body.

The room was filled with the sounds of their lovemaking-the creak of the bed, soft cries of pleasure, and whispered endearments.

Fyodor's movements grew more urgent, their bodies moving in perfect harmony. The pressure built to an exquisite crescendo.

Finally, the intensity built to its climax. Fyodor's hand found Nikolai's, their fingers interlacing as they both surrendered to the moment. Their release was a culmination of sensation, a symphony of pleasure that left them breathless and spent. They collapsed together, bodies entwined, with the aftershocks of their passion still rippling through them. Fyodor pressed a brief, almost hesitant kiss to Nikolai’s forehead. “Sometimes, it feels like this is the only escape,” Fyodor murmured, his voice rough, as if he were trying to articulate a complex thought.

Nikolai’s eyes softened with a blend of affection and resignation. “You know,” he said quietly, his hand gently tracing patterns on Fyodor’s arm, “I think of you as my freedom. This—us—makes everything else seem a little less… heavy.”

Fyodor’s gaze was distant, his mind clearly racing. He managed a faint smile but didn’t meet Nikolai’s eyes. “Freedom, huh?” he replied vaguely, his tone betraying a mixture of gratitude and unease. “It’s complicated.”

Nikolai’s smile faltered slightly, sensing the underlying tension. He didn’t press further, instead, he rested his head against Fyodor’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Sometimes, it’s enough just to be here.”

Fyodor’s hand lingered on Nikolai’s back, his touch gentle but his thoughts clearly elsewhere. “Yeah, sometimes it is,” he agreed quietly, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty.

The room fell into a contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Fyodor's fingers traced lazy patterns on Nikolai's skin, each touch a reminder of the bond they shared.

As the first light of dawn filtered through the window, they held each other close, never wanting to let go. Fyodor fell asleep to the sound of Nikolai's steady heartbeat, their bodies intertwined.