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Dostoevsky woke sweating.
His mind, usually calm and well-ordered, was racing. The plan had gone wrong.
The whir of the saw blade still echoed in his ears. Determined and unceasing. The screams had been louder, of course, but had ended in seconds. Long seconds that stretched to eternity, and were at the same time far too short.
Gogol was dead.
Torn in half by Dostoevsky's own plan. One moment he had been vibrant and alive, triumphant. And then--
And then a bright voice cut through the darkness. "Fedya! Are you still asleep?"
There was a moment's confusion, then Dostoevsky realized the truth: it had been a dream. Surreal and vivid, but a dream nonetheless.
"I am awake, Kolya," he called back. There was no ignoring Gogol; if he didn't answer, he'd be lucky to simply be pulled out of bed. Gogol had too many tricks up his sleeve, and wasn't afraid to put them to use.
"Good! It's almost noon, sleepyhead!" Gogol's face appeared in the doorway. His hair was messy, strewn about his shoulders instead of tied back in his usual braid. Clearly he hadn't been awake for very long either.
A small smile crossed Dostoevsky's face. Gogol's lack of formality, when nearly everyone else in the compound called him Master, was endlessly refreshing. "I do not keep regular hours, you know that."
"It certainly wasn't me keeping you up last night."
"No, it was work."
"Ah, work. Your first love. And sometimes, I suspect, your only love." Gogol sighed dramatically and flopped down on the bed beside Dostoevsky.
"It is a necessity, not a delight."
Gogol's eyes twinkled. "Am I a delight?"
"Kolya, I just woke up," Dostoevsky murmured. His thoughts were still full of violence.
The floor had been awash with blood, fluid and thick. So red. The sickening thump and splash when his torso had fallen...
"Fine, fine," Gogol relented, oblivious to Dostoevsky's dark thoughts. "I have a message! You've got three guesses as to what it is!"
How very like Gogol. He didn't seem to be able to go ten minutes without one of his quizzes, but Dostoevsky didn't mind. They were amusing enough, and Gogol usually blurted out the answer before long. "Hmm, I wonder. Is it perhaps that it would be beneficial for my health to sleep more?"
"Bzzzt, wrong! I mean, it would, but that's not the message!"
"Could it be that breakfast is ready?"
"Bzzzzt, also wrong! It'd be lunch by now."
"Then perhaps all the ability users in this godforsaken world save you and I have finally perished?"
"Bzzzzzzzzt, you're bad at this!"
Dostoevsky smiled, warm and genuine. No one but Gogol would dare say something like that to him. "Then you'll have to enlighten me."
"Enlighten you, hmm?" Gogol impishly grinned back. "Give me your shirt, then."
Frowning, Dostoevsky pulled off his sleep shirt. He still wasn't thinking clearly, and couldn't figure out the reasoning behind the sudden demand.
Gogol took it with a laugh. "There, now you are lighter, although this fabric doesn't weigh much, it's not without substance. Consider yourself en-lightened! You're welcome!"
"Ah, of course. I knew you were up to some trick. That's a terrible pun, Kolya."
"Naturally." Gogol didn't seem offended, but rather proud of his bad joke.
Still smiling, Dostoevsky shook his head. He was far too fond of Gogol, silly puns and ridiculous clothes and all. He was a spot of warmth in the otherwise cold, vicious world.
Dostoevsky knew better than anyone that the world preyed on the weak, chewed them up and spat them out. And the world's teeth, the tools it used to rend and tear, were people. Sharp, dangerous. Dostoevsky kept his distance, used them against each other as best he could.
Gogol was a tooth as well, of course. And a sharper tooth than most. He was so sharp that the initial prick hadn't even hurt. Dostoevsky hadn't even noticed how deeply he'd been bitten until it was too late; Gogol had sliced clean through to the hidden, vulnerable part of him.
And how vulnerable he was, how raw the wound. Dostoevsky's mind flashed back to his dream: the image of Gogol, severed at the waist, face fixed in a rictus of horror. Just the thought made his stomach roil and his heart go cold.
If only he could believe it was a trick, something done with mirrors, or with Gogol's ability.
Gogol's voice, quiet and concerned, broke him away from his thoughts. "Fedya? You seem distant."
"My thoughts are rather darker than usual. It is none of your concern."
"Ah, but of course it is. You haven't even asked me what the message was."
Dostoevsky sighed. He hadn't; he'd completely forgotten, even in that short amount of time. "And what was the message, then?"
"This," Gogol smiled, leaning in to place a quick kiss on Dostoevsky's cheek. "Good morning."
"An urgent message, indeed."
"Yes, very," Gogol agreed. "Now, are you going to tell me what's wrong?"
"It's nothing. I had a strange dream, is all."
"A nightmare?"
"Something like that." Dostoevsky shrugged. He wasn't one to discuss such things, not even with Gogol. And in this case, perhaps, especially not with Gogol.
Gogol laughed, but not unkindly. "But what could be a nightmare to a demon? Surely it was something that anyone else would consider overwhelmingly pleasant!"
Dostoevsky couldn't help but smile. Demon was a nickname he cultivated with pride, but out of Gogol's mouth it sounded as absurd as anything else he said. "I doubt it."
"Hmm... I will get to the bottom of this, never fear. Ah! Fear! Perhaps that's it! What is a demon afraid of, I wonder?" Gogol scooted in closer as he rattled off possible answers. "Is it the dark? If so, I'll be your shining light. Could it be heights? Worry not, I would catch you if you fell!"
"Such devotion. You'll rob Ivan of his job."
"No, no. He can keep it," Gogol answered. "I'm no good at making tea or coffee, only jokes. Oh! I've got it! No wonder you won't tell me what you're afraid of! It's clowns, isn't it?"
A genuine laugh, warm and loud, escaped Dostoevsky. The sound seemed to invigorate Gogol, and he covered his face with his hands playfully. "How careless of me! Please forgive me! Now I've removed myself from your sight, fear no more!"
"I can still see you."
"Nonsense, nonsense! I can't see you, there's no possible way you can see me!"
Dostoevsky dropped a hand onto Gogol's shoulder. "Nikolai."
"Hmm?"
"Do not remove yourself." His voice came out serious; more serious than he'd meant. "I worry when you're away."
The panic, the screaming. It had all seemed so real. The heavy splatter of red staining white clothes. The look on Gogol's face as the saw had bit into him. Dostoevsky did worry when Gogol was away, and now he'd only worry more.
Gogol dropped his hands; his expression had become concerned. "This is unlike you, Fedya. What did you dream, that's shaken you so badly?"
It was a blessing, sometimes, how easily Gogol saw through him. He could be as quiet and difficult as he liked, and Gogol still understood. But right now, he cursed the man's ability to read his hidden emotions.
There was no use lying. Dostoevsky was certain that Gogol would know, would badger the truth out of him. "I saw your death."
Gogol wrapped an arm around his shoulders and spoke softly. "Such a thing comes for everyone. Do not cry for my release from this prison we call life."
"It was gruesome. And far too soon."
"I would expect nothing else. I am an entertainer, Fedya. If I left this world with anything less than a glorious, memorable death, it would be a disappointment."
Generally, Dostoevsky admired Gogol's optimism, the way that he never seemed worried by anything. But right now he found it beyond irritating. Didn't he care if he died? Didn't he understand what it would do to him, left behind? "You don't understand."
"Ah, but I do. I always do, don't I?"
"No. I am only humoring you," Dostoevsky huffed. "You're nothing but an idiot clown."
To his further annoyance, Gogol merely smiled. "Then don't worry so on my behalf. There are many, many idiot clowns in the world. You'll find another."
"No. I would not. You... you are one of the few joys in my life, Nikolai." Dostoevsky didn't like speaking his emotions so plainly, but the way Gogol was talking concerned him. He needed to know, especially today, that he was important.
"And you are one of mine," Gogol assured him. "It was a dream, Fyodor. I am here, and I am whole."
"I saw it. The culmination of our plan. A moment of triumph. The final execution was being broadcast. The page had been used, nothing should have been able to happen. But something did. The words were changed, twisted, and instead of the minister on the seat, it was you. I watched as the saw ripped the life from your body, as it severed your spine. I heard you cry out. I have seen so much death, Kolya, but this..." His voice trailed off, quiet and sad. "It felt like a premonition. I should secure the page and write on it myself."
He could, too. Damn the plan. He could take the page and write a future for himself and Gogol that truly was happy, untainted by their mission. Something quiet. Let the other members of the Decay fumble to pick up the pieces without them, without his information, without Gogol's talents.
As if he could read Dostoevsky's mind, Gogol shook his head. "Our future is set in stone, and has been for a long time. We have a job to do."
Suddenly tired, Dostoevsky nodded. They had made their decisions long ago. Despite his reputation, this wasn't the burden of a god, or a demon. Simply that of a man who had willingly shouldered it. He'd come too far to put it down now. "You're right, of course."
"I have a knack for it," Gogol smiled.
"Curse you."
"Kiss me? That sounds like a magnificent plan!"
Despite everything, Dostoevsky laughed. "You're incorrigible."
"You flatter me. But I'd rather you flatten me, and we are both here in bed..."
"Kolya! Discussing such things so early in the morning?" He wasn't actually scandalized; such playful banter was the shape their affection took when they were left alone. And it was a far, far more comforting topic of conversation than his nightmare. "You will settle for a kiss."
"Ah, for now, for now."
Gogol leaned in and they fumbled for a moment. "Have you never kissed anyone before, Fedya? Ah, but no! You've kissed me plenty of times! You must have forgotten how!"
Dostoevsky blushed slightly. "I am, perhaps, still too shaken by the thought of your death to remember."
"Ha. It shows. Your mouth is too wet, your lips too hard. Terrible. Try again."
Even if the short kiss had been that awful--and Dostoevsky suspected it hadn't-- he wouldn't have been offended. This, too, was part of the game between them. He smiled back, "You'll have to remind me how."
"Ugh. Must I do everything?" Gogol took Dostoevsky's face in his hands, far more gentle than his words. "Tilt. Like this. So your nose doesn't bang mine. Stop doing that with your lips, you haven't just eaten a lemon. Swallow. Again. Some saliva is good. Too much is loathsome."
Dostoevsky obeyed, laughing.
"What's so funny?"
"You and I. I never expected to get kissing lessons from a clown."
"And I certainly never expected to have to give them to a demon. Now hush."
Dostoevsky did, allowing Gogol to take the lead. The kiss was soft and warm, more so than he could ever deserve, and after a moment to savor it, he returned it eagerly.
"You're an eager learner, aren't you, Fedya?"
"For you, yes."
Gogol smiled, his voice soft. "What an interesting man you are."
Interesting? He was a demon, inhuman in so many ways. Perhaps there'd been a point in his life where he hadn't been, but it was so far back that he could no longer remember. Very few things moved him. Everything was routine, even when it wasn't.
Or so he liked to believe. It was easier to go through life that way, as his dream had reminded him. Humanity meant vulnerability, which meant pain. But it also meant moments like these; soft, warm moments. Happiness.
Dostoevsky sighed, wrapping his arms around Gogol. "Kolya, you will be my undoing one day. And yet, the thought of anyone hurting you fills me with feelings I would rather not dwell on."
"I understand," Gogol murmured back. "And thus, might it not be better if such a thing were to vanish?"
Oh. This, perhaps, was the mystery unveiled. Did Gogol believe, did he truly think that he was a burden in some way? A danger to Dostoevsky and his work? Foolish. Foolish of him to think, and foolish of Dostoevsky to have not seen it sooner.
"No. Not even my mindset is so twisted," Dostoevsky answered firmly. "You are the singular warmth in my life. If one day that is turned against me, then so be it. No being, man or god, is completely without weakness. You have my heart, Kolya. Remember this."
Gogol's eyes widened, his brows furrowed. Fingernails dug, ever so slightly, into the fabric at Dostoevsky's back. "You mock me."
"I don't. It is true that I am difficult, but I wish that you would stay with me nevertheless. I am not a man to beg, but I will ask you. Will you fight to stay at my side? To continue being my warmth?"
"A demon is supposed to be heat and rage," Gogol answered. "Surely you have the capacity inside of you to warm yourself?"
"I do not. I repeat, Kolya, I am a very weak man. I cannot bear to see such things as I saw last night, not again. Do not seek to break away, please."
It was beneath him to beg. That was as close as he would get, and they both knew it. But it seemed to be enough for Gogol.
With a soft sigh, he nodded. "As you wish. My performance is, as always, dedicated to your enjoyment."
"Thank you," Dostoevsky answered. "Let us move forward, together."
"Together," Gogol nodded. "Until the end."