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Tip-tip, tap-tap! Tip-tip, tap-tap!
Light as a feather did Gogol’s foot touch the ground and bounced off once, before he changed to his other foot. It bounced off the ground and brought him forward at the same time. He changed his foot again.
The rhythm echoed through the halls and back to him. At this point he knew the route so well, had skipped down this exact hallway so many times that he had perfected it – his shoes no longer screeched on the marble floor, corners didn’t disrupt his rhythm anymore, as he could swiftly turn around them now.
Tip-tip, tap-tap!
He had never paid much attention to the artworks adorning each and every wall. They had always been and would always be a mere stream of colours in his peripheral vision – fast-moving pictures and merged shapes, never to be separated, never to be admired on their own.
The art’s appeal was one he didn’t understand. Masses of people paid money to see works by random, long-dead people, when the museum’s only interesting place that mattered waited for them on floor 3, hall 8-A. In the room hung only three pieces, none of them by big names. It was dimly lit throughout the day due to its lack of windows and thus it attracted only little crowds.
Gogol was torn – he, of course, thought it to be the greatest room. But, at the same time, he was glad he had it to himself almost always. It was his secret. Their secret. After his first few visits the museum’s security had insisted that Gogol should never set a foot on the property again, so nowadays they only saw each other during the night when no people were around in the first place.
Those circumstances had caused him to not come as often anymore. The changes in exhibitions came and went from one visit two the other, but some themes stayed the same. Not that Gogol would pay much attention to the specifics anyway, so he might be missing some specifics.
Hall 7-C. A blue room. Dark walls. It smelled of the wooden floor and old art-related stuff. What stuff exactly was beyond Gogol’s area of expertise. He simply kept going.
Tip-tip, tap-tap!
7-D. This was where anticipation rose. It tingled in his fingers already, as the memory of another person’s touch came to him again. Close, close. He was close to him. Only the rest of the green room, then left.
Unlike the rest of the museum, which at night only had the lights of the city shining through the windows as well as a few lamps here and there, this room laid in complete darkness. It was one that seemed to swallow all, even sound and all memories. Gogol reached for the wall to his right, where he, despite his current blindness, found the light switch effortlessly. The entire room was lit up in an instant.
A small lamp above each of the two paintings. Then three that shined up from the floor, right in the middle of the room.
Gogol’s breath was caught in his throat when he finally saw him.
“Fyodor,” he whispered, “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
A smile tugged at his lips as he approached the man.
In the middle of the room, basking in perfectly angled lighting, Fyodor stood perfectly still. The marble his body was made of gave him an angelic look. It was a pure white stone, cold to the touch. Inhuman and hard. Never to move on his own and never to change shape without breaking.
And yet the marble looked soft. Gogol could imagine running his fingers over the wrinkles of Fyodor’s clothing and feeling real fabric. He could imagine his clothes and hair moving in a breeze as they walked through towns and forests alike.
The face, forever etched in stone, might look at nothing at all with empty eyes, but he looked so alive. Almost like a paused film. As soon as Gogol hit play, Fyodor would unfreeze from his grant gesture and pose he was striking. He would look at Gogol like he used to, like he had always done: with scheming eyes from whose sight nothing could escape.
With the room’s lighting, even the smallest details in the marble were visible. The veins on his hands, that Gogol loved to run his fingers over before intertwining their fingers. The small crease on his forehead he got from frowning so much at Gogol’s antics. The lips, parted ever so slightly as though he was about to say something, speak Gogol’s name.
The sight was ethereal. Had Gogol been religious he would have believed him to be carved by gods. Or rather Fyodor was a god, etched into stone for eternity by the only thing higher than a god: the world itself – because what would a god be if it weren’t for a world that admired them.
Gogol sat down at his feet and leaned his head against Fyodor’s thigh. A cold hand touched his head ever so slightly, almost as to comfort him.
“I wonder how much time we’ll have today,” Gogol said, “before the security guy finds me again. But I wish to tell you about my week nonetheless.”
And so, Gogol talked about it. He told Fyodor everything from his last escape from the museum, over his boring trips to the grocery store, to his current break-in. Fyodor listened. He always did. And he had always done so.
Gogol closed his eyes after he concluded talking about his time, cheek pressed against the cold surface. It felt peaceful, and yet something was bothering him. It was only natural that Fyodor didn’t talk to him. Didn’t answer, didn’t ask further questions, didn’t engage with what Gogol was telling him.
He didn’t look at him, didn’t smile, didn’t frown.
The hand brushing against his hair didn’t move anymore.
But then again – this idea he had of Fyodor, of how they interacted – it didn’t feel right. Maybe, just like Fyodor’s face of flesh and blood slowly turning pale and cold, and his features shifting ever so slightly - his personality, too, faded from Gogol’s memory.
He shook his head as though he could shake off those thoughts with it and looked around the room.
His eyes fell on the small info board close to the ground in front of the statue. Unlike the rest of the room, this board looked new, like it had been put there only a few days ago with the engraved writing on it having a fresh glow to it. Gogol frowned at the digits forming long bygone years and a name he did not recognise. A short growl escaped his throat and, in a sudden burst of rage, he kicked the sign with full force, causing the screws that kept it on the floor to break in half. The sign slid across the floor and came to a stop close to the door.
The noise was loud, bounced off the walls in the bigger hall, and it almost felt like it was amplified by that.
Gogol sighed and grabbed Fyodor’s hand to pull himself up.
“Thanks, Love,” he giggled, any of the prior anger falling off him all at once. His hand kept holding onto Fyodor’s while he leaned against him, as close as he could.
He lingered there, chasing that closeness he wouldn’t be able to feel for a while until the met again. His free hand ghosted up Fyodor’s chest, savouring every single detail of the smooth rock. Every smallest wrinkle in fabric or skin. He had done this so many times that Gogol believed to be able to chisel Fyodor into a block of marble himself, but still he was sure it would never come out as perfectly.
His hand brushed against Fyodor’s prominent collarbones before slowly and carefully going up in neck.
In the blink of an eye, his hand closed around Fyodor’s neck. Gogol sucked his breath in sharply through gritted teeth as his hand trembled, tightening his grip and yet never able to squeeze his trachea shut. It felt oh so familiar. The Adam’s apple against his palm, his fingers fitting around perfectly.
Although, this time there was no pulse and Fyodor’s throat wouldn’t budge. He wouldn’t struggle against Gogol, and his expression wouldn’t change. His lips wouldn’t silently plead him to let go, until he stopped moving altogether.
A sudden wave of terrible rage came over him once more. He squeezed until his knuckles became white, until his joints hurt. He chased this feeling of relief and triumph he had felt before. A sense of accomplishment.
None of those came.
Gogol forced his trembling hand to let go. It was as though it pained him to let his fingers relax and lose the feeling of cold stone.
He placed his hand in his pocket instead, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss on Fyodor’s cheek. It was a quick and rather shy one, one that a schoolgirl would give her crush at a bus stop before parting ways. A tinge of innocence and fresh, first love.
“I promise I won’t keep you waiting for too long,” he whispered into Fyodor’s ear before stepping back. He couldn’t quite let go of his hand, but finally did so when he noticed that his arm wasn’t long enough to reach him anymore.
One final look, then Gogol turned around and turned the light off.
Somewhere in the building, not too far from him, a door was opened – his final cue to leave.
Yes, Fyodor wouldn’t have to wait too long until next time. He would never allow his godlike image to fade from his memory.