Chapter Text
“Nikolai,” Fyodor soothes, “I’m going to need you to take your clothes off.”
Nikolai has to nip at his thigh to contain his excitement, he reaches for his vest and thumbs each one down almost desperately, tossing them aside to shuffle his way out of his button up like a brute. He plops himself on the surgical table but doesn’t lay, instead he pats the empty space next to him and beckons Fyodor to come.
The cold air does little to bristle the hairs on his skin, Fyodor’s inquisitive gaze leaves him abnormally flushed and sweltering, his mind running with wild stupid thought.
“I apologise, I didn’t think Bram would go to this extent.” Fyodor explains and instantly returns back to facing his companion, Nikolai gazes at his pale and delicate face which seems to be staring passionately at – though still examining – Nikolai.
“No problem Fedya!” He banters and grins lopsidedly in an attempt to appear inviting, “Nothing’s more fuuun than spending time with my dear friend, and having an excuse not to go to those boring meetings!”
Nikolai leans back comfortably and winks at him, Fyodor ignores both his face and his statement, he rolls his sleeves up and gets ready to study the white-haired man.
He suddenly remembers why they’re in this situation in the first place: Bram had accidentally infected Nikolai with his stupid herpes – minus the ballistic behaviour, black sclerae and fanged canines. He's not sure why he’s ‘immune’ to the disease nor is he as invested in it; he only cares for Fyodor who’s currently touching him very intimately, although in a radical way.
“It’s repayment for being so kind as to agree and follow the plan.” Fyodor sighs.
He seems to read Nikolai’s provoking thoughts because he dismisses anything that could remotely spark or fuel his desires and clears his throat before speaking again, talking about some unhinged plan with prowess. A plan that could only succeed in his execution.
Nikolai frowns, the same man who was exceptionally intelligent and understanding, the very man who would be the only one capable of resurrecting this sinful world, the man who possessed a vast and infinitive knowledge was so dumb and oblivious to his constant invitations.
Maybe this exaggerated obliviousness was an insidious scheme to ignore Nikolai’s advances.
The ivory-haired man frowns. He thinks of Fyodor and of freedom. He thinks of how he’s practically denied himself of both and has become the antagonist of his very own will.
An ugly groan escapes Nikolai’s mouth at the thought.
Fyodor perks like a cat at the sudden noise and places slender, nimble fingers on the clown’s back, slowly running them along his broad back and assuring his safety. His bare pale fingers brushing against Nikolai’s skin with such care: as though they were lovers.
“Gah! Dos – Fedya!” Nikolai shrills.
His clammy palms begin to sweat beneath his gloves and all of his senses are hyper fixated on Fyodor; his graceful and unintentional suggestive touches; his slightly concerned expression; his frail breathing and his damned otherworldly beauty.
He didn’t expect such intensity from Fyodor, it seems that he’s mistaken Nikolai’s complaining for a yelp in pain or a sign that he was turning.
Think about something else Nikolai – Think about your dead grandma.
Nikolai relaxes a little at the distraction but his sudden reaction does little to calm the amethyst-eyed man, who’s still touching him and skimming those punishment dealing hand’s all over his body, along his scapula, his waist, his chest, his arms: Fyodor mapped out the planes of his figure as if he were an explorer.
The sudden gestures leave little room for his imagination.
“Has the infection begun to take effect?” Fyodor asks, a little edge on his voice, “Come here, open your mouth, if there is anything I can do, please notify me.” He whispers the last question softly and reassuringly, Nikolai shivers at the intensity in his command and his assertiveness before opening his mouth.
Scratch me. Scratch my back. He pleads in his mind. Bite me. Choke me.
Fyodor’s hands stop at his neck, caressing the bite mark and encircling it with his thumb so softly, so gently, as though Nikolai could break at the slightest mistreatment.
“Fyodor.” Nikolai gasps desperately, his knuckles are wrapped against the edges of the table.
Fyodor stiffens at hearing his own name: or rather, the intensity in it. Something like worry glistens in his eyes before he begins to interrogate the ivory-haired boy again.
“Kolya, what’s wrong? Has your sense of smell heightened? I’ll ask Ivan to get you on painkillers or anaesthetics.” He issues and begins caressing the bite mark again, unaware that he had stopped in shock.
“Fedya.” Nikolai groans and Fyodor peels his hand away from Nikolai.
“Kolya.” Fyodor returns, a little relieved that Nikolai doesn’t have such an intense tone in his voice anymore and pats his back awkwardly, like a mother soothing her child.
Nikolai cringes at himself and how animalistic he’d turned at just a few innocent touches. His face feels warm and he feels a little guilt. Great, Dos-kun was truly worried about him and here he was taking advantage of the other man.
It’s not like he was lying to him, right? Afterall, Nikolai was experiencing an ache – just not physically. If anything, he’d rather get snapped in half by a thousand chainsaws than have Fyodor so ignorant and neglectful towards his painfully obvious advances.
He notices that Fyodor’s been dead silent, waiting for Nikolai to assure that he himself was okay.
“I’m okay Dos,” He reaches a hand out and lazily strokes Fyodor’s head as though he were a cat before continuing, “Actually, I think that Vampire AIDS Bram gave me is going away!”
Nikolai cheers and then leers mischievously to murmur into Fyodor’s ear, “It hurt so badly when he bit me! Buuut, you know , if it was from someone else I wouldn’t mind.”
“Good, good.” Fyodor affirms – he ignored the last statement yet was weirdly not defiant to the petting treatment he was receiving. “I’m glad to hear that even your immune system is stubborn.” He finishes which earns a chuckle from Nikolai. Fyodor pauses, raises a thin hand to his mouth and bites softly, easing into the clown’s patting.
Nikolai notices how meek and small he is – this personification of doomsday – so frail and dear.
Nikolai can’t help wanting to protect him.
“I’m alright Dos-kun, seriously. Pinky promise.” He holds his pinky out, and Fyodor blinks slowly before he returns the gesture to the Ukrainian man. When Nikolai smiles at the reciprocal of the childish gesture Fyodor hums thoughtfully.
“You know, you should be more worried for yourself.” Nikolai tells him, a tone halfway through jest and concern.
“Hm, how so?”
“I’m the vampire here.” Nikolai scoffs, Fyodor laughs lightly at him.
“Nonsense, Bram may turn against Fukuchi, but I will make sure he follows my control,” Fyodor explains confidently, he lowers his head and smiles but the cold murderous light in his eyes don’t subdue in his eyes.
“I don’t doubt you at all, I was just thinking about things.”
“Pray, tell.”
“It’s Bram I’m worried about! Buuut, I’m also talking about the rest of them, they’re so lazy!” Nikolai complains dramatically and then stares at the ceiling as though he were thinking inquisitively.
Nikolai pauses and a foreign, hideous feeling claws in his stomach.
“What if… What if I really do go vampire-shit Fedya?”
Fyodor takes a moment to consider the possibilities, his brilliant mind running with possible scenarios and the likes, the confident and calm expression never leaves his face.
“That will never happen.”
Nikolai remains unfazed by the statement.
“Do you have so little trust in me?” Fyodor continues.
Nikolai scoffs, “That’s not what I mean at all, what if I attack you?”
“I am of such poor constitution, I don’t think you’ll get much.”
Nikolai groans.
“Exactly!” He hollers and then begins petting aggressively again as if Fyodor were some stress relieving toy before continuing smugly, “What if I suck you dry?” He teases.
Fyodor raises an eyebrow but retorts with the same tone, “Well?”
“What if you do, Kolya?”
Nikolai’s petting slows, all of his awareness is fastened onto what Fyodor has to say next and he doesn’t realise that he’s become rock solid, awkwardly resting his hand on Fyodor who’s lips twitch slightly into a humble smirk. Had he finally taken notice of Nikolai’s God awful flirting?
Fyodor presses his lips into a thin line.
“It won’t be much though, I’m anaemic, Kolya.” Fyodor jokes but doesn’t earn a laugh from the other man.
Nikolai deadpans.
Nikolai slaps himself mentally at the realisation, Fyodor had meant it in a literal sense not as a sexual euphemism! We were almost there – we were getting somewhere! Oh Dos-kun, you pure maiden! Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He burrows his head into the neck of a confused Fyodor and rests there, defeatedly. They both remain like that for a prolonged silence, his hand slides off the satiny ebon hair into his
own lap and he twiddles his thumbs thoughtlessly before he contemplates on what to say next: how long will this sickness last? Is it curable? How’s the plan going?
What he utters from his lips is not even remotely close to any of those.
“You smell good, what shampoo do you use?” He asks and before Fyodor can even open his mouth he answers his own question, “Oh, it must be the expensive one. The one Ivan gave you.”
Fyodor’s eyelashes flicker. He’s not sure how to respond to the statement.
“As a matter of fact – it’s the one you gifted me a week ago – the strawberry one.”
Nikolai’s eyes perk like a tabby cat at the unexpected answer and he inhales deeply into the curve of Fyodor’s neck. The scent of strawberries and cream has never appealed so much to him.
It gave him a sense of deluded pride, even though the scent was not candidly his , it was something that he’d given.
That must mean something, right?
“It smells…Nice.” Nikolai breathed, sleek strands tickling at his skin.
Fyodor squirms a little in his embrace but laughs nevertheless, “Mm, indeed, you have elegant taste.”
Nikolai nudges closer towards his neck and it takes all his willpower not to activate his ability.
Fyodor envisions a scenery where Nikolai buries his teeth into flesh. Would he have the heart to deliver his divine punishment or would he allow Nikolai to tear away a chunk and then leave him to run dry on the cement floors?
“Oh, sorry Dos-kun, are you uncomfortable?” Nikolai shuffles in their position.
“No, It – It’s alright.”
“Are you suuure? Am I suffocating you?” Nikolai teases with underlying sincerity.
“I feel fine, Kolya.”
Nikolai hums with innocent ease, happy at the response. In the heat of the moment he begins blabbering again.
Curse him and his stupid mouth.
“Actually, don’t be mad at me Dos, but I can feel your pulse moving around like reeaally well right now!” He glances up at Fyodor in childish guilt and intertwines Fyodor’s free hand with his, the warmth of Nikolai’s hands putting Fyodor at a slight ease, rather, he’s simply glad that his companion wasn’t showing physical signs of turning into a vampire.
“Oh, it’s no problem, thanks for telling me.” He tells him, though a little irritated.
“And your blood too.”
“Right–”
“–And your muscles too, Dos-kun you’re faaar too thin and so very cold – so pale, I’ll have to make you nice nutritious meals again when I heal! What would my Dostoyevsky do without me?” Nikolai runs his mouth, wiping away faux tears.
“Oh yes, why don’t you fatten me up like the witch in Hansel and Gretel and make sure to savour my heart while you’re at it,” Fyodor replies sarcastically, “All that Medovik you make me is finally being put to good use.”
Nikolai laughs and presses a friendly hand over Fyodor’s chest to feel for the rhythmic pulsing.
Fyodor had once again assumed that Nikolai and despite Nikolai’s outspoken obsession with ‘freedom’ it was clear that it was all a front: a coup d'état against his governing human nature and the harsh truth – that he had admired Fyodor.
The realisation haunted him: Nikolai wanted to cherish the other man’s heart, or rather, he wanted it to swallow him whole.
Perhaps with this, he could find his own liberty.
___________________
It’s in the dead of the silent when Nikolai wakes up with a burning sensation.
His head pulsates intensely as he shuffles gracelessly out of his blanket, turns on his night light and glances at the clock after downing an ancient bottle of water that’s been on his stand for two weeks. The cold glow of the moon rests solemnly on their curtain and frames his tired and dim face.
The clock strikes midnight.
His eyes are poisoned with weariness and sleep and he raises the back of his wrist to wipe aggressively at the dried drool evident on his chin and the corner of his mouth.
Then he feels that sudden pang at his chest again and he sputters quietly like a car engine, careful not to disrupt his dear Fedya who’s breathing peacefully in his quiet slumber.
The pain felt unbearable – his heart felt as though it was ardent and would ignite into a fervent flame, he felt abnormally warm with fever despite the extreme chill of Motherland Russia.
Most of all, he couldn’t resist the musky, appetising scent of Fyodor.
He takes a sneaky glance at the man.
Fyodor’s knocked out cold on the blanket, cocooned like a little caterpillar in his bed and occasionally shifting against his pillow, his onyx locks tumbling gracefully on his angelic and ghastly pale face.
He looks dubiously peaceful and clearly invested in whatever he was dreaming of.
Nikolai pictures what Fyodor could be dreaming of: the two of them on ashen sand, the waves kissing their feet while they stare at each other longingly, Nikolai leaning in for a kiss to which Fyodor returns, then they’ll tumble onto the shore and Nikolai will make love to him passionately–
Forget it! Fyodor was probably dreaming of something grand, like word domination or sacrificing Dazai to the devil while a choir of screams is enacted on the chancel.
Nikolai rests his head solemnly on the bed frame, his bed creaks and Fyodor responds to the noise with a small incoherent mumble.
No response.
“Fedya.” He whispers, ever so quietly.
Nikolai waited for a noise – a mumble – a creak – anything.
He repeats again, barely louder than the last call.
“Dos-kun.”
Fyodor whines in his sleep, his lips part slightly and when he makes quiet breathing sounds Nikolai clasps his sultry palms over his nose to deter the delicious fragrance.
The mattress dips when Nikolai climbs out hastily, tossing the blanket on the borders of the bed and his thigh so that they tumble onto the wooden floors when he stands up. He creeps across the floor, still blocking his nose and grasps Fyodor’s bed frame with his free hand.
“Dos!” Nikolai whispers-shouts and leans closer.
The smell increased with every passing minute and the knuckles of his palm were gripping the bed frame so tightly they were scarlet.
When Fyodor presses his face deeper into the pillow and flutters his eyelashes it takes Nikolai something more than his will to not immediately pounce on him.
“Fedya!”
Fyodor jolts awake.
His hand is raised unhesitatingly across Nikolai’s face – sender, poised fingers: the blades of a guillotine.
Oh.
Shit.
Every single stroke of colour drains out of Nikolai’s face.
Fyodor pulled away immediately in defence, returning to his bed and clutching the sheets in fear (of what? Was it Nikolai or himself? )
Nikolai furrows his eyebrows in regard more so than confusion and yet – there was nothing to be confused about.
They both knew what the gesture meant.
“Kolya!” He scolds, “Don’t–” Fyodor starts, for the first time in his life he’s at a loss for words, Nikolai stares at him in shock and suspense.
“Don’t surprise me like that.” He finishes, exhaling sharply through his nose.
Nikolai’s heart feels like it’s been wrung dry and the memory of Fyodor raising his punishing, murderous hands at him echoed dimly in the halls of his mind.
Yet the usual monotonic and sharp tone in Fyodor’s voice was replaced with genuine confusion and vulnerability.
The familiar glacial look of drive and objective drapes over Fyodor’s expression, burying the remnants of his essences of humanity – burying his vulnerability. When you are an omnipotent prodigy – there’s a certain warmth you cannot give. Fyodor knew this: he knew that he was a blade, that he’d dye people’s hands red with a slight touch.
Nikolai knows this too and should anyone ever try to meet Fyodor’s brisk, he will be met with a colder fate to match.
(Luckily for Nikolai, he was far from a regular anyone .)
“Apologies, that was unanticipated.” Fyodor clears his throat and then begins again.
“What is it, Nikolai?” His dainty wrist rose to brush away his dishevelled hair and compose himself as he always is.
Nikolai brinks at his brashness and then collects his thoughts, recovering from the whiplash of almost being eradicated by his closest and dearest companion.
‘You smell really good in a sexual way.’ He thinks and then dismays, ‘Did you want to kill me or was that just a reflex?’
Both questions die on his tongue.
“I just thought there was a cockroach on your face, sorry.” he lies in a weird nasal tone: his nose is still pinched.
Fyodor calms, he switches the night light on, much to Nikolai’s dismay who scowls at the sudden light.
Nikolai rubs his eyes with his free hand and watches curiously as Fyodor sits up and flicks through a thick, leather-bound, vintage book titled Contes de ma mère l'Oye . His every sense watches the silent man and looks – but doesn’t understand – the swooping cursives of French.
Fyodor cringes at his odd overreaction and thinks contemplatively, flipping through the pages. He decides that he’ll have to room with Ivan to make sure that previous incident doesn’t occur again; he also considers for the first time in his life to apologise for his impulsive behaviour.
He sighs and flips through the book, trying to ignore Nikolai’s distracting antics. When he can no longer ignore him, he turns to look at Nikolai who’s blocking the lower half of his own face and scowling.
He feels almost insulted.
“Nikolai, I’ll unfortunately have to board Ivan for the time being.” He announces smoothly and pettily .
“What? Why? !” Nikolai shrieks.
Nikolai frowns and slumps like a dejected child, had Fyodor finally cast him out? Has Fyodor seen through his bluff?
Did he find out that all of Nikolai’s murder threats were just poorly said declarations of love?
“Is it because Ivan makes better tea than me?”
“No – ” Nikolai begins, eyes go wide as saucers and he decides to say the worst thing he’s said the whole night.
“You’re sleeping with Ivan! But he told me he was religiously castrated…” He mumbles the last bits.
"How dare you assume I have such sexual relations with Ivan." Fyodor hisses, with odd excessive repulsion. He sighs and then pauses to process the rest of Nikolai's information.
“And – what? Ivan said such things ?” Fyodor raises an eyebrow but then dismisses asking any further and pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’m curious to how you even acquired such information, but that’s beside the point.”
He glances at Nikolai who smirks slightly.
Fyodor swallows his pride, “I’ll ask him when we room.” he retorts.
Nikolai frowns.
Nikolai complains for a few minutes but Fyodor makes it clear that he’s stubborn about his decision, Nikolai doesn't prod anymore regarding the situation, if Fyodor were to tame his obvious disdain with Ivan and room with him then it must be serious. Nikolai tenses, not long after, Fyodor's sticking his nose in his stupid little nursery book and oddly engrossed.
Nikolai frowns but doesn’t complain, in sharp contrast to his usual cheerful attitude he lowers his head with defeat.
His hands are still on his nose when he plops on the blanket.
They both bask in utter silence – besides the slight flicking of ancient pages – Nikolai's thinking solemnly while he's cocooned in his blanket, he tousles in his bed to face the other side and absorbs Fyodor’s small gestures: the closing of the night light, the slightly stifled yawn, the pattering of feet approaching him. Fyodor's so silent, so elusive; akin to that of a murderer.
Nikolai's not sure whether to consider it all this apprehension a blessing or a curse: has Fyodor finally decided to get rid of him?
Nikolai pauses again.
This time Fyodor’s terribly close to him. He stops just on the edge of Nikolai’s bed frame, hands hovering above the ‘sleeping’ boy. Nikolai’s burying his face so deeply into his tousled ivory hair and his flat pillow to get rid of that damned bothersome smell.
“Nikolai…” Fyodor whispers, there's nothing out of the ordinary in his voice, it's clean, cold – conclusive.
The fluttering of Nikolai’s eyelashes go unnoticed thankfully for the obscurity of the room.
Fyodor kneels on the edge of his bed, hands intertwined with each other prettily and gazing at the albino in an unreadable (and longing) way.
(What does he long for? He is but a man: too busy delivering the will of God he's forgotten his own wants and needs.)
Nikolai wants to open his eyes so badly, so wildly – so madly. He wants to open his eyes and be met by this beautiful angelic man, he’ll relish the sight of amethyst eyes and then – he’ll declare his love in a beautiful poetic way that’ll leave Fyodor smitten and make him realise that all he's wanted is laid upon his very eyes.
Nikolai shuts his eyes tighter.
“Kolya, are you asleep?”
‘No.’ He wants to responds, but they never make it and once again it dies on his tongue.
Fyodor shifts in his position, the blankets slowly draping off the edge, he shuffles closer to Nikolai so that Nikolai is directly in front of him. Fyodor tilts his head innocently like a cat and inspects Nikolai before concluding he was really asleep, he sighs in relief and carries out what he’s been planning.
Nikolai hears the edge of his bed creak.
Fyodor raises an arm.
Nikolai's blood runs cold, had he finally been kicked off the chessboard? The hairs on his arm bristle and he holds his breathe, not a single molecule nor atom in his body moved from his pathetic fright. Nikolai was the very embodiment of absurdity, the personification of free will – if anything, he was an fond camaraderie with death.
It seemed that he was rather pitiful in the face of betray – especially one involving his dear Dostoyevsky.
Oh shit. Oh shit. He’s going to kill you Nikolai. He’s had enough of your fuckery. He’s going to kill you, finally – like how you were supposed to and wanted to die during that last plan.
Nikolai braces himself for the electrifying graze.
Instead, such fatal acts never occur.
Fyodor takes Nikolai’s warm hands in his cold delicate ones, so princely and pathetically, so filled with tenderness that Fyodor couldn’t put into words.
“Nikolai, I want to apologise for my abrasive behaviour,” Fyodor grips his hands tightly, “I was – l suppose I was taken by surprise.”
Fyodor raises his head in paranoia, making sure the boy was truly asleep. If Nikolai wasn’t asleep, he was sure he’d never hear the end of it. Fyodor grimaces and then finally stands up from his kneeling position, still holding Nikolai's warm hands in his own cold ones, it seemed that he was the only one benefiting from the embrace.
Fyodor blinks slowly and stares at Nikolai in observance as if he were some otherworldly creature, a slight fondness creeps in his heart. Nikolai was truly a valuable asset to his collection indeed, a starring puppet – and yet he was also something more, this oddly endearing mass murderer, this childish clown.
Fyodor whispers a small ‘Goodnight’ and presses a chaste dry kiss onto rigid knuckles before silently – like a mouse – leaving the room.
Nikolai exhales warmly and finally after Fyodor's departure, he shifts his leg under the mellow blanket.
His pants tighten.
Shit.