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It begins, as many things do, with Nikolai.
Perhaps Fyodor’s gaze does linger a little too long, admittedly, upon bare hands that are rarely exposed to the light. It’s not often that Nikolai takes his gloves off – Fyodor’s grown used to seeing them, accessories like his mask that seem to make him feel more comfortable. Frankly, it doesn’t really matter to him as long as it’s not disruptive, but the fact remains that it’s an uncommon sight.
Even more interesting than slender fingers, however, is the light coat of a glossy sheen upon Nikolai’s fingernails. Upon further inspection, it becomes clearer that they’re painted a pastel peach, different intricate designs in various colours scattered throughout the nails. Despite himself, Fyodor chuckles: the turquoise polka dots and sparkling swirls are so very in character for Nikolai.
Too late Fyodor realizes that he’s not been very subtle – Nikolai turns to face him in whole with glee in his eyes and a wide grin upon his face.
“Fedyaaa,” he sings, “I’ve just had a wonderful idea.”
Ordinarily, Fyodor would ignore the playful tug on his wrist; it’s not the first time Nikolai’s gotten in this kind of mood, and it usually takes just a few hours of refusing to indulge him before he stops sulking and finds something else to be interested in.
Today, though, finds him in a good mood: while there’s never nothing for him to work on, taking breaks is something Nikolai’s been pestering him about lately. In this way, he’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone.
“Enlighten me, then.” He hums, faintly amused by the surprise that flickers on and off of Nikolai’s face. It quickly morphs into near comical elation as Nikolai launches himself at Fyodor, knocking them both off-balance.
Recovering in just seconds, Nikolai takes hold of his hand and immediately wrinkles his nose.
“You really need to take better care of your nails, Fedya.” It’s a fair point: though he does make a habit of maintaining basic hygiene and cutting his nails when they get too long, it’s also true that his subconscious habit of biting at his fingertips has evolved into biting his nails. They’re uneven and stubby as a result, a far cry from the aesthetic appeal of Nikolai’s.
“Remember, Kolya, I need to keep my nails short for the sake of playing cello.”
“Then cut them! Don’t bite away at them until they’re nothing, silly.” Then, cheekily: “Besides, sacrifices must be made for the sake of art.”
Fyodor laughs lightly, though Nikolai pulls him up off the ground before he can say anything.
“I suppose nothing in this world is completely perfect,” Nikolai sighs dramatically. “I’ll have to make do with what I have.”
“And what, pray tell, is that?”
A mischievous smirk makes its way onto Nikolai’s face as he presses a light kiss to Fyodor’s knuckles. “Rest assured that I can make something beautiful out of even… that ,” he says in mock disgust, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Fyodor’s hands.
It’s refreshing, really, to have company that neither fears nor reveres him – not obviously, at least. Fyodor knows the light-hearted bickering covers something darker embedded in Nikolai’s heart; he’s seen the way Nikolai looks at him when he thinks he’s not looking. They both hide things from each other and they both know that, an unspoken agreement not to push things until the time comes.
(It’s not as though Fyodor can’t find things out if he wants to, anyway. Everyone is an open book to him and Nikolai is no exception, albeit a significantly more entertaining one.)
Still, that is there and this is here and today they will just be two little dolls playing dress-up.
“Come now, Fedya, we’re going to beautify you!” Nikolai cackles, doing a quick twirl before leading him into the bathroom. Fyodor scans the room briefly – he’d noticed the pungent scent before he’d entered and marvels at the fact that he hadn’t noticed the smell in the previous few days.
In a drawer that tends to hold a variety of Nikolai’s items – a quick glance shows a few bandages with smiley face prints and a variety of marbles, for whatever reason – there is now a row of nail polish bottles on display, organized in no particular order.
“Do you have a favourite colour?” Nikolai asks dreamily, dangling a bottle of vibrant green in front of his face.
While Fyodor’s answer would typically be an indifferent no, he’s made mildly uncomfortable by the way Nikolai eyes him like he’s a blank canvas begging to be painted upon with only the brightest of colours. Unsurprisingly, fashion has never been a particular priority of his, but he’d rather not have his hands be turned into some jumbled mess of colour.
“Please keep it in moderation,” he sighs out. Though Nikolai pouts, he does appear (thankfully) to give up on the prospect of painting him into a rainbow.
“Mm, I suppose green isn’t your colour anyway.” He returns to looking through his vast colour selection, leaving Fyodor to ponder away at the absurd normalcy of the situation. He has plans to watch the world crumble; they have both seen and caused more deaths than he suspects Nikolai’s conscience can bear… yet here they are, lounging in a shared washroom too big for the both of them, painting his nails. He supposes, then, that humanity is a curse that is not so easily done away with: Nikolai’s cheerful humming is evidence thereof.
(He tries not to think of himself, of his own humanity.)
Fyodor’s drawn out of this stupor by Nikolai nudging him none too gently. He offers a Cheshire grin, which always precedes something that would give someone not well-acquainted with Nikolai nightmares.
“Dear client,” Nikolai croons in a rather impressive falsetto, “all preparations for our services have been completed. Are you ready for a spectacular experience?”
Fyodor blinks, though he makes up his mind quickly enough. Given that he’s played along with everything else, he may as well humour his would-be manicurist a little longer.
“Please do demonstrate. I look forward to whatever you’ll be presenting.”
“In that case, close your eyes!” Nikolai’s voice returns to its usual pitch, filled with joyous excitement. Amused, Fyodor follows along, feeling warm hands find their way atop his own.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t feel the sensation of the brush tickling his fingertips but rather Nikolai’s thumbpads rubbing circles into his palm.
“…Hm?” he asks, more confused than disturbed.
“Shush, Fedya. Keep your eyes closed.” Nikolai’s tone has lowered to a near-hypnotic murmur as he repeats the motions. His fingers, firm and solid, pinch Fyodor’s; vaguely, he registers this as a hand massage. It’s more relaxing than it should really have any right being, but he finds himself loosening up regardless. As he lets out a shaky, content sigh, he hears Nikolai’s laughter and smiles in spite of himself.
As Nikolai moves on to his other hand, Fyodor cracks one eye open and then the other. Nikolai’s gaze is solely transfixed upon their intertwined hands, but his expression looks… serene, almost. They don’t have many quiet moments like this anymore, so Fyodor doesn’t interrupt it.
…Not until Nikolai glances up again and gasps, offended. “Fedya, you cheater!” He lets go of his hand abruptly, sticking his tongue out. “Here I was trying to give you the authentic experience.”
“Forgive me,” Fyodor begins, but cuts himself off, laughing. He feels a pleasant sense of warmth inside his chest, bubbling laughter more genuine than it usually is. Nikolai stares at him in wonder and for a moment all he can think is that he’d like their hands to be together again.
How aggravating, and how very out of character for him – no wonder Nikolai’s looking at him like that. Clearing his throat (and subsequently his mind of any similar thoughts), he schools his face into a more neutral expression. Emotional outbursts are a sign of weakness, for in order to ascend to godhood, he needs to be unfeeling; he needs to be cold and inhuman and manipulative.
(Manipulation – he tries to tell himself that this lapse in control is an exercise in manipulation, purposely allowing himself to be vulnerable in order to gain more of Nikolai’s trust.
…But if he can’t even lie to himself about this, he definitely can’t lie to Nikolai.)
He tries again. “Forgive me, dear massage therapist. I simply wanted to see your beautiful face.” It’s not terribly uncommon for him to join Nikolai in his theatrics like this when he’s in a good mood, teasing words almost bordering the flirtatious, but he usually gets a giggle from Nikolai or another equally cheesy line thrown back at him.
This time, Nikolai simply stares at him to the point where Fyodor begins to worry for his health. It takes a few more seconds before Nikolai seems to snap back into consciousness, a faint flush upon his cheeks.
“R-right,” he stutters out, which is cause for concern in and of itself. Since when does Nikolai stutter? “Of course you did!” he exclaims, regaining some of his usual vigour. “And for our next act, it’s what we’ve all been waiting for! But close your eyes for real this time, because I want this to be a surprise.”
Puppy-dog eyes would probably be more effective if Nikolai bared more than one eye at him, but the glimmering molten gold distracts Fyodor enough for him not to react in time when Nikolai manually closes his eyes with his fingers.
…As entertaining as the effort is, Fyodor raises his eyebrows.
“Kolya, I sincerely doubt we’ll be making any progress if your hands are occupied here.”
“But Fedya , you’re a cheater! You didn’t listen to me last time!” His complaints would probably be more effective if there weren’t a tinge of laughter in his voice.
“What if I promise not to look until you tell me to?” It’s childish, but then so is Nikolai – and also easily appeased, it would seem.
“Fine, fine. Pinkie promise?” One of the hands lifts off his face, presumably to form the accompanying gesture. Alas, it is rather difficult for Fyodor’s hand to navigate over to Nikolai’s. After a momentary struggle, Nikolai’s hand makes it over to Fyodor’s hand instead. He feels their fingers interlock for a touch too long to be socially acceptable, then Nikolai releases them.
It’s disconcerting to keep his eyes closed for so long – it leaves him open to surprise attacks which, unfortunately, he does not counter very well.
…Still, he knows that, for all his long-winded rants about freedom and the meaning of life, Nikolai won’t kill him – not here, at least; not at a time or place where it won’t mean anything to him. For Nikolai, Fyodor’s death must be something deliberate and wholly premeditated.
In other words, his promise is an expression of trust – trust that Nikolai won’t hurt him, not until they both know the time has come; trust that Nikolai will protect him from anything less than himself.
(It’s the closest thing they have to friendship, to camaraderie, to equality… and then some.)
It’s… nice. Something small that makes it easier to stomach the greater things. He’ll rewrite the world, and Nikolai will be with him, painting his nails.
The brush makes its way from finger to finger: Nikolai is terribly meticulous, something initially surprising that began to make sense as Fyodor made more sense out of who he really was. He’s detail-oriented and cautious when he wants to be, though his lapses of seriousness are generally overshadowed by how he compensates with irrationality.
Each nail is painted with patience, careful stroke after careful stroke. If Fyodor did anything at all – opened his eyes, spoke, moved his hand – he could so very easily disrupt this tentative equilibrium resting between them. It would be so easy to push him away and remind him of his mission, to eliminate the budding feeling in his chest once and for all–
(A testament to their mutual trust in one another, then.)
Nikolai reaches the final nail and lets out a trembling sigh of contentedness. “You can open your eyes now.”
And when he does, Fyodor smiles at the sight in front of him: sparkling rhinestones pressed carefully into a sunset-esque gradient, purples and oranges and yellows blended together artistically. It’s a little too flashy for his style: if anything, it takes after Nikolai’s preferences, albeit slightly more elegant. Against the rest of his pale and near-vampiric complexion, it looks out of place – exactly how he likes it, a little piece of Nikolai that stands out amidst his monochrome.
He’ll let himself have this much. Stylized nails don’t have to mean anything. In front of him, Nikolai looks at him, awaiting his approval.
“You’ve done well.”
It’s just three words, a throwaway compliment for something Nikolai’s clearly talented at, but he beams like Fyodor’s gifted him the greatest praise humanly possible.
(Behind the smile, behind a thousand masks that Fyodor is uniquely talented at piercing through, he catches a glimpse of a newfound light in Nikolai’s visible eye, something softer than the mischief his expression implies.)
“Didn’t I tell you?” he says airily. “I can make beauty out of nigh anything.”
Yes, you really can.
“When have I ever doubted you, Kolya?” Fyodor smiles, but as he says the words, he realizes they’re no exaggeration: his trust comes from within the depths of his heart, a horrible emotional thing. From the most irrational part of his soul to the most calculating part of his mind, he trusts in Nikolai’s abilities.
The thought terrifies him, and nothing terrifies Fyodor Dostoevsky.
“Ohh,” Nikolai breathes, “you’re so sweet today. Can’t you be kind like this all the time?”
“If I don’t keep my praise scarce, you’ll lose your motivation to push yourself.”
“You mean to imply I could ever grow tired of your compliments? Sacrilege!”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Hmph.” After a moment’s petty silence, Nikolai speaks again. “You can probably move your hands now.” As if to demonstrate, he lifts Fyodor’s left hand and nibbles at his fingertips.
…only to stick his tongue out immediately in distaste. “Bleh! Tastes like nail polish and blood.”
Fyodor arches an eyebrow. “Perhaps there are wiser decisions you could have made there.”
“Oh, but it tastes like your nail polish and blood, so I have nothing to regret.”
A sigh, too fond for his liking. “Whatever makes you happy, Kolya.”
There’s some truth in that statement too, but he’ll berate himself later. Nikolai’s wide grin will be enough for now.
—
Foolishly, Fyodor thinks that that will be where it ends. He doesn’t make a habit of making mistakes, but the fact is that when he does, Nikolai is always involved.
(A human is predictable because it is greedy. A god is predictable because it is rational.
But what of a fool, a jester, a clown? What of Nikolai Gogol, enigma extraordinaire?)
Unsurprisingly, Ivan is the first to comment on Fyodor’s latest fashion statement. Nikolai is by his side at the time, making intensive – nearing uncomfortable – eye contact with the former. Their relationship is one that Fyodor prefers to stay out of the way of: their interactions seem to breed hostility from Nikolai, though it does appear notably one-sided.
An angel draped possessively over his shoulder; a rat grinning down upon them. The surgery Fyodor had performed was Ivan’s price for his eternal servitude and Fyodor’s own experiment, but it’s nonetheless disorienting to see him side-by-side with Nikolai: in Ivan’s eyes there is nothing but honest devotion, pure and unfiltered, while Nikolai is filled to the brim with complexity and contradiction.
“Master!” Ivan exclaims, earnest as always. “Oh, how glad I am to see you again.” Almost imperceptibly, Nikolai’s fingers dig into Fyodor’s arm a little tighter.
“Good day,” Fyodor replies mildly. Before he has the chance to continue, Ivan inhales sharply with jubilation.
“Your hands!” he gasps, staring wide-eyed. It takes a few beats before Fyodor glances down at his nails. “What an extraordinary artist you are, master…” Ivan hums euphorically, reaching gingerly to touch his hand. Fyodor’s eyebrows furrow. Realistically speaking, he knows that nothing will come of this – Ivan is bound by his own infatuation not to hurt him, yet something feels so very wrong about letting him corrupt the beauty Nikolai brought into existence.
He retreats his hand at the same time as Nikolai tugs him aside. Ivan looks at them curiously for a moment before enlightenment strikes him with a cackle.
“Master, may I have a word with your friend here? I promise I will not occupy your precious time for long. I wouldn’t dare be an inconvenience to you, after all.”
“I have no issue with it. Kolya?” Fyodor asks smoothly.
“Just for a bit,” Nikolai concedes, a wary look in his eye. Ivan smiles wide, pulling Nikolai away until he’s out of earshot.
Fyodor watches their retreating backs until they turn a corner: Nikolai’s shift in demeanour is within expectations for a conversation with Ivan, but he typically keeps fairly quiet anyway when Fyodor checks up with Ivan. Why single him out, though…?
By the time they return, Ivan is in high spirits as ever – but it’s Nikolai who seems ever changed from whatever they discussed. For a moment, he looks almost flustered , which, while truly being a look on him, is definitely a signal that something is wrong. Fyodor can pinpoint the very moment he notices him looking at him and schools his face into something more characteristic of him.
“Fedyaaa,” he cries, “can we go home yet?” It’s amusing how he doesn’t even try to lower his tone out of courtesy, but Ivan isn’t offended – of course he isn’t.
“A moment, please. Allow us to discuss what we came here for first and then we may return.” Though Nikolai purses his lips, he nonetheless steps to the side as Fyodor fills Ivan in on the latest assignment.
There’s a lesson to be learned from today’s visit to Ivan and that is, to the best of Fyodor’s knowledge, that he should be more cautious with how he displays his hands.
(Of course, there’s something else there that doesn’t slip his attention either, but he’ll ignore it for now.)
After that experience, Nikolai ends up all the more attached to Fyodor: while he would previously follow along on Fyodor’s visits to his rats when he felt like it, now it’s uncommon for Fyodor to do so much as leave the house without Nikolai trailing close behind.
It’s… not unpleasant, Fyodor notes. He’s aware that humans require social interaction in order to thrive, but he has long since ascended beyond the expectations of a typical human. Nonetheless, he supposes that – out of all his choices – Nikolai is the best candidate for a… friend.
Then again, he supposes he wouldn’t really know. This has been his duty since birth; he’s never had the opportunity to befriend children his age other than as a necessity. If anything, Nikolai might be one of the only people who had reached out to him, rather than the other way around – someone who had never required convincing to follow him.
Yet lately he’s been questioning their tentative friendship – they cohabitate out of convenience and Nikolai follows his orders when he needs him to do something precisely, but that is what their relationship has revolved around from the start. A god doesn’t need his angel to link their arms together when they walk around together; a god doesn’t need his angel to paint his nails into the setting sun. This, he supposes, is friendship… or is it? Then there’s the way Nikolai drapes blankets over Fyodor when he falls ill, the way he sometimes wakes up to a head of white hair nestled into the crook of his neck, the way he can recognize Nikolai in a flash no matter what disguise he wears.
It’s driving him to the point of distraction. He’s never been this unfocused before, not when everything has always been part of some greater plan – except Nikolai, which feels ironic now. He’s a wild card, a joker to throw the game off-balance. The mental imagery of flushed cheeks continuously fades in and out of his mind unwarranted.
“Fedya?” Speak of the devil. “Are you alright? You’ve been staring at that page for five minutes now.”
Fyodor looks down at his book, that which he had planned to finish over the course of the next hour. Given his current pace, it’ll take him significantly longer than expected to go through.
“Ah. I was… occupied.”
“Ohhh?” Nikolai laughs – lilting, teasing. “How rare for you to lose focus. Could something be the matter?”
For a moment, Fyodor weighs the possibility of discussing the recent shift in their dynamic. Quickly he abandons the idea: heart-to-hearts are hardly their style, and it would be especially strange coming from him. Everything that they need to tell one another can be read through their actions – a shift in posture and Fyodor knows Nikolai’s claustrophobia is acting up; a light exhale and Nikolai knows to leave him alone unless he specifically requests otherwise.
No, if he wants to identify the issue, he’ll gain nothing from talking to someone with a biased perspective. They’ve known each other for far too long and far too well for this.
Abruptly, he stands.
“I’ll be paying a visit to the Sky Casino.”
Nikolai blinks at him, surprised. “I’ll–”
“There will be no need to accompany me,” Fyodor adds. While he’d usually be appreciative of the familiar presence beside him, he suspects it’ll be detrimental to his task if he brings Nikolai with him.
With that, he shrugs his cape on and leaves without looking back. Besides Nikolai, Fyodor’s fairly confident that Sigma will be able to provide valuable insights on the situation: of all the Angels, he’s the least involved in shady dealings; his ability is only brought out when necessary and beyond that he’s the most… normal of the people Fyodor associates with. Most likely, with all the people in his cherished casino, he’ll have the most experience with human relationships.
Most people are but tools, and Fyodor is gifted with the unique talent of knowing exactly how to utilize them.
Upon his arrival, a few heads turn his way, though most are preoccupied with ongoing games. He’s not surprised: in such a large casino, even those as strange in appearance as himself can be easily overlooked. He tugs his cape a little closer into himself nonetheless, scanning the area.
It only takes a few seconds before he spots a familiar head of two-toned hair. Found you.
Fyodor picks up the pace slightly, slipping through the crowd fluidly until he reaches the well-loved casino manager. Patient, he watches Sigma converse warmly with his customers. The smile on his face is something Fyodor doesn’t see often – it fades quickly when he catches sight of him, turning into something more serious.
“Ah,” Sigma says stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a private conversation with a guest.” The customer he’s currently speaking with seems a bit miffed, but they let him off with little complaint.
He approaches the corner that Fyodor lurks in, a bead of sweat dripping down his neck. “What are you here for, Dostoevsky?” he asks, tone low. “If it’s not urgent–”
“Care to join me someplace less crowded?” Fyodor interrupts. This only seems to further Sigma’s anxiety, though he asks surprisingly few questions as he leads them into a private room. This suspenseful silence lasts only throughout the journey to the room.
“Will you tell me what you need now?” he asks the moment the door closes behind them.
How to initiate this conversation? Sigma already expects to receive bad news: it’s clear from the way he glares at him, posture tense. Straightforwardness would likely assuage these concerns, but the issue is that Fyodor himself is at a loss for words.
He deflects. “Would you consider yourself friends with the customers in the Sky Casino?”
Sigma bristles defensively. “Are you going to take them away from me?”
How quaint. What an unfamiliar notion, to lose sight of rationality for the sake of protecting something one loves. They are both aware that, alone together, Fyodor could kill him in a heartbeat, yet he still looks at him with that fierce fire in his eyes at the thought of losing his casino.
“Not at all. I was merely curious.”
Though he still watches him suspiciously, Sigma relaxes a little. “Of course they’re my friends. They’re more than that – they’re family. You should know that, Dostoevsky.”
“Even if you’re meant to rule over them?”
“Rule over them?” Sigma echoes, frowning. “What gave you that idea? Just because I’m the manager doesn’t mean I look down upon them. They’re free to do as they wish and go as they wish, as long as they don’t harm the casino. That’s what family means.”
It takes Fyodor a moment to absorb this information. In that time, Sigma leans closer, caution seemingly expelled in favour of curiosity.
“Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to familiarize myself with the concept of friendship.”
“Familiarize…” Sigma mutters. “What brought this on?”
Fyodor opens his mouth to form a reply, but he draws a blank. Why did he come all this way? Why has this been bothering him so much?
Deep in thought, he raises a finger to his mouth, beginning the familiar motion of biting down on callused flesh. He stops himself halfway through, though, seeing the coat of paint that prevents him from enabling his bad habits. With a scowl, he places the hand back down, aware of a pair of grey eyes tracking the movement.
“Oh,” Sigma says. “Did you paint your nails yourself?”
“No, Nikolai did.”
“Really? They look very well done.” There’s a contemplative look on his face as he stares at Fyodor’s nails. “I wasn’t aware he was capable of such detail.”
“Kolya is very talented,” Fyodor says. Something about the way he says the words must reveal more than he intended to, as Sigma raises his eyebrows.
“Oh,” he says again with a bit more emphasis. “ Oh .” He looks dumbfounded, staring at him as though he’s never seen him before. “This is about him, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is,” Fyodor responds evenly.
“You… want to know if you’re friends?” Sigma asks, confused.
“Not exactly.” Fyodor knows that, if nothing else, Nikolai certainly sees him as a friend: their companionship is marked by the way they gravitate to one another. To call them coworkers or roommates would be an insult to their deep understanding of each other.
“Then what?”
“I’ve noticed… a discrepancy in behaviour, comparing the interactions between you and your customers with myself and Nikolai.”
Sigma snorts. “Gogol is certainly very affectionate. Isn’t he just peculiar in general? You can’t expect my guests to behave like him.”
Fyodor twitches. He understands that Sigma can be blunt at the best of times, but something about the way he says it is irksome – not about the peculiarity, that which Nikolai seems to be proud of, but the way it’s implied that Nikolai is excessively clingy with everyone.
This, he supposes, must be jealousy. How horrid. He voices as much to Sigma, whose face contorts strangely.
“Let me get this straight. You’ve come to pay me a visit because you’re feeling things that aren’t typically associated with friendship towards Gogol and you’re worried about discussing it with him.” Sigma rubs at his temples, muttering something under his breath. In turn, Fyodor nods mutely, equal parts irritated and amused by this treatment.
“But from the looks of it, I think you already know what the problem is.” Sigma eyes him, wearing an unreadable expression. “You understand other people very well. Why not yourself?”
Fyodor digs his nails into his palms, unresponsive. He does know, or so he thinks – as Sigma says, he knows himself a thousand times better than he knows anyone else. He knows, he’s known since long before they sat together in the washroom and painted his nails.
(He supposes he just wanted to hear it, have someone tell him he isn’t mistaking himself for a human. Nikolai’s influence must be rubbing off on him.)
Out of the blue, Sigma changes the subject. “Do you like your nails?”
“…I suppose so, yes.”
“Would you be opposed to–” Sigma cuts himself off. “No, never mind.”
Fyodor raises an eyebrow and gestures for him to go on.
“I’d rather not meddle.”
“The least you could do is finish your sentence.”
Sigma’s gaze flicks from left to right, a grumble escaping his lips. “Give me a moment, Dostoevsky.” With that, he paces briskly out of the room, giving no sign of his intentions nor the time of his return.
In the time it takes Sigma to come back, clinging onto a small pouch, Fyodor scrambles and solves a mental Rubik’s cube six times.
“I’m back,” Sigma says, slightly out of breath. “Apologies. It took me a while to find a customer willing to gift me these.”
Fyodor tilts his head questioningly. “Continue.”
“It seems you don’t find too much discomfort in changing your appearance. I thought these might help with your… Gogol problem.” He empties the pouch, revealing a pair of clip-on earrings. They’re certainly lovely, two black pearls embedded in gold, but…
“Earrings… to help with Nikolai?”
Sigma chuckles softly. “You’ll see what I mean. For someone so intelligent, you remain strangely oblivious about the most obscure of things.” The latter sentence is uttered in a hushed tone, likely not meant to be heard by Fyodor’s ears. The corner of his lip quirks up, though he doesn’t respond.
Sigma continues: “It seems you prefer more subtle accessories, as opposed to glaringly obvious eccentricities.” Though he doesn’t mention anything by name, top hats and card masks come to mind. “I thought you might appreciate something like this, given my own experience with earrings.” He scratches his cheek bashfully. “Here, let me help you try these on.”
With that, Sigma leans in, carefully adjusting the earrings until they fasten onto his ears. This has the unfortunate side effect of him effectively crawling into Fyodor’s lap: long hair pools around them while Fyodor tenses. He’s not necessarily unfamiliar with physical contact, except Nikolai is the only one who actually engages in it with him. He knows how it feels for Nikolai to slip into his lap, to run his fingers through his hair, to wrap his arms around his waist – to have Sigma replace him in this position is jarring.
And because he’s decided to dub himself king of horrifyingly unfortunate timing, Nikolai himself chooses that exact time to poke his head into the room.
“Fedya, I found you–”
He cuts his exclamation off to stare at them (and their very compromising position), visible eye frighteningly devoid of emotion.
(Above him, Fyodor hears a very quiet ‘shit’ from Sigma.)
Rather unsubtly, he shifts until Sigma falls off of him. “What are you doing here, Kolya? I thought I told you there was no need to follow me.”
In lieu of response, Nikolai smiles a terrifyingly eerie smile. The room is silent for several beats, then:
“Sig maaaaaaa ~” Nikolai sing-songs dangerously. Fyodor feels the man beside him shudder. Still, while Nikolai’s intimidation techniques are truly admirable, Fyodor would prefer not to have the very competent manager of this casino traumatized for life.
Standing up, he walks over and slips his hand into Nikolai’s gracefully. It’s enough to grab his attention, given how infrequently Fyodor is the one to initiate contact, especially in front of an audience.
“Be civil.” It’s all he says, but it’s enough to break Nikolai’s impromptu staring contest with Sigma. There is a loud, loud sigh of relief from the side that Fyodor pretends not to hear out of respect.
“Why’d you come here?” Nikolai asks, petulant. In his childish facade, Fyodor detects genuine emotion – for whatever reason, he seems upset.
“It was necessary.” The answer clearly doesn’t satisfy Nikolai, but he switches strands instead of asking more questions. With a tug to Fyodor’s ears, Nikolai scowls.
“I don’t like these. If you wanted more pretty things, you could’ve asked me!” He sticks his tongue out at Sigma, who exhales tiredly.
“Mm, but it’s unwise to rely too much on one person.”
“ Still .”
Sigma interrupts, drawing eyes to him. “If it’s any reassurance, Gogol, I think Dostoevsky has found everything he needs here. You’ve arrived just on time to take him home.”
“Mmmmhmmmmm,” Nikolai hums, gaze still burning holes into Sigma’s soul. It takes another squeeze of his hand to get him to stop.
Fyodor huffs tenderly. “He’s not wrong. Let’s go back.”
“But Fedya –”
Fyodor places a finger over Nikolai’s lips. “No complaints, Kolya. We’ve long overstayed our welcome, I fear.”
Interestingly enough, Nikolai doesn’t protest at all after Fyodor returns his hand to his side, only moving to grasp at it until their fingers are linked again. Otherwise, he’s stock-still to a near concerning extent.
“…Kolya?” Nikolai’s reaction time is terribly slow, several seconds passing before he blinks several times.
“Ah. Yes! Yes, let’s go home, Fedya. I need to find you some better earrings than these .” He shoots a glare at Sigma, who only sighs.
“I think it’s due time for me to return to my station as well,” he intones. “I hope you’ve found all the answers you need from me.” A crooked smile. “I doubt you’ll need my ability to resolve things.”
Fyodor chuckles as Sigma squints at him, eyeing their joined hands. “Really, Dostoevsky, I think you have the solution to your problem already.”
It’s not like Sigma to be the cryptic one, but Nikolai tugs on his hand with a little more emphasis before Fyodor can find clarification. The message is clear: I want to go home.
He supposes he has gained some important information out of this meeting. For now, he’ll play to Nikolai’s whims. It’s been a tiring day, and Nikolai’s familiar chatter eases the exhaustion just a little.
Later, after they return home and Nikolai pulls the earrings off with such brooding resentment that Fyodor worries he’ll damage them, they go shopping. The market offers many trinkets that usually occupy Nikolai’s attention until he’s satisfied, but today he’s dead set on finding a pair to replace the confiscated jewellery.
Meandering around, they drift apart slightly: Fyodor examines a few used books with mild interest while Nikolai barters for lord-knows-what. He’s in the middle of reading a particularly explicit title out of nothing but sheer morbid fascination when he hears Nikolai calling his name from afar.
“Fedya! Aren’t these just right for you?” He holds out a pair of what appear to be magnetic earrings, little silver feathers dangling from both. Honestly, Fyodor doesn’t really care either way. His hair will obscure it from view for the most part anyway, so it’s more just a matter of what Nikolai wants.
…He supposes it’s not the worst choice Nikolai could have made. He opens his hand to accept the gift and raises his eyebrows when Nikolai grins at him, withholding the earrings.
“Sigma put those ones on for you, so I’ll put these ones on you.”
“Kolya, please, we’re in public.”
“And?”
A long-suffering sigh. Nonetheless, if this is all it takes to make Nikolai happy again, he’ll allow it. Gloved hands (without the fingertips, he notices) reach to tuck his hair behind his ear. Confidently, they maneuver until the feather is fixed onto his earlobe. Even after the magnets stick together, however, Nikolai’s hands linger: they stare at each other for a few moments until Nikolai pulls himself off, attaching the other earring to his own ear.
(Up close, Fyodor can smell Nikolai’s scent. There’s a distinctive combination of berries so sweet it’s acidic – he knows this smell well, but he inhales deeply anyway.)
“Now we match!” Nikolai cheers. His smile, somehow, must be contagious; Fyodor feels his own mouth curve upwards.
“So we do.”
Thoughts of propriety and dignity all but dissipate when Nikolai grasps his hand, spinning them in a twirl. A few startled onlookers gawk at them, but many don’t even bat an eyelash. Nikolai’s antics are little more than part of their day-to-day lives, and the thought is… intriguing. What if they could be part of that crowd, passing by as ordinary folk? What if Fyodor was freed from the burden of encompassing Crime and Punishment, and Nikolai could be satisfied even shackled down where he cannot fly?
It’s a fleeting thought, laughable – and impossible, of course. He’s indulged himself enough by allowing the notions of curious not-friendship and jealousy to taint his single-minded ambition. To go any further would be to deny his life’s purpose: sunset-stained nails and metal feathers will not change anything.
…Loving Kolya will not change anything.
—
In hindsight, Fyodor should have seen it coming. Nikolai would never be satisfied with their matching accessory hidden from sight, yet his fondness for playing with his hair could never be contested.
(Indeed, Nikolai seems to have taken a liking to their new earrings. Alongside the constant combing through locks of dark purple hair, his fingers now like to stray to Fyodor’s earings, constantly fiddling with the silver with a content smile on his face.)
His hands are curious and ever-roaming, only further enhanced by the addition of the new accessory. Fyodor supposes it’s a small mercy that Sigma had helped him find some closure: had he still been stewing in denial, he suspects he’d have been driven insane by the constant touching by now.
A finger gently traces the curve of his ear, the arch of his neck, the groove of his lips as he types away. At his mouth it lingers, some unreadable expression on Nikolai’s face.
He draws his hand back eventually. While Fyodor continues working, the dim lamp being their only source of light so late at night, Nikolai reaches into his cloak, fishing around for something.
…What Fyodor sees coming out in his peripheral vision gives him pause.
“No,” Fyodor says.
“Yes,” Nikolai says.
(In his hand is a comb and a comically large pink bow.)
“Kolya.”
“Fedya.”
A moment’s staring contest, then a sigh. Out of all the strange things Nikolai’s tried, Fyodor supposes that this is one of the tamer things to allow. Still:
“A normal hair elastic.”
Nikolai pouts, but returns the bow and retrieves a pink hairband with plastic flowers attached. To be honest, Fyodor’s not sure where he’s finding these things: most items within the 30 metre range of his ability are within the building, and he’s never seen Nikolai wear either of these accessories. The probability that he’s made these purchases all for the sake of this moment is… non-zero, which is a harrowing thought.
“Very well,” Fyodor says, pretending not to notice the hair clips and barrettes Nikolai attempts to surreptitiously summon into the room as well. He really has gone soft.
The silence that rests between them is familiar, something intangibly comforting. The comb scratches at his scalp and Fyodor suppresses a shiver, attention diverted. He doesn’t have to look back to know that Nikolai must be smiling, a sharp fingernail scratching his head teasingly.
“Focus, Fedya,” Nikolai murmurs in his ear, closer than Fyodor had anticipated. In a moment of spontaneous decision-making, Fyodor angles his head suddenly so that they’re facing each other, tips of their noses all but touching. He smiles beatifically, a challenge glinting in his eyes – one that he knows Nikolai sees, matching it with his own playful tilt of the head.
“Of course.” Then a lick of the lips because he’s spiteful and not above taunting Nikolai, who locks onto the movement with an unnerving amount of focus. The idiom playing with fire comes to mind.
They both return to their initial positions like nothing had happened, but there’s something stewing between them that there wasn’t before. As Nikolai ties his hair into a ponytail, Fyodor revels in the new sensations: his nape is exposed, a coolness at the back of his neck. Nikolai brushes his bangs to the side, allowing a few stray strands of hair to frame his face. The hair clips, abhorrently cutesy as they are, suffice in keeping his hair out of his eyes.
Nikolai takes a step back to survey his work, humming in satisfaction. Fyodor doesn’t bother turning back – he is Orpheus, knowing that to look at Nikolai right now is to change the course of his fate irreversibly.
But then it seems he doesn’t have a choice after all, Nikolai pulling him up from a sitting position abruptly and spinning him around. The quietness, so tranquil just moments ago, now sits in wait of interruption–
“You’re so pretty, Fedya.”
And there it is, the catalyst of change, four melancholy words and a god brought to his knees. Nikolai’s tone is deceptively light, but his fingers tremble at his side and Fyodor knows , knows that it’s too late to pretend that Nikolai isn’t his greatest weakness.
His throat is dry. He darts his tongue out this time out of necessity, wetting cracked lips.
“That’s no good,” Nikolai says, voice lilting. He sticks his hand in his cloak again, quickly pulling out a tube of lip balm – there’s a graphic of cherries on it, which is all Fyodor has time to register before Nikolai tugs them to the ground again.
Uncapping the lip balm, he presses himself close to Fyodor. This close, Fyodor can hear every individual breath Nikolai takes, see every flutter of long eyelashes.
“Hold still,” Nikolai declares: had he been speaking to anyone but Fyodor, perhaps his confidence would have seemed natural. As it stands, the tension is only amplified by the ever-slight tremble in Nikolai’s voice.
His left hand fixes itself onto Fyodor’s chin, tilting it up slightly; the right hand navigates the stick of lip balm until it presses slightly into Fyodor’s lips. Two swipes and it’s over, but they make no move to part.
Setting the lip balm aside, Nikolai swallows.
“It’s supposed to taste like cherries,” he says.
Fyodor hears the thinly veiled question.
(Choose carefully, Fyodor Dostoevsky. Will you stop yourself and right your path? Will you turn him away like you are meant to?)
“Is it now?”
(It’s already far too late to turn back.)
Nikolai’s hand cups his face like that’s where it was meant to be all along, so gentle and reverent for a hand that has been covered with blood time and time again. That is Nikolai in the end: soft like a feather, destroying everything except his own cage and hating himself for it. He is everything Fyodor is not.
And he is so sweet, soft pink lips pressed against his own. Absently Fyodor notes the flavour of cherry against his tongue, but the flavour of Nikolai overwhelms it in an instant. Nikolai’s hands fly here and there and everywhere, unable to stay at rest: one moment they pull at Fyodor’s hair, undoing his work from just minutes ago; next they squeeze lightly at his throat; pale peach nails dig into his shoulders.
A thousand of Fyodor’s secrets that neither of them had known travel between them in a single instant, the nonverbal language of touch bridging them together.
Nikolai nibbles at his lower lip, a ferocious light in his eye that betrays the softness of whatever he mumbles into Fyodor’s mouth.
You’re beautiful , Fyodor thinks at the same time that Nikolai says it. They take a moment to part, reddish-purple smeared around Nikolai’s mouth. In the reflection of his laptop he sees himself, dishevelled hair and with nail marks clear on his neck. He doesn’t think he’s ever looked so human. He doesn’t think Nikolai’s ever looked so angelic.
In the darkness of his office at twilight, the world is made of just two people – and as they surge back together, Fyodor thinks that that’s just how he likes it.