Chapter Text
He who never allowed his feelings to slip; he who not once allowed anyone into his heart; it was near impossible to believe that this was the same man. The man that trembled on the ground, grasping at the fleeting breath from his lungs. Above him stood the one person he had given his trust. The Demon of the Rats, feared by all, had finally grown close to someone. Finally allowed himself vulnerability.
Tears hit the ground, staining the concrete below the crumpled figure of Fyodor Dostoevski. Desperately clutching his red, rope-burned neck, he trembled. Never had he felt so helpless. Not once did he dare.
"Stand up," Scarlet eyes slowly rose upwards, pausing just below the golden orbs watching his every move. "I know you're better than this, Fyodor."
He had never expected this level of betrayal. Of course, he knew that Nikolai Gogol was cunning and intelligent - almost as much as Dostoevsky himself was - but this? An attempt at his life? Not in a million years.
A small guttural croak came from the demon on the ground. It was pathetic. He couldn't even form words.
"Don't make this so boring," Gogol's normally cheery tone was replaced by an almost monotonous expression, though his teeth still peeked through curved lips. He was regretting the thoughts in his head already. He knew the guilt that would flood him once the deed was done. But that was the point, wasn't it? To rob himself of the last bit of humanity he held? "Fight back." The sick smile and dilated eyes on his face was the only way to truly tell what he may be thinking. If one were to only hear his silky voice, they'd have thought it was a normal conversation between friendly foe. But seeing the true gleam in that one exposed golden eye, anyone could sense malice.
"Kolya," A choked whisper escaped purple lips. The nickname nearly threw Gogol on the ground with his friend. "Why..?!" Fyodor felt so small. So scared; just as he had been all those years ago.
"Why do you still speak?!" Nikolai's raised voice hurt his soul. What had he done to deserve this? He was only carrying God's will. He was doing his best, and yet that same God was granting him a hell worse than Hell. "Save your breath for your fight! Don't give up now!"
"Kolya, please..!" The rasp in his voice was barely heard over the strong heartbeat echoing in his own head. Dostoevsky didn't move an inch. His lips barely twitched as he spoke.
"Stand up!" Nikolai stepped forward, threatening who knows what. The intimidation worked, though, and a shaking man rose to his feet best he could. His normally prim and proper figure had been replaced with a bloody, unkempt hunch. Posture bent and blood amuck, he stared promptly at the floor, unable to face it. It being both his friend, as well as the reality of what was happening.
Nikolai was a stubborn man - the both of them knew that. He would stop at nothing to complete his goal. And however stubborn Fyodor himself may be, he wouldn't dream of hurting his dearest Kolya. The one man he allowed into his heart. The same heart that was drumming in his ears, an inconsistent beat that only egged him on. He was sure Gogol could hear it.
"Good boy," he breathed, stepping towards the pale man. "Now take your shot!"
Fyodor could only stare, his entire body shaking. He couldn't believe this. Of course the one time he allowed himself to form a bond with another human, it ended in a stinging betrayal.
"Nikolai," The Clown's heart broke further when he heard his real name. Dostoevsky hadn't called him 'Nikolai' since they first met. "Let's talk about this…"
"You fucking softy!" Gogol yelled, plunging his hand into his cape, gun in his grip. The portal opened beside Fyodor and the trigger was pulled.
A scream of pain escaped the Russian as he stumbled sideways, gripping the bullet hole in his abdomen. He raised his hand in front of his face, staring at the blood with horror. "That was…"
"A real aim to kill you," Nikolai finished his sentence. "Did you think this was all a joke?!"
Fyodor's hand trembled before his eyes, the red warmth dripping between his fingers. Never had Gogol made a real attempt at his life. There had been fights, games… intimacy. But never any true resentment. They had loved each other. Neither of them knew what they were, but they were not enemies. Fyodor knew that.
"You don't want to do this," he breathed, lowering his hand to look at Nikolai once more. There were tears threatening to escape his eyes. It would have been difficult to see to anyone else, but Fyodor knew his friend like the back of his hand. "Please-"
Dostoevsky fell to the ground with another bullet in his side. He saw Gogol's upturned boots step towards him, stopping mere feet away.
"Nikolai-"
"Shut up," he knelt down in front of Fyodor, rubbing his eyes as he did. "Call me what you always call me."
Dostoevsky looked up at his friend, tears streaming from his eyes and onto the tiled floor.
"Kolya," he breathed quietly. Nikolai bit his lip, trying to stop it from quivering. Staring at Fydor's desperate face did him no good. Knowing that he was the one to cause him this pain only made it worse for both of them. "Kolya," he convulsed once, then twice, before a cough splattered a dust of blood in front of himself.
Nikolai's body shook. He was terrified. He thought he might kill himself from the heartache he felt right then. He was killing Fyodor. He was about to murder his dearest friend.
The man he'd been with since their early teens. The man who'd rescued him, and the man whom he'd rescued himself. Fyodor Dostoevski, whom he thought of as God himself.
"Why…?" Gogol stared down at the man once more. "Why are you doing this…?" There was no anger in the scarlet eyes that stared back. No fear, no resentment. Only hurt. "Kolya, please. Talk to me." He reached a shaky hand towards the other.
"I'm sorry," Nikolai said softly, swallowing the ball forming in his throat. "But I can't make this quick."
Fyodor only shut his eyes in response. He didn't see when the gloved hand slipped into his cape once more, grabbing a blade from a pocket of fabric hidden within it.
Dostoevsky felt himself be rolled onto his back, opening his eyes a sliver just to see Gogol climbing on top of him and straddling his waist.
Deep breaths, Nikolai. His thoughts swirled inside of his head. Pretend he's anyone else. Deal with the feelings later.
"Kolya," The man beneath him whispered. Without letting him finish, the Clown rose the blade above his head and slammed it down into his chest, sure to avoid his heart. Maybe it was the fear of killing Fyodor, maybe it was the lust to keep him alive and in pain as long as possible.
A scream came from the dry lips below him. Gogol knew he could hide his pain if he wanted to. But he didn't. Why did he have to scream like that? Why did he have to flaunt his vulnerability like that?
Fyodor tried to reach for the knife in his friend's hands - and Nikolai almost let him - before another wave of pain came from his chest.
"Kolya!" He cried out, choking on his breath. "Please stop this! Please!"
"I've never seen you beg for your life, Fyodor-"
"Please…" Dostoevsky was so close to breaking. "Call me what you always call me." Nikolai's mind went numb.
"Good God, Fedya," he muttered. "The things you do to me." He shook his head, wiping a tear from his friend's eye. A small smile made its way onto the Demon’s face. He shakily grasped the hand with one of his own, leaning his face into the warmth of Nikolai's gloved fingers.
"If I am to die…" He choked. "Let me die by your hand, Kolya."
A sob came from above him. Then another. "Why?!" Nikolai yelled, clutching the knife in his hand in a tight grip. "Why don't you kill me?! I know you can at any moment! So why?!"
Dostoevsky simply shut his eyes, refusing to look at the pathetic sight of the clown above him. He wanted to believe Nikolai was stronger than he was. He wanted to go out thinking of him well. He didn't want him to cry.
"Kolya," Fydor whispered, reaching for the knife. He knew Nikolai wouldn't give it to him. "I'm sorry."
Another scream escaped his mouth as the knife struck a rib inside of his chest. The Demon’s pale hand fell from the red glove it held on to, instead attempting to grasp at the wounds staining his pure white clothing.
Again and again, Nikolai stabbed. Relentlessly, he drew blood, not caring where it was. He forced himself to keep his eyes open. He screamed louder than Dostoevsky was.
And soon Dostoevsky wasn't screaming anymore.
"Fedya," Nikolai sobbed, his hands clutching the knife above his head. "Does it not hurt anymore?" His eyes were dry and wide, flicking from the body beneath him to the face of his dear friend. "Fedya, are you no longer in pain?"
"..."
"Ahah, wonderful!" He grinned. He couldn't process reality. "Now we are the same! No longer able to feel–" he choked on his words, the knife slipping from his hand and falling uselessly to the side.
"..."
"Fedya, what happened…?" Tears returned to his eyes. "Who did this to you?" Nikolai's braid had come undone at some point, his hair only now falling loose. He scooped the Demon's body into his arms, cradling it close to himself. "I'm sorry…" he whispered, sobbing into the bloody clothing. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."
Sorry won't bring me back. Nikolai could practically hear Fyodor's voice in his head. You did this.
"Fedya, I'm sorry.. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Fedya please wake up…!" His voice cracked, his fists entangling in the scrunched white fabric on the back of his friend. "Fedya, please!"
The room was silent except for the subtle apologies. Only after chanting his name for hours on end did Nikolai finally achieve his goal.
He had cried all his tears. He had killed Fyodor Dostoevsky. He felt no more as he stood up, letting the cold body fall to the floor. Gogol walked away silently, never turning to look back at the mess he'd made.
And because he never looked back, he never saw the final curse that Demon had placed upon him - for Fyodor Dostoevsky died with a smile on his face.