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It’s not that he doesn’t know how to name the emotion, Fyodor muses. He is no fool who stumbles in and out of love, oblivious to his heart’s desires. He knows himself far too well for that: he is made of self-awareness, self-judgement, self-reflection. Of course he easily perceives his subconscious reactions to things; of course he knows enough of the world to recognize what falling feels like.
Yet he rejects it all that he can, he notes: and therein must be where the issue lies, for his mind and his emotions wage war against one another. It is certainly an unfamiliar sensation to have parts of himself contradict one another, and he can hardly call it a pleasant one either. To reach out is to burn himself against the wretched thing called love; to retreat away is to feel his heart freeze over in longing frigidity.
Nikolai Gogol is many things to Fyodor, and most of them are not very good. A double-edged sword would be the most apt descriptor, bearer and maker of his every secret.
How endlessly frustrating it is, to think that the one closest to his heart is the one who drives him to lose control – and still despite all odds he is enthralled by every part of him, every face he wears and then some. Under the guise of monitoring his most important puppet, he has learned how to recognize every person he pretends to be: a boyish whimsical thing, or an emotionless unerring tool, or the madman who strives to rewrite the whole world…
Nikolai shifts demeanors so easily that it would be admirable if Fyodor didn’t also recognize the man at the core of his every performance, an idealist and a realist all at once - a contradictory soul, confused and naïve and afraid. What is he afraid of? Who is he afraid of? Humankind tends to be predictable at its core, greedy and shortsighted, but then there is Nikolai – Nikolai, who loves and hates him all at once, who wants nothing more and nothing less than his own freedom.
Every part of him is deliciously novel, has been from the very start, and Fyodor knows that he has gone too far but the problem with being a god is that there is no one who can stop him, short of another.
Immortality and invincibility do not equate to one another. Fyodor is strong enough to kill with a touch, weak enough to be killed by a touch. He is prideful but aware of his limits–
Infiltration is Nikolai’s greatest talent ( a man of many faces ), but the task at hand requires a partner.
“Why not you, Fedya?”
Why not him indeed. Taking risks has never been his style, meticulously planning out every painstaking detail of every plan - and to have him at the forefront of the battlefield? Anemic and with a physically weak constitution, the chance of fumbling in an unfamiliar environment is far too high.
A ballroom dance wherein they’ll have to waltz vigorously while keeping an ear out for compromising information? Fyodor is capable but not idiotic, no matter how well they collaborate. Rejection is at the tip of his tongue when Nikolai tugs at his sleeve.
“Come now,” he trills, though his eyes shine with a kind of mischief that says he already knows Fyodor’s answer. “Wouldn’t it be so lovely to dance in front of the stuffy bureaucrats, show them who they should be bowing down to?”
The passion in Nikolai’s voice is tantalizingly fiery - it’d be breathtaking if Fyodor wasn’t so good at hiding his instinctive reactions, moulding it into something more manageable. He sighs a breathy chuckle, pulling his sleeve out of Nikolai’s grasp and replacing it with his cool hand.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline, Kolya. There are other things I should attend to.”
But, almost as an afterthought:
“I suppose I wouldn’t mind humouring you for a single dance, however.”
His words are everything that he is not: impulsive, emotional, driven by little more than his irrational desires in the moment. They slip out before he can catch them, but they taste sweet on his tongue - a glimpse into a life that he has long since abandoned.
Nikolai gasps delightedly, pulling him into a spin on the spot and dipping him close to the ground for a few moments. “Oh, you’re so very kind!” he exclaims giddily. “But this crowded space is no place for that.”
It’s a fair statement - the inside of their home is only as expansive as it needs to be, as unnecessary frivolity will only distract from the assignment at hand. This means that Nikolai can freely pull him outside into the brilliant, glaring sun, ducking into a more shadowy area.
Around them, the grass is vibrant; trees protect them from sunlight and obscure them from view, while little blossoms of violet are scattered throughout the field. The springtime breeze blows Nikolai’s hair lightly, painting an image that is almost fantastical in juxtaposition to his flowing white cape.
(He thinks he may have discovered a new side to Nikolai today, the unrelenting romantic who clings to normalcy. They are both so very contradictory that he cannot afford to judge, but he notes the soft smile on his lips for future reference.)
Fyodor looks down to their hands, still interjoined. Nikolai does as well, some indecipherable expression on his face. Bending down, he places a gentle kiss upon Fyodor’s hand - uncharacteristically soft for both of them, but they are made of lies and secrets and one more won’t hurt.
“A kiss for the lady,” Nikolai giggles, returning back to his usual energy. “May I have this dance?”
He doesn’t bother contesting their questionable roles. Given how much more often Nikolai goes outside just to distract himself, it’s reasonable enough to assume that he is likely more capable of leading reliably.
“Very well,” Fyodor responds in assent. He’s swept up near immediately – though he generally understands the concept (a hand on a shoulder, another on his waist), he hadn’t expected the pace at which Nikolai twirls him around. In his eyes, it is the culmination of Nikolai’s ugliest and most beautiful parts, angelic tranquility marred by an insatiable urge to set the world ablaze.
He is golden and glorious. Fyodor knows there is no way for him to come back from this if he doesn’t stop now–
But Nikolai pulls him into a sudden embrace, staggered breaths sounding eerily either like wracking sobs or hysterical laughs. They decrescendo together as only a god and his angel could, perfectly in time with one another. Slowly, slowly, until they do little more than sway back and forth under the cool shade of overarching trees, Nikolai begins humming an unintelligible tune.
It is like nothing Fyodor has ever heard before, enchanting yet nonsensical, all dissonant tritones and staccatoed half-steps. The ensuing melody should, by all means, sound horrible; somehow, Nikolai manages to turn it into a balanced rhythm for them to follow.
Another spin and they falter, tumbling into the viridian-green grass. Though Nikolai stumbles atop Fyodor, pressing him to the ground through their connected hands, neither of them makes any move to return to a standing position.
Nikolai’s lips find their place on the shell of Fyodor’s ear, a swipe of the tongue and a playful nibble before he brings his head back up and smiles ferally, far too close to Fyodor’s mouth. Leaning down again, he presses their foreheads together until the very air they breathe is shared.
A push and they could close the space between them entirely, but–
This farce has gone on too long.
Any more and he might forget what his duty to the world is – any more and the world might forget its duty to him, lost to time and Nikolai’s wickedly inviting grins.
Fyodor is God and the Devil in the new world that he seeks, and he has no time to invest in the thing called love. Let it be curiosity, let it be fascination and endless observation, but never let it turn into a weakness; never let it turn into something human .
So instead he reaches up wordlessly, pulling Nikolai’s braid out and watching ivory-white hair spill in cascades. He twists a lock of it around his finger and tries to memorize the expression Nikolai wears, something terribly reverent and revealing far more than he usually ever shows so plainly.
(It is bittersweet, thinking of all the what-if s that they could be living right now if only their world was some glorious utopia, free from the conditions that initially brought the pair together.
This, however, is the responsibility that comes with ambition and an ability that can back it up.)
He knows, now more than ever, that Nikolai will cling onto his every word, treat it like some holy script; he chooses his next sentence carefully.
“Let us try to maintain our balance next time, Kolya.”
It is not exactly what he wants to say, but it will have to do – he feels some horrible sense of affection that appears all too misplaced in him as Nikolai beams at him.
“Yes, let’s.”