Chapter Text
Listening to Dos-kun's speeches to the impressionable crowd is fun in its own way, even though he's relegated to the boring job of staying put on the rooftop of a building that has a direct line of sight to Dos-kun. Hmm, no, rather than relegation, this is a delegation of an important duty. After all, anyone can buy a sniper rifle as long as they have the money or the modicum of creativity needed to steal from an underground arms dealer. With a rifle, they can aim it to the center of the snow-filled plaza with hooded figures huddled together in the cold of winter and the heat of ambitions. With one click of the trigger, anyone can kill Dos-kun. The fact that he's trusting Gogol to protect him from such threats is a heady drug.
There are no others present within the next kilometer or so, which makes it easy to hear Dos-kun's monologue, even from a rooftop. Gogol hums as he listens to the skillfully-woven words, spilling out of those thin, teeth-bitten lips. He's lucky that he's not one of the masses congregated below.
Dos-kun doesn't lie to him, after all.
The people below—Dos-kun is also technically not lying to them, but he's definitely letting them go on with a misunderstanding.
It's never been the case with Gogol.
Having that kind of awareness is interesting in its own way.
But he doesn't focus too much on them.
After all, the longer one looks at a funny story, the sadder it becomes.
Dos-kun doesn't confide in him, but he doesn't lie to him either. Gogol dresses himself up as the fool, as the jester, but there's a sincere truth in his interactions with the man he's chosen to follow all the way until his death. That doesn't mean that he doesn't tease or joke with the other man, from time to time. It's interesting, to imagine Dos-kun's face painted with humor. It's also interesting, to see that face remain deadpan and serious despite Gogol pulling out all the stops to make the other laugh.
After today's speech to the masses, Gogol makes his report with a sweeping bow.
"Everything was fine in the surveillance, master," Gogol says with a twist of his lips. He sneaks a glance upwards and sees Dos-kun's flat look. Oh, he likes to make claims about doing things worthy to call one god, but he’s never liked this kind of straightforward, effusive praise, has he? "One of the guys looked like he was fighting off a yawn though, maybe he isn't such a good fit to the organization."
Dos-kun tilts his head, bangs falling over the top of his eyes. "Isn't that yawning guy yourself?"
"I was paying lots of attention~♪" Gogol denies with a shake of his head. "I always pay lots of attention to Dos-kun~!"
"As it was your task for the day."
"Nuh-uh, always!"
Dos-kun stares at him with glittering purple eyes, like he can see through each one of Gogol's words, at his truths, at his lies, at the truths that he doesn't know are lies, at the lies that he doesn't even realize have morphed into the truth.
But Gogol continues in this vein, every day spent together a ticking countdown to the freedom he's so looking forward to. He spends each moment teasing, talking, joking, lying. Until each truth becomes a lie, until each lie becomes too embroiled in truths. After all, however stupid a fool's words are, sometimes, they're enough to confound an intelligent man.
It's too much of a wishful thinking to think that he can confound Dos-kun, but…
"I see." Dos-kun shifts his gaze. "Since you've done your task today quite well, I believe you do deserve a reward."
Gogol perks up, before bounding over to where Dos-kun is seated. He doesn't mind seating over a dozen keyboards, but he knows that Dos-kun would be ever so cross if he ends up ruining them. So he instead sits on top of Dos-kun's knees, ensuring that he's not placing too much of his weight on them. Dos-kun’s body is frail and fragile, bones that rattle like windchimes in the middle of a blizzard.
Like this, they're of the same height. If he leans down until he's eclipsing all light, they're going to be of the same darkness.
"I promise to give you the salvation that you need," Dos-kun vows, just before Gogol inches forward so that their lips could meet.
It's a promise that has no jokes, no lies.
A promise that Gogol would like to bring to his grave.