Work Text:
“I thought you were my deliverer,” Gogol declared, succinctly, with only a slight, grief-stricken break in his voice on the last word. He felt dejected, crushed by the weight of a truth hidden from him for far too long only now revealed by an unlikely ally. Ally may be a bit strong, as Sigma was only created for their own goals. Well, upon reflection, maybe not his own personal goals.
None of this was about the two of them, it never was. He finally saw that now. The truth of his cherished partner’s ability has had him reeling for days, and he had only now had enough false confidence gained from sleep deprivation to confront the situation.
Even over the dramatic ebbing and flowing of Shostokovich’s Cello Concerto No.1, Gogol's declaration rang clearly. Dostoevsky froze, leaving what would have been a striking chord unresolved. Back still turned and hunched over his cello, he mused, “I was under the impression that you wanted nothing to do with a power above your own.”
Spindly fingers moved to rest his bow on the music stand, the frog glinting, even in the low light. His listless expression was shielded by long strands of neglected indigo hair. “You’ve spoken with Sigma, then,” he added, feigning nonchalance. He was well aware that irreparable damage had been done to their relationship, built on a single thread of common ground. It was destined to crumble at some point, given how perfectly things had gone up to this point; He would not allow it.
The jester sauntered over, fidgeting with his cane as he forced himself to face the con who now could not even bother to spare him a glance. He finds the lack of attention, the apparent dismissal of his confession, infuriating. “Did I ever have free will? With you?” He tapped his cane nervously in an attempt to be his usually animated self, bumping the end of the cello’s endpin.
Gogol thought he wanted to be alone, he’s been seeking solitude for as long as he can remember. Isolation is tranquil, free from the burdens of life, of people. Yet the joy and empathy he has received have been exhilarating. Far too good, to morally sound for him to receive. And thus, this punishment of deceit and lies. To know it was never real, to begin with, hurt far worse than a change of heart or a good old-fashioned betrayal.
Dostoevsky tensed and raised his chin to stare, unfocused, at the music stand in front of him. “Do any of us?” He responded as casually as possible. Despair welled feebly in his chest to rest in his throat. He had been anticipating this day would come, so why was it so agonizing?
“No…no, it was never about free will, understanding, compassion,” he rambled off. He tensed his shoulders and continued, his voice rising. “You never sympathized with my values. I thought you knew me down to my very core, but I have never been so wrong, so blind. I-”
As he rambled, Dostoevsky quietly set his cello on its side and rose to stand. He refused to look at Gogol, knowing he would only find a broken man. His crackled and fissured personality shattered because he trusted his partner. The cellist gingerly reached his bitten and picked hand towards a red glove, leather scrunched up in tension. “Kolya-”
“Don’t fucking pull that now,” Gogol snapped, flinching away from the touch “‘Koyla,’” he sneered mockingly. “How can you feign compassion so casually while everyone around you grovels to not be maimed? Don’t get me wrong I’m all for it, just don’t give me that horrible excuse of an act.” His feelings for the manipulative man had tethered him for too long. Cumbersome feelings that made him trip over his words and stumble through his jokes and acts. The clown had to free himself from it all.
In an instant, Gogol pulled a small pistol from his cloak and removed his hat to pull not a bunny from it, but a bullet. It would have been charming had he not been shaking.
“I won’t stop you, it’s fate.” How anti-climactic.