Chapter Text
The thing about tragedy is that, anyone can be a victim of it. It is not biased nor is it kind. Nikolai was orphaned at the age of 6. His luck be damned it all happened in one night. Death came in without warning and snuffed out the light that breathed life into his family. With no other relatives to care for him he was sent to an orphanage shrouded in snow, his eyes never saw any color besides white, black and the color despair in every child’s eyes.
An orphanage in the middle of no where. Snowy planes and tall menacing looking trees towered over his tiny form. The cold bit at him, slowly but surely until it reached the depths of his soul. His teeth clattering with no chance of his regaining control. The coat of the man who brought him here helped repel the cold. He remembers the man looking at him with mournful eyes before he left him there.
He knew then, this wasn’t an orphanage, but a child dumping center disguised as an orphanage.
It was brutal—truly brutal! how cutthroat the system of the ‘orphanage’ was. Every child, no matter how young, had to learn to clean themselves and the only source of water the ‘teacher’ gave them was a tub of cold water. Can you believe that? A tub good for one but used by 15 children! The food wasn’t rationed well either. The older kids in the group had a loaf of bread, some peas and water. Whilst the younger got the same except in smaller scales with crackers.
Despite being young, he knew and understood that the only way to survive was to create connections and be smart with them. Nikolai collected the crackers he got from his rations and hid them under the floor boards, near his spot, and guarded them frequently. The coat that the man from before gave him was also hidden there. He kept mostly to himself, he simply couldn’t connect with any of the children.
They’re stupid! he thought as he heard the children talk about what they wish to be when they grew up. Do they not realize that they’ll die before they even reach adulthood if they stay here? Do they not realize there is no escaping here? Do they not realize they are not free? They’re like cattle waiting to be slaughtered!
He remembers the acidic voice of the ‘teacher’ as they like to be called. "Learn to survive on your own. That’s the way of life here. We’ll provide your essential needs ,and of course there will be rules to follow." The stern deep sunken eyes of that teacher—no that demon looked at him in contempt. "First you must do things on your own. If you do not learn how to help yourself and need our aid constantly— you are nothing but a no useless child. Second, if you are presented with a task, do it without complains and if you do mess up, You’ll pay the price."
Price? Who were they to talk about price? Honestly! These adults are truly rotten— then again, those kids are no good either. They can’t see the truth! We are no better than slaves.
There was no one was inherently good in this place, that he could see. The eyes of the older kids would contort in an inhumane fashion. Like a predator finding it’s pray. Bruises and cuts decorated his skin. They would kick him, scratch him and spit on him when the teacher—again not teacher, demon— wasn’t looking. None of them were good. Truly none of them were.
He does however, remember one of the older kids that ‘helped’ him, but with a price. Again with price!—nothing truly is free. His name was Vladimir Nabokov if he remembered correctly. Points to him if he did!
He was 10 years older than him. He always, without fail, helped clean away the muck and grime that stuck to him. Delicately brushing his fingers over the bruises with whispers of "what pretty skin you have. So silky and soft." Or how his hands always found itself in his hair, untangling the mess of knots saying "pretty hair for a pretty boy like you."
Nabokov’s actions were truly strange—more than strange—but Nikolai found a way to survive through his help, by sticking close to the older boy, he gained his favor. Nabokov would give him half of his loaf of bread from time to time when he was being good. Made sure he was always around so no kids would bully him. Helped him always bathe by teaching him how to safely do it in the cold river near the orphan house.
Nabokov’s hands would always be touching a part of him. Be it his shoulders, waist, cheeks and etc. he was a handsy fellow. He would offer his help when Nikolai wanted to bathe even though he was fully capable then after his help. Still, he could not deny him this. He must not deny him this, lest he looses favor in Nabokov. Honestly, it felt wrong. It did not feel like it was intended innocently. There was a look in Nabokov’s eyes that Nikolai couldn’t put an emotion to, all he knew is that whatever it was. It’s something that made him feel unsettled, but it seemed.. more than that. Like there was a part of him that wasn’t just all that he seemed. However If allowing him to do such a thing was the price, then it’s a price he’ll gladly pay to survive.
Still, he could not understand Nabokov—who exactly is Nabokov? Why was he enamored by me then? Now I know what he was— a slowly developing lecher. I remember him— I remember him well, I remember my disgust so I ask myself why can’t I hate him? Nevertheless—
A year went by with Nikolai living somewhat comfortably. He still had no ‘friends’ aside from Nabokov, if he can be considered a friend—he was more of a protector if anything—He still didn’t know how to write his own name and knew little of the world, but he was fine with that. If the world was anything like the cold and snowy wasteland he sees, then he wants nothing of it.
From time to time Nikolai would stare mindlessly in the window. The cold of the outside left some frost decorating the corners of the panes. If he focused closely enough, he could hear the voice of the wind, the chirps of the birds that flew freely without a care in the world. What he would give to be as free as them. Free from the shackles of the world.
He would have given everything. I would have given everything. I would have—
It was a dark and cold night when Nikolai came to a realization. Nabokov invited Nikolai to rest with him that night. He didn’t want the cold to make him sick he said, but Nikolai didn’t believe that reason—you should know why by now—Still, he accepted.
He lied down and Nabokov placed a thin sheet of cloth on him and left his own body bare. The thin sheet did nothing to protect him from the cold hut the sentiment was nice.
Nabokov held Nikolai’s small hands in his own much larger ones and his face was a plaster of docility—was it truly a plaster? Or his true face?—Nabokov was by no means a man hard to look at. He was rather dashing but somewhat average. His black hair was straight and looked neat most of the time. Nikolai thought it looked better slicked back. His steel blue eyes were always looked dull but seemed brighter when they looked at Nikolai, looking more like Indigo.
«When will you call me Володя my little куколка?» Doll, Nikolai never liked that nickname. He never understood why Nabokov called him that. «I don’t want to Nabokov.» He really didn’t want to, but he pouted his lips for the effect and made his voice playful. Who knew what Nabokov would do if he knew he really didn’t want to—did it seem like that back then?—«come now.» Nabokov smiled a toothy grin—signature smile ahh, I remember it clearly— «do it for Volodya!» nikolai pretended to think for a bit, «one day I will, when you don’t expect it.» Nabokov sighed and resigned.
They lay in silence for a bit. The sound of snores and wind howling filling the spaces in between each breath. «Ne, Nabokov.» The older boy hummed, his eyes closing briefly. «Why do you call me kukolka?» Nikolai saw Nabokov open his eyes, they seemed to glow in the dark back then, like pretty indigo Marbles. What was he feeling back then?
«Well. » Nabokov started, his hand leaving Nikolai’s and instead placed them on his cheeks. He shivered in disdain but resisted himself. «Your skin is pale, smooth to the touch, tinted pink by the cheeks and eyes.» His hand traced his face almost reverently before combing through the boy’s hair. «your hair? Made from threads of silk. Sometimes it looks like white clouds or the color of the sun. It is simply beautiful.» Nikolai halted when Nabokov’s hand hovered over his lips.
«your lips.» He sighed, unaware of the repulsed expression Nikolai wore. «look so soft. Like a blooming flower amidst you snow-like skin. Truly! Like a porcelain doll, a pretty nymphet. » Nikolai was glad Nabokov didn’t have any plans to place his finger on his lips. He doubts he could have controlled himself to not bite him. Nabokov seemed to interpreted the look Nikolai gave him as awe even thought it was anything but that. He chuckled, patted Nikolai’s head and withdrew hand «Do you understand now my little kukolka?». Nikolai hummed in response.
A doll, a pretty porcelain doll, I wonder, would he still call me—no no, the boy all grown up now as kukolka? Will he? Once he sees the cut in the boy’s face? Would he?
Nabokov yawned and drew closer much to Nikolai’s distaste, at some point, cradled the boy close to his body. He could hear a rumble come from the older boy’s chest. «You know, I only have a year left.» Nikolai’s eyes grew wide. It was true. In no less than a year, Nabokov will be sent out to live on his on. Once you reach ‘adulthood’ without being ‘adopted’ the orphanage ‘disposes’ of you. Not only have you been disposes once, but you’ll be disposed by the same place you were dumped in. How will he survive in the orphanage without Nabokov’s help?
The boy could recall these feelings so intensely. Feelings of detachment, worries—fear and of course! The superior feeling that is despair! But back to the point—
«Will you miss me when I go?» «of course.» Nikolai whispered but his worries picked him apart. He may be using Nabokov as his means of living a much more comfortable life but that didn’t mean he didn’t care about the older boy. Even if he creeped him out in various ways, this person still protected him, his values may be skewed but that’s what living in this place does to you he surmised.
Hmm hmm, the boy could not guess what made Nabokov like this. To this day he can’t! However however he can make an educated guess—but he won’t! HAHAHAHAHAHAH
The next day went like the rest. As if they never had that conversation to begin with. Nabokov gave him his share, bathed him as always, stayed by his side to ward off any of the older kids bullying him. Each passing day, Nikolai grew to appreciate his efforts more and became much more accepting of Nabokov’s tendencies.
But alas, time waits for no one. It spread it’s wings and without a word flew by fast. Before Nikolai knew it, Vladimir Nabokov had to leave. «your things are ready.» the ‘demon’ spat, the heel of their boot kicked the small trunk with Nabokov’s essentials in. Nikolai could hear a twinge of relief in their voice.
Ahh, they must have been thinking—Thank God another runt is gone. One less pest to worry about—
«We’ll wait outside. Prepare yourself.» the ‘demon’ turned around and closed the door out. The children were playing in another area of the house, maybe the dining room, point is, they were the only ones there now. The only noise between them was the howls of the wind scratching the door.
Nabokov sighed and noted, his hand combing through his hair. A decent coat hang by his figure, one that actually protected him from the cold. «So, it ends here.» his voice sounded gruff with heaviness. Nikolai gave him a looked that spelled remorse. He didn’t know what to say. «Hey, don’t make that face kukolka.» the older boy crouched down to Nikolai’s level and clunched his tiny hands to his.
«Will you miss me?» Nabokov asked. Nikolai wordlessly nodded, sniffing here and there but he didn’t feel a cold coming up on him. What exactly was he feeling? He suppose he really will miss Nabokov.
Nabokov gave him his signature grin and ruffled his hair «Then that’s all I need to know.»
The older boy—no, now adult stood up grunting, his hands pulling the weight of his trunk which wasn’t too much. As he walked away, Nikolai hurriedly said «S-see you Volodya!» Nabokov stopped in his tracks, buffered a bit before he looked back at the boy. He looked sincere, it was different from the usual Nabokov he saw.
«Good bye, I’ll see you again someday Nikolai.»
That was the first time Nabokov called him by name.
And with that, that was the last time Nikolai saw Nabokov. From that point on, he was alone. More than alone. Nabokov became an adult—the ones he called as no good and yet he can’t seem to group him there and now he was gone. Which made him regret not appreciating Nabokov more.
Once again he experienced hell.
No no no! Maybe hell was an understatement— I have—the boy has experienced something much more worse than hell— this hell couldn’t compare.
The moment Nabokov disappeared from his life, the ‘demons’ decided they would be the ones to pick on him. They would task him with cleaning the plates and washing clothes without teaching him—after all they did say learn how to survive—and with every mistake he did, he would be sent out of the Orphanage with nothing but his coat to battle the cold.
That was one of many cruel experiences he’s had to endured, but maybe whatever that was had worth. The cold no longer bothered him as much as it should, and it was that very same experience that made him learn of what made him special.
He remembers praying, praying to who ever would hear him out to answer his call. Hypothermia was probably setting in at that point but Nikolai didn’t want to let go of his coat.
This is it, I’m going to die said his young mind. He curled his hands around his body as the coat hung over his body. Imagining that he was clutching into a thick blanket. A thick enough blanket to shield him away from the cold. He must’ve been hallucinating because he swore he could feel his hand grasping into one.
When he recoiled his hands, he gasped in shock and relief. In them were beautifully patterned blankets that looked like the blankets he used to have when he was younger. He wasn’t sure if he was just imagining it so he pulled the blanket out and saw where it was coming from.
My coat? The coat he wore looked like it was pulsating around the blanket, and the more he pulled, the more the blanket came to form. By the time he pulled the whole blanket out his coat looked much darker than before, but never mind that! Was then blanket real?
Nikolai hurriedly wrapped it around himself, praying, Praying it was real! And the first thing he felt was—warmth. The blanket was warm.
That day he learned of his special ability that separated him other children.
Another memory he could vividly recall was yet another night time memory. This time he was alone with no Nabokov to accompany him. The children around him slept with no care in the world. Their snores seemingly louder than the wind outside.
Nikolai sat quietly on the grown, wearing the coat he’s come to treasure. He ate his collection of crackers silently as he tried using his ability again. At first, he would close his eyes when he was attempting to get an item. One thing he learned about his ability is that the thing he’s trying to get must actually exist, the blanket he had gotten actually belonged to the demon after they went around screaming «You thieves! Which one of you wretched children stole my blanket!» of course Nikolai did, he however later returned where it should be which embarrassed the demon somewhat.
As his hand went through his coat, he pulled out of the crackers he hid under the floor board. He smiled, proud of his achievement, eating the cracker as a price for accomplishment.
As time went by he trained this ability of this. Learning that he could create a portal for his own hands to go through from his coat. He made sure to train enough that he could summon items without pulling it from his coat itself.
This ability also proved useful for making ‘friends’ if he could even call them that. He would entertain the older kids as well as those his age with his ‘magic shows’. He would show them tricks using his coat and of course he never taught any of them his secret.
He was later lovingly nicknamed, клоун or clown. He learned that making fun of himself with self deprecating jokes or any kind of jokes for the matter—and of course! Magic tricks! People would want him around. After awhile it would be tedious, he was being kept around more as entertainment but he grew to love making people smile and laugh. He liked the laughter of children than those older or of his age. They seemed much more.. fake.
Ahhh—the boy learned to late that corruption does not breed only in the hearts of adults— sometimes! Even children have it! Even so even so! They could still be saved.
Still some benefits he got from being a clown was more food to his plate. Lighter workload and company. Although he didn’t to beg for food, he knew he could get some from his coat undetected but he it didn’t feel right to do so. The workload no longer bothered him anymore, in fact he got used to it that he could just zone out.
Company? Their company? He didn’t mind them—He didn’t like not dislike them. He couldn’t consider any of them a friend, when none of them would understand why he is the way he is.
No one would for a long time—or so I thought!
This was how he lived for another 4 years of his life. At the age of 12, he longed for freedom, trained his ability, being an overall clown until he earned his place in the orphanage without being ostracized.
He thought he would live in his boring, controlled and painfully dreary ways until he was kicked out, until he came.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky