Work Text:
cws for religion/religious trauma, body horror, murder, violent imagery, gore,
homophobia, sexual assault (nondescript), self-harm (nondescript), etc.
ACT I. birthing
to be free of sin.
he is a child. young, quiet, with inquisitive eyes and small, frail hands. he is dainty, almost, and doe-like in his beauty. innocent and kind.
his mother tells him he is not to play with the children across the street — they are non-believers. they are rough and dirty and covered in mud nearly all of the time. fyodor can see them, he watches them tumble in the grass and chase each other down the cold, mulch-packed streets.
really, he cannot believe their impudence in the face of their god. it is honestly more than he can bear, to see them squabble and fight and slather themselves in the blood of the bugs and the dirt on the path. they are non-believers — therefore, useless, and not worth his time.
he is allowed to play with the children down the street, and there, he meets a quiet, shy boy named sigma. he too is a believer, and he lets fyodor lead him around the houses and take him to church. they sit through the hymns and the prayers, and leave rejuvenated.
ACT II. prelude to youth
as they age, fyodor gains more friends — ten years old now, he has befriended a japanese boy by the name of dazai osamu. it’s strange to see foreigners in russia, but he likes dazai, and so their group is now one made of three.
dazai has strange views. he speaks of god as well, but often asks fyodor if he ever wants to be god. “when you die,” he says, as they lie in the clean grass near the church. “do you want to take god’s place, or will you serve him?”
fyodor’s heart catches in his throat. it’s an excellent question, and while he’s more than buzzing to answer, would it not be a sin? wouldn’t it be a sin, to speak his true thoughts? is he now a sinner? but dazai won’t tell, will he? “i am more than worthy of god,” he finally says, full of confidence as he rolls to face dazai. “i will not settle to be simply his disciple. i will be god himself.”
dazai laughs, and that is that.
the next day fyodor collapses, panting for breath, into the confession room. “bless me, father, for i have sinned,” he murmurs, kneeling. “my last confession was exactly one week ago. yesterday i was spending my time with a friend, and i dared to think i might someday be above god. i dared to think i could someday be more than what i am today, be more than a disciple of my god. i…i am sorry for these and all my sins.”
there is silence, and his penance is nothing more than a few simple prayers. he is shamefully relieved.
and so he puts his hands together and recites an act of contrition—
my god, i am sorry for my sins with all my heart. in choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, i have sinned against you whom i should love above all things. i firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin. our savior jesus christ suffered and died for us. in his name, my god, have mercy.
ACT III. discovery
it is at fourteen years old that he starts to look at dazai differently. sigma has long since moved away, and dazai is now his only friend. all their other friends have left them, one way or another. but that’s alright, as long as he has dazai at his side.
dazai, with his big brown eyes and silky hair. fyodor wants to run his hand through it, since it looks so soft and fluffy. it never tangles, and he keeps it meticulously brushed. sometimes, when they sit outside the church, it catches the light, and it—
what is this? what is this feeling? it lights up his stomach and kindles a fire in his chest. there is a candle in his throat and a bonfire starting in his toes and sending embers up to his shoulders. what is this feeling? it encompasses him with warmth.
it can’t be helped that dazai osamu is a brilliant boy, not yet a man, still willow-thin and devilish and whip-smart. he reflects fyodor perfectly in every way, every aspect, and fyodor can’t help but hate it.
he knows what this is, but he’d really prefer not to admit it, as they’re both men, and such acts are a vile, vile sin. he knows. he’s heard from the church and its members.
perhaps it’s a coward’s way of doing it, to keep it a secret from both dazai and the church. he does not confess. he cannot confess.
as an act of penance, as one must always do, he inflicts pain upon himself. as he sits idle in the bathtub, he wonders what it might be like to paint the walls red.
ACT IV. solitude
sixteen years old, and fyodor is swept away by nikolai gogol. a clown, as it seems. his parents disapprove of this new “friend”. he is too loud, too carefree, not maudlin at all. he claims to be a believer, and yet he has never once come to church.
when no one is home, they end up tangled on the sofa, kissing and kissing and kissing.
hands scrabble for purchase on dainty hips, fingers entwined near faces. lips crash.
no one is home. in their solitude, they fill the house with as much noise as they please. they sin freely and without remorse, and fyodor does not go to confess once.
when nikolai is away, he finally musters up the courage to confess, whispering his sins to the empty room. there is a long silence, broken only by the pounding of his own heart.
the priest emerges. why is he emerging from his side of the room, when he has sworn an oath to keep quiet, to stay inside? has he sinned so terribly that another force must be brought into the equation? tens of hundreds of thoughts race through fyodor’s head as the priest tilts his chin up. fyodor does not open his eyes. he trembles, locked in place.
“i can purge you of this grievous sin,” he tells him, and fyodor believes. he truly believes he can be fixed. “i can save you.”
fyodor opens his eyes as the priest removes his clothes and motions for fyodor to do the same. yes, if this is the only way he can serve penance, he will do it.
he will be cured, the punishment to his crime.
ACT V. penance
“fyodor.”
fyodor kneels before the statue of christ, surrounded by a mess of bodies and pooling red. the entire church has been massacred — easily, some of them, with just a touch, and others are torn apart. ah, it’s just like he used to imagine.
as he prays quietly, his mind wanders just slightly. he wants to tear his own face off. his skin feels wrong, nails caked in dried blood, and his edges feel ragged. as if he’s merely blurring into the background, no longer a key figure. perhaps to nikolai, he’s important.
nikolai gogol, the clown, who tore the priest apart in cold blood and gallantly offered fyodor his dripping, slashed-up head. fyodor was truly grateful.
once upon a time, he might have wished he could have a different ability, one that could save instead of kill, but now, he really does prefer this. it’s soothing, kneeling before his god, with the blood of his enemies pooling around his knees. a body twitches, and fyodor shoots it without a second thought. it ceases twitching.
how lovely is this moment? there is silence, and peace, and he cannot help but smile, a few tears slipping down his cheeks as dazai osamu puts three bullets in the back of his head.