Work Text:
From a distance, the two boys rushing out of their high school prom dance might have seemed happy.
From a distance, the white haired boy's laughter might have seemed genuine.
From a distance, their twists and twirls as they danced in the rain might have seemed enjoyable, an act which others would only gaze upon with fondness and mild jealousy, wishing that they could experience such a thing for themselves.
Up close, it could be seen that they were not both rushing, but the white haired boy was pulling the other resisting boy out.
Up close, it could be heard that the white haired boy's laughter was bordering on hysterical.
Up close, it was clear that their dancing was nothing more than a swaying struggle led by the white haired boy, Nikolai Gogol.
And the man who fought to free himself from the other's grip went by nothing other than Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
"Fedya, what's wrong? Why won't you dance with me?" Begged Nikolai, smile stretched far too thin and eyes enlarged far too wide to be sincere, holding tight to the other's quickly soaking sleeves while they rocked roughly on the concrete underneath their soles.
"Unhand me-"
"But-"
" Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol, unhand me," Fyodor declared, breaking free from the other's grip with a final tug .
They both panted, cold rainwater seeping through their clothes and soaking their very bones, cold to the touch.
"Fedya-,"
"Don't call me that," Fyodor interrupted. He was panting more heavily than the other, having a lower tolerance for exertion. Whilst raindrops trailed down his face, mimicking a cry, he looked up at the other.
And what did the other see?
Those violet-red eyes he'd gazed upon so often in his dreams and reality alike, dark, fluid eyelashes elongated by the water, scarlet lips even redder than usual. But he also saw anger. Pure, vivid, unfiltered anger.
Anger from the man who so easily veiled his emotions, unpredictable in every sense of the word. But now that veil over his eyes had been lifted as he glared at Nikolai, barely contained fury staring into his own gold eyes.
And then all at once, a blink, and the anger was gone. The master actor had taken up his role once again, effortlessly becoming that which he wills himself to be. A calm, composed, and honourable man.
But he still whipped back around viciously, a blooper in his act, and began to trudge back to their prom, mud water bouncing off the floor as he penetrated it.
This wasn't how this was supposed to go.
Had Nikolai messed up in his script? Had he forgotten a line? Was that why his friend (the one who was supposed to understand) was leaving him behind?
"Fed– Dos-kun ," he yelled through the all absorbing noise of despair falling from the clouds, "Why are you-"
"Forget it, Gogol." And in one line, a wooden stake had been thrust through Nikolai's heart. Penetrated and bleeding. Shattered and cracked. "A fool is what you are."
A fool. Yes, Gogol was a fool. It was his identity, the very fiber of his being, the one and only thing he could ever imagine himself being — on stage. But off the stage, he was just a boy who longed to have his dearest friend by his side, always. A pining teenager who knew that his feelings were unrequited, yet if that was the case, he'd pull back on his mask of a fool and be ignorant to that as a fool is.
He was merely somebody overrun by jealousy, who couldn't stand watching the one he cared so deeply about dance with another date.
But now his friend was entering the high school building again, likely shivering madly, his anemia giving his body a lower resistance to threats, weakening him from the inside out. Likely going to talk to the arriving police, ambulances accompanying, here to rescue the man that had dared touch Nikolai's friend. Likely going to avoid Nikolai for the rest of his life.
Nikolai stood with his head down, blaring sirens ringing in his ears through the rain barricading his earlobes, hair strands sticking to his face like a band of insects. His braided bun had been undone from the attempt to dance, and now his hair cascaded downwards. The blood on his suit that had been carefully picked out to match his friend's tastes was fading, water diluting it and befriending the puddle underneath him.
A single unnoticed teardrop blended in with the clouds' cries.
His fool's mask broke in two, much akin to his heart.
And his consciousness noted as a trap of his freedom approached ever nearer.
Even from a distance, it was clear that the white haired boy had lost it all.