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There's a white dove sitting in front of the church. Fyodor doesn't see many doves nowadays. He doesn't see many living things at all.
A cool breeze brushes him and he watches the last of the autumn leaves flutter by. It's cold in St Petersburg this time of the year. The leaves of the trees have turned gold and red in the course of fall and on the bright sunny October days it had been easy to deny winter was coming. Winter won't reach him this year. But his hands feel cold. His pair of gloves has holes in them and Nikolai's are a too big for his own slim fingers.
The dove easily blends in with the background, all the bare dying trees and the grey stony ground beneath its toes; its feathers are smeared with dirt and ash, but it must be a pretty bird beneath all the filth it's coverd in. It has got to be freezing, he thinks. There's dead plants coating the ground and the bird; considering it is alive, unlike anything in this place; seems almost lost in the empty overgrown churchyard.
"It looks like you," he tells Nikolai, whose skin is pale in the light of the morning sun; only a little more tan than the strands of white hair covering his face. Despite the cold, he isn't wearing any kind of headwear and his wavy hair cases down his back. He looks elegant, like the drawing of a Saint. Sacred, almost, but human above anything else. The bird twitches its head up and reveals a half closed brown eye. Nikolai snickers.
"You have such a funny mind sometimes. It's nothing like me at all." He pauses for a second. Nikolai doesn't like explaining things that don't need to be explained. There's nothing he could say that Fyodor doesn't already know. Nikolai's mind may be expectional, but it's not a match for Fyodors own. Fyodor simply isn't like him. He continues carefully, turning his eyes towards the sky.
"Did you forget it's a holy creature? It can ascend to the heavens. It's an angel, Fedya. We have nothing much in common," Nikolai explains with precision, circumspect in his speech.
"You misunderstood," Fyodor answers; in a critical tone. Nikolai is quick with jumping to wrong conclusions, as always.
Nikolai pouts, most certainly not pleased with being accused of such a thing, though it isn't an accusation in Fyodor's mind. "Ah-ah, you simply didnt say what you intended to."
"Have I ever?"
There isn't an answer. Nikolai has a habit of cutting every conversation off before it can resolve. They're both quiet for a moment. It's comforting. He can only hear the wind whistling through the trees.
"I never knew you liked birds." Nikolai kicks a broken bottle Kvass out of the way. The etiquette is worn down. For a busy church it's grounds sure are unkempt. It disgusts him.
"I don't."
Somewhere behind them the dove flies from the ground to perch itself on a lower branch of one of the trees growing alongside the small rocky path leading up to the church.
The church is an orthodox building with a tiny lamp hanging outside its door. The lamp doesn't work, the light bulb is broken and no one has bothered to change it. It's narrow and elongated, as if someone had tried to stretch it to heaven, so that it could be closer to God. Man has done many things to get near the divine. (But he always reaches in the wrong direction.)
It's early. Maybe too early to be awake on a Sunday. The city has been empty on their way out here; as much as the streets of St Petersburg can be empty. Usally he sees cranky people rushing down the streets, but on this particular Sunday it's still all around.
The sun has not risen. He can barely decipher the rusty outfront sign giving out directions to a graveyard. Its letters are caked in dust.
Nikolai stops there. "Can't we go back to sleep? I'm tired."
Fyodor shoots him a grim glare - "You know very well we can't miss mass today," he says - that causes Nikolai to sigh dramatically. It really is too early. Then again he has never enjoyed church. Sunday service is always a dull time. Both of them fail their attempts to hide their steady boredom time and time again.
But they also haven't been to mass for the longest time and they won't yet get another chance. They have not been exposed to the cold for weeks now, hiding inside their apartment as Nikolai waits for Fyodor to lead him down his rightful path, like he vowed to do.
It's ironic really, his final act of faith in this warm wet hell of a home, before they'll turn to leave, never to return to this place.
Nikolai tries the old iron handle and the door swings open under his gloved hand with a high pitched creak. Apparently nobody had considered oiling it in a while. A part of Nikolai is always ready to burst into flames when he sets foot in a place this holy; howbeit he knows that God pleads for him to enter nothenless. Being to church has always felt like returning to a home he was never welcome in in the first place. He knows he isn't. He holds the door open.
Fyodor stands in the open doorway, gazing inside. Mass has already started. He's suprised, it's barley half past seven, in his experience they almost never start on time. It's cold inside. The shine of the lit candles is the only thing lighting up the room. The church is decorated, attention has been paid to magnificent detail in the paintings and furniture of the main body of the building.
He takes off his ushanka, presses it against his chest, gripping it tightly, before he enters.
"I thought demons couldn't walk on holy grounds," Nikolai teases; corner of his mouth twitching. He has the right to do so, even if it earns him an eye roll. He does this for Fyodor and temptation is a demon's deed after all. Churches are a terrible place for sinners to be, but where Fyodor goes, Nikolai follows.
The candles flickering in the foyer of the church give off an amount of warmth and light neither of them are used to. Nikolai only looks at them for a bare moment, just long enough for him to wonder if the souls they represent truly made their way into heaven.
There are only few other people joining mass held this early. He finds himself pleased with that, he doesn’t especially like being surrounded by people. The heavy door locks behind them, casting out the last trail of sunlight to be found. The sound of Nikolai's footsteps resonates across the church.
The air is thick and heavy in his lungs, forcing Nikolai to swallow hard, well aware of the lump in his throat. It's only the usual stench of old books and candle wax, but he's always had a distaste for the atmosphere of cathedrals.
Fyodor quietly hands his ushanka to Nikolai, who shoves it into the pockets of his coat. Their fingers don't touch. He removes his shabby gloves as well, ever so carefully not to tear them apart even more.
"You simply must replace these, Fedya," Nikolai complains; trying his best to keep his voice down; at the sight of the worn-out state.
"I know." (He wont.)
He turns his head for a moment, studying the painted walls beneath the beam ceiling; faded but sprightly alive; and the colourful windows which have no light to let in. They haven't been here before. Despite how old the building is, the paintings are magnificent; picturing many holy figures from eastern orthodox religion – he has come to understand no painting could ever capture God's glory. No picture or painting does it justice. (No human being has known such glory yet.)
The candelight is dancing on the painted stone walls in dizzying uneven patterns.
They keep standing in the back of the church, gloves in hand, because he knows Nikolai will talk during service. Nikolai does his best not to, he's not actually an impolite person, but he usally ends up doing it anyway.
Nikolai has folded his hands together loosely, ready to join congregation and participate in the sermon.
Nikolai has told him; a couple of times now; that he doesn't pray. It's a lie of course. Humans have been commanded to pray everyday. Truly Nikolai is not free enough to commit to such a sin. When has Nikolai ever not felt a sense of guilt? He seems so human above all.
Fyodor can hear Nikolai revising the Lord's Prayer every night before he goes to bed, when he's been pretending to be asleep for at a couple of hours at best. It always sounds like a silent cry when he clings to his rosary and remembers an oath he never expects fulfilled, as if Nikolai is hoping to enter the kingdom God promised earth would be in his dreams.
A human being who does what they do, does not get to wish they will visit paradise in their next life and surely they won't be granted with the sight of it in death either. (He will bring them paradise in another world, if they can't escape the hell of this one.)
He doesn't pray before the altar beneath the eaves of the sanctuary. Its wooden and Fyodor wonders which Saint's relics are embedded inside. He doesn't sigh either, the ceiling is high and it would echo off the walls. Fyodor is entirely silent as he quietly observes the people around them, watches them pray. They're devoted, they have so much faith in God, he would admire it if he didn't know any better. He doesn't need to engage with them to understand their thoughts and yet he knows he is nothing like them. It's not an unwelcome thought. From the corner of his eye he watches Nikolai try to suppress a yawn.
Nikolai rhythmically tapps his fingers against his leg. It's an annoying habit, a thing he always does when something is making him nervous -- and the sound of it makes Fyodor nauseous. It's hard to pick up on over the speech and choir, nothing Fyodor is even sure Nikolai is aware he's doing.
The choir is beautiful, even if hard to understand. A pity they have to get up this early, to be here; they would have enjoyed this another day. Fyodor does know they are singing of God's kingdom; the beauty of a paradise they have never seen with their own eyes; and so does Nikolai. He can practically feel Fyodor's gaze on him.
"I have a quiz for you. I get a feeling Fedya will like this one," he declares, whispering; cracking his knuckles, almost sounding proud of himself. Nikolai does not take pride in a lot of things. Pride is a sin after all. His eyes shine in the dim light that floods the church. Fyodor clutches his pair of gloves even tighter. "First question: If God makes a promise he will break, does that make him a liar?"
He thinks about it for a couple of seconds before he answers, his eyes drift to the people standing in front and next to them again -- they carefully listen to each spoken word, even if not all of them understand what's being discussed. Their faith is so sincere, he's certain it's blessed by God. It is human, too.
"If he knew he was going to break his promise when he made it, yes" he decides, finally.
"Next question," Nikolai chirps. "If God himself is a sinner, who will grant him forgiveness?"
"Of course you would ask that." He chuckles. Nikolai knows the answer. He's not pretending, but he doesn't belive it, he doesn’t wish for it, he never once had a choice.
"That's too easy, Kolya," Fyodor knows the answer as well. He understands, even if he won't ever be the same. "Man will. Mankind was created in his image after all."
"Why would they forgive him?"
"Because they love him, of course."
Nikolai gasps at that, but it's a fake expression and truly, Fyodor won't hold it against him. He doesn't know anything about loving (God has not been loving either).
"Love is as rotten as any feeling." Muffled laughter underlines Nikolai's words. It’s not honest laughter, but Nikolai is not an honest man, so Fyodor doesn't expect it to be. No one should ever believe the words of a clown, after all.
"Once poison enters your body, it spreads. But you already know so, don't you? Its been spreading for a long time coming." He smiles back at Nikolai. It's a crooked smile and it's not worth more than Nikolai's own. It's not real, he simply smiles like he would if he swallowed razor blades. Or like he would if Nikolai did the very same thing.
"Jesus made wine from his blood. I'm starting to belive all drinks Gods offer are secretly poison, Fedya. But poison is so sweet, so really, am I to blame for wanting to get a taste?" Nikolai cries in a mocking voice. He is lucky almost everyone in the congregation is fixed on the ceremony. An old woman gives him a dirty look. Nikolai has always been dramatic, it's in his nature, but Fyodor's smile still widens at the attempt to disguse the true meaning of his words.
He would never let Nikolai forget that he is the one person who has always been able to see through his schemes. (If the almighty is a liar, he will have expected his greatest creation to be liars as well). He can see the ugly hidden beneath and Nikolai is right, it's as rotten as all else in their world. Luckily, God will cleanse him from it.
"Maybe, if you're lucky, it will kill you before it makes you vomit." Fyodor is well aware this is a malevolent thing to say, but he knows Nikolai and it's certain Nikolai knows just as much as anyone, that he could never fool God. Fyodor knows of all his sins, and it's that way he knows Nikolai does love his God. Nikolai is a liar. It's beautiful in the same way a murder is a blessing. It's setting a soul free.
Fyodor has taken a life before, (he will again), and it's astonishing how much he admires the act of sin when Nikolai is the one who commits to it. Because he does it, despite his shame. If Nikolai took a life, the sun would shine upon him and Nikolai would receive God's grace as a repayment for the sacrifice he made out of love for his saviour.
'God is beautiful' it says in the Holy Bible. He is merciful and glorious in the light that surrounds him even if He wanders in the dark and His touch pulls people into his kingdom. Everything shines in His light, even sin. Fyodor knows it to be true, because Nikolai beams ever so brightly in this moment, even though he stands in his shadow. His words are met with silence. He doesn't say anything after that.
He thrusts his hands and scrappy gloves into his pockets and watches. It's their last sermon after all. Watching Nikolai is no different from a game of a cards. Once he's understood the rules, he knows he will win. He always knows everybody's cards to begin with and as long as he's been told what they mean, he can sit back and watch the game run to the ground. The players will try to beat him with their strategies, but always lose either way, because strategy loses all its worth when one has knowledge.
He doesn't know how much time passes. Time works differently in places like this one. Places this holy. But they have a plane to catch later and he can't waste any precious minute. He still has preparations to make.
He leans over, breathes quietly and asks. One last examination of faith. "How does it feel, Kolya? Being loved by God?" The question is honest and there is no shame in asking it, it's something he can only wonder. Nikolai looks at him with awe.
The reply is indecisive and as hesitant as someone like Nikolai can mange to be: "God never loved everyone," he says. He doesn't know if God loves even him. It would be sinful of God to do so. "Never believe the words of a sinner; you should know not to trust our kind."
Fyodor takes his words into consideration. It's something Nikolai has been thinking about a lot. Before he goes to sleep, in every sermon, everytime he looks at Fyodor. And Fyodor can't help but wonder. "Wouldn't that mean God is not almighty?"
One of them made a miscalculation. Only a small one, but it makes all the difference in the world to them. Fyodor stares back at him, in nearly the same awe. Nikolai stops tapping with his fingers.
Nikolai shakes his head slowly, he is judging him. "Should I be suprised? God's such a petty liar, Fedya. I thought you of all people would know."
He smiles wide, showing even his teeth, overconfident as ever. "Pop quiz, then! Has God ever loved anything at all?"
It's not a question Nikolai can answer by himself. Fyodor has come to understand that quizzes are meant to be solved, not answered. And he'll gladly provide the answer Nikolai has been searching for all his life. He finally can. He knows it, now.
"Humanity of course. He chose them over all of his angels." Nikolai's eyes widen, like Fyodor has only seen them widen once before. The choir stops singing.
"His angels will decay, once the age of man begins," Fyodor muses. (And there will be paradise on earth).
Once they turn to leave the dove is long gone.