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In the smallest bit of Ukraine, where snow hits for the first time since May, a fourteen year old's Nikolai Gogol's blood spills and stains the pure land of white. This was not the first time, unfortunately, so upon seeing the familiar crimson, he does not throw up like he did months ago— when seeing his blood was deemed a sin in his mind. However, seeing it on a blank canvas, brought reality to him a bit harsher.
It's quite cold. Like most snow days are. His cheek is dug into the icy piles of built up snowflakes, his arms twisted behind him as a bigger boy holds him down. He can't really hear what he's saying, but he knows it's something bad. Perhaps it's the antichrist at work, demanding him to pay for his sins. God works in mysterious ways, he's heard.
Not being able to understand what the goonies say due to him forcing every sound outside of his ears was punishable, apparently. He says nothing, does nothing as his chest caves in out of pure pain. Nikolai's ribs are kicked at, but he doesn't grant the blessing of sound.
Of course, he cries. But he cannot scream.
If he makes a sound, he's tugged up so his face can be the next target. If he doesn't, he'll stay on the ground.
Nikolai doesn't feel like having his face beat, and he has church in three days, the baptizing of a family friend's son. The swelling would not go down in time for him to look modestly presentable, so he keeps himself quiet when his lungs burn inside him, desperate to scream and wail.
"I reckon he'll have to get new jeans, Pushkin," one of the boys says. He's not too dissimilar in build to Nikolai, but he does wear warmer clothing. He has a head of blazing red hair, and a coat that matches his dark earmuffs. The sudden intrusion of noise in Nikolai's ears makes him grimace. Unfortunately, zoning out sound-wise didn't last long for him.
Pushkin kicks at Nikolai's side a final time, "Yeah, I'll bet. You saw the rip when he fell, huh? Maybe he'll finally start dressing like he should."
The poor didn't have an advantage in this town. Here, the children took the punches the adults probably deserved. Nikolai's ribs ached because his mother was busy weeping over the taxes sent to her last Saturday, instead of actually attending her job. And his father did nothing but drink.
"Ugh, he bled all over the snow," someone else says. Nikolai thinks this is a girl. Probably Pushkin's girlfriend, but he can't turn around to look. "I wanted to play."
"We'll find someplace else," Pushkin gets off of Nikolai with a grunt, and the pale-haired can suck in a sharp breath. He keeps his cheek dug into the snow, but angles his face so he wouldn't be so close to the coughed up blood. "Don't want no one to find us, anyway. Let's go. Gogol, if I see you again, you already know what'll happen."
Nikolai waits for them to make their escape, though the sound of snow beneath boots makes him wince. Once the noise is faint, and he knows the pack of children won't turn back to look at him, he huffs. "Ow."
With great effort, Nikolai drags himself up. His eyes shut close, and his lips pressed together when he straightened himself. In all honesty, his knees felt rather wobbly, and he felt the cold seep into his skin. The denim atop his kneecaps was ripped on both knees, and his sweater was now full of stains from being kicked at. He places a palm over the most painful area, just above the right side of his ribs.
He felt a little sick as he tenderly touched it, already knowing the bruises that would bloom beneath such hits. In these times, he doubts a God, and then mumbles forgiveness. He lets out a shuddering breath, watching the fog escape from his mouth, watching as he realizes the only sign of his warmth comes from inside him. It reminds him he is human.
Would God strike him down, now? For the sin of mortality. For the sin of doing nothing but taking. For staining the Earth his Lord created with the offering of his weak blood.
"I ask thy not mercy. I ask thy not for forgiveness. I will cover my sin, my shame."
Nikolai bends down to sink his red gloved hands into the snow. He cups at the ice and lifts, throwing some piles over the result of his bleeding. He buries his mortality here, and uses the purity of snow to cover his stain. His vision blurs, and he bites down furiously at his bottom lip.
"What are you doing?"
He freezes. The voice is soft, laced with careful concern that sounds false, a temptation and mercy that Nikolai had prayed not for. His mouth parts in silent shock.
Lord, is this your blessing? Or your finest trick?
Nikolai lifts his gaze, ignoring the stab of pricks in his eyes, ignoring how the urge to rip his throat with his hands remains. In front of him, a boy of his age with mismatched hair and eyes too warm for a winter like this. His eyebrows are knit together, and his legs carry him forward. Nikolai dares not move as this being approaches him.
He watches the realization on the boy's face. He feels heat in his cheeks as the stranger asks, his voice low, "Is that blood?"
"Afraid so," he mumbles, gathering up another round of snow to cover it. The crimson was barely visible anymore, but it mixed with the snow and kept creating trails of pink that Nikolai was desperately trying to get rid of. "Don't feel pity, now. I trust no one but myself these days."
The stranger frowns at him, "That must be a very lonely life."
Nikolai says nothing, but he shrugs. He tries not to focus on the shoes next to him as he works. Silence follows, and the only sound heard for moments after is the scraping of snow and thudding of it landing on top of even more white. Then, the boy speaks again.
"I'm Sigma. Did you get beat up?"
He shrugs again.
"Joshua 1:9," Sigma insists. Nikolai tenses, and glances at him momentarily. This stranger's eyes are sharp, mouth set into a thin line as he continues, "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be dismayed or discouraged, for the Lord, your God will be with you wherever you go.”
Nikolai bites back, "Psalm 31:9. Be merciful to me, Lord, for I am in distress; my eyes grow weak with sorrow, my soul and body with grief.”
"What is your regret?" Sigma bends down.
His red gloves are becoming heavy with moisture. Nikolai has done enough to cover the trails of blood, so he faces Sigma completely and says, "My existence is regret on its own, is it not? I let this body, creation of God, creation and proof of life, be beaten blue by non-believers."
"I will teach you what I learned. I am no longer bothered by those havoc-wrecking children. But first you must cry."
"Cry?" Nikolai laughs, laughs like he's in disbelief. "Cry! But what sorrow am I crying for?"
Sigma rests a hand over his head, over the messy strands of white that blend in with the falling flakes of snow above them, "Mourn your regret. And feel your own pain."
"There is pain everywhere— where do I begin to cry?"
"When in doubt, your heart leads," Sigma replies. "But if you have bled, you have been hit somewhere. Feel the pain where you were bruised. Feel everything."
Nikolai's ribs hurt terribly. His hand comes up to wrap around his abdomen. Sigma smiles.
"I will patch you up. Come."
____
"you were a difficult case, kol'enka. nobody i ever knew was risen by the lord's prose and gospel."
"he was all i believed. when i had nothing— i naturally seeked for what was already there. a figment of hope. my disguised temptation and greed for someone to help."
sigma grows quiet, and asks, "did your lord ever answer you?"
"perhaps. i consider you, sigma, my friend, an answer from him. i had prayed for no mercy seconds before we met."
"and yet."
"and yet, indeed."
____
Nikolai is unfamiliar with big walls and large amounts of space below his feet, and so he feels awkward as he walks through the hallways of Sigma's home without having to hunch his shoulders or attempt to take up less space. Sigma leads him somewhere, past a garden, past a fountain that holds water so blue he thinks he may have entered heaven for a brief moment, past a room that Sigma purposefully covers.
"It is not important," he says.
Nikolai does not question his host.
The room he's led into is far from decent, at least three times larger than his own and upstairs. Sigma has photos of media, of past trips, even has a few frames on the walls with verses that Nikolai himself adores. He glances at the bed, the pale blue covers and wishes his bed was the same shade. Nikolai cannot help but compare.
"Sit," Sigma gestures at the couch. It was a singular seat, and it looked very comfortable. So he does. "I will get my stuff. And then, we shall converse."
Nikolai nods, silent, watching as the boy steps out of the room. He can hear the steps become faint as Sigma walks off, somewhere he's unaware of. He takes this time to observe all of Sigma's room, meanwhile. His gaze shifts left.
The walls are white and clean, and have a slight glow due to the light from the windows behind him. It's only slight because the wall is slanted, and therefore the light is mostly casted onto the bed that's in front of him. If his eyes flicker back, he can see more of the frames. Not all hold bible verses.
There is one picture of Sigma and presumably, his mother.
He doesn't question why it's only one.
There's a mirror on his right, just beside the doorway that Sigma had just left. He can see his tumbling white hair, and his worried eyes. Besides it, there's a wire with bulbs that Nikolai presumes are like Christmas lights.
A hamper halfway full with clothes. The dresser next to it had books, the bible right on top of them. A few candies to the side, mostly pink lollipops. A sticky note pad. Nikolai's attention Is drawn by the sudden sound of a clock's hand— four pm.
Sigma walks back in, a box in hand. It has a simple red cross on the top of it. Nikolai says nothing as the boy puts it on the bed, back towards him as he moves stuff around.
"Was it just your ribs?"
"Yeah."
Sigma turns around with bandages, and a weird looking bag, "I'm going to need you to lift your shirt. Sorry."
Nikolai shrugs, removing his sweater quickly, and then lifting the thin shirt he had on. He doesn't dare look at his skin, but based on Sigma's eyes, which widen a fraction, it wasn't too good. Still, the boy maintains a calm air as he unwraps some bandages.
"You've done this before," Nikolai observes.
Sigma nods, beginning by wrapping the bandage around his waist once, shuffling to move it upwards. "I was in your place, once. I mentioned it."
He eyes him. "How did it stop?"
"My mother found out," Sigma replies, tightening the bandages and apologizing under his breath when Nikolai grimaces. "She taught me to fight back, you could say."
Nikolai's mouth parts, "But that's violence!"
"God cares not about violence against his non-believing children. Pushkin and the others are too far into a promised hell to be forgiven, don't you think?"
"Our Lord loves all equally," Nikolai protests, "There is no time limit for being saved by Him."
Sigma hums. "Then why did He punish you?"
"... I do not know. I seek the answer myself."
"What is your name? I told you mine."
"Nikolai," he answers. "Nikolai Gogol."
Sigma finishes wrapping the bandage and pins the layer down to another, "I am no Lord, Nikolai. But I'd like you to believe in me when I say you won't suffer from Pushkin any longer."
____
"you need to get up, nikolai— ah, caught you. your leg moved. stop pretending to be asleep and take your medication."
"i do not need it," he lies.
"unless you want to come crying to me again about something nonsensical, i urge you to get up. i know you're tired, dearest. but you must have mercy on me, sometimes."
"... i know. i'm sorry."
he gets up. he takes his medication.
"good," his friend praises him. "you'll find that it's worth it, i promise."
____
Sigma is an odd friend. Full of contradictions. His mouth carves Christ's intentions, shapes words that belong in gospel, all laced with the purity of God. And yet, he curses the being that let him live this way.
"If you seek not God, why do you insist on attending the Church?" Nikolai asks one day, when Sigma was busy doing something to his hair. He hasn't asked what, yet.
Sigma hums. "Answers, perhaps. I need Him to answer me in prayer or human form."
"Need is a large word."
"I think not," his friend tugs at the strands he was looping, "I'm curious. About a lot of things. Why wasn't I helped when I was in your place so many months ago?"
Nikolai looks down at his nails, "Being harassed, you mean."
"Indeed. Why was I punished? By his disgraced children, of all people, as well?"
He still doesn't have an answer to that. So Nikolai doesn't say anything, and Sigma sighs. He does one final tug, and then he taps on Nikolai's shoulder, "It's done. Turn to me."
Nikolai does. Sigma's hands are instantly pulling at a few strands around his ears, framing his face with pale strands of his hair, before bringing forth his creation.
In Sigma's hands was his hair, formed into a strange pattern and held by a band at the bottom. His eyebrows furrowed together, and he glances up at Sigma, "Peter 3:3-4."
His friend smiles. Nikolai can almost taste it. Like forbidden fruit. Bruised and aching. "Wear a bit of my sin on you. I think it's flattering."
Nikolai swallows. The braid does look nice. And he was a little tired of the hair brushing against his neck so often.
"Thank you. It looks very pretty."
____
it snows for the first time since that day. again, nikolai bleeds.
the droplet on his finger glitters, reflection of the dimming sun.
"i claim my soul," he mumbles, the clot dropping onto pure white. "i once buried my mortality here."
"i want it back, and i want it to be my own."
a swarm of birds lift from some trees yards away, swirling up in the sky, white wings against the grey skies. and then they're gone. he looks down, and the red of his sin is gone.
____
The first time Sigma came over, the events that followed made Nikolai almost sure that the boy would never be around again, afterwards. He'd see the truth, he'd see how small he really is in this world that God claims his. Sigma would leave.
Nikolai's parents had no decorum. On most nights, they saved their drunken, sob-filled screams until after the clock's hands hit twelve midnight and Nikolai was presumably in bed. Still, their son would turn himself into a ball, and pretend he was anywhere but here.
Unfortunately, this afternoon was different.
Nikolai huffs, "Despite it all, calla lilies reign supreme over roses. Should a lover bring me those instead of my preference, I may have to decline."
"What woman gives a man flowers?" Sigma smiles, his cheek in palm, "You must be asking for a man to care for you, instead, then. No harm. Just tell them beforehand."
He wrinkles his nose, "Telling them has no point. It has to be done without hinting at it, you know. No romance if they already know that I pref—"
The sound of glass cuts him off. In an instant, his heart jumps to his stomach, and he's tucking his head between his knees. His fingers jam themselves inside his eardrums in a pitiful attempt to keep out the screaming that will follow.
Sigma is still to his side, he assumes from the way his friend shuffles for a second, and then swats Nikolai's hands away from his ears. The pale-haired opens his eyes to glare at his friend as best he could, opening his mouth to say that he didn't want to hear anything—
There's a set of headphones being shoved onto his head. Music he doesn't recognize plays. It was enough to have the screaming be set as background noise. His gaze shifts to Sigma, who was staring at the door to Nikolai's room.
"Don't go," he can't hear himself, but he hopes Sigma can. The boy turns to him, eyebrows furrowed. He continues. "It won't help," alright, he can feel his voice cracking there, "Just stay with me."
Sigma looks at him, almost pitifully. He mouths something.
Brave birds fall from the nest first, but excellent birds come when they're ready. Are you alright?
Nikolai can't answer. His mouth opens, but he's unsure what to say. Sigma suddenly grimaces, head whipping around, and then turning back as if he changed his mind.
Will you cry?
"I think."
Okay. I'll be here.
For a long time, the two sit. Sigma raises the volume on the music, suddenly, and Nikolai doesn't question it. Somehow, this was more effective than wishing for silence when his parents fought. This was like a replacement. A better one.
Nikolai does end up crying. But he's not shaking like most times. Sigma grasps his hand, gloved and red. It was newer this time, though. A gift from his only friend. He squeezes, enough to have Nikolai relax.
"Thank you," he forces his mouth to work around the words. Sigma glances at him, a small, soft smile that tells him this is the very beginning of his life.
No need. God's favorite dove has to learn to fly, even if a doubter is the one teaching.
"I have no wings."
The impossible is possible with you, Nikolai.
He doesn't say anything. His cries probably only increase.
When the screaming stops, Nikolai is already asleep.
Sigma comes over again the day after. And the one after that. As rare as it might be that the screaming will start randomly, Sigma comes prepared, and Nikolai grows dependent.
If he was a bird, perhaps Sigma was his wings. Just for now. For the time borrowed. He soars into the sky, and hopes he breaches the gates of heaven.
____
"say what to some tea?"
"leave it here, sigma. how was your day?"
"busy. i missed you."
"as all friends miss each other. welcome home, sigma. leave your troubles at my door. I'll take care of you this time."