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15 & 15; dawn.

In the center of Moscow, Russia, where the sun's rays of light hardly touch but the corner of snow overlapping a stone, lays the cathedral that fell to ruin not so long ago— it could be said less than half a year, really, and it was being dutifully renewed.

This was the grandest cathedral a young boy like Gogol could ever step foot in, and the lightness beneath his steps were exactly because of that. The space was wide, the stones of porcelain below him were cracked imperfectly, and he couldn't feel more liberated than near the shrines that decorated the place in the Lord's grace. Even as families brushed past him and into their seats, he made no rush to sit in the usual spot, gliding slowly the row right behind the first.

Bells harmoniously rung above them, striking and echoing along the walls of this sacred place, loud enough to make a mother reach over to her babe and cover his ears. Gogol himself made no grimace nor remark, no complaint nor wince. He stood straight in his seat, worn out book in his lap and below gloved hands.

Practicing faith wasn't something he had seen himself doing, truly, as for the past few years he's been living on his own, along the streets, constantly moving and floating away— but he never, never strayed too far from the center of Moscow, the center of his being, this cathedral that restores his belief for even a brief second while others pray around him in a harmony that sounds almost like a song. Though he's not sure where he lands on the believer scale, he appreciates the warmth that goes through him when he's here, as if there is a God, and He is residing inside of him.

Worship goes as usual— they do morning prayers, gather children up in circles for separate study sessions, discuss the subject and moral of the day, and then do final prayers together. Everything went according to the routine Gogol usually had in his head, a solid mental list; and now, it was shattered because another boy had slid next to him.

His first instinct is to ask why, but he realizes it was a little dumb, considering how full the cathedral is by now, and he pressed his mouth shut. Gogol only eyes the rosary in the boy's hands, the bible between them that was in almost perfect condition, the thin coat and button-up; a usual boy's Sunday best, objectively. Even his shoes shined beneath the dim light of the chandeliers above, now barely lit up at all, save for one singular candle. Gogol forces himself to look away when the boy starts to notice.

Gogol must have not been quick enough, for he can feel the curious stare of the boy next to him, and he finds it difficult to not stare back— therefore, he shifts his gaze briefly, catching the boy's stare with his own. He expected the other to maybe look away after getting caught blatantly staring, but was surprised to see the twitching of a mouth, a hand reaching out between them.

"I don't believe we've met before, my name is Fyodor," on his face now was a polite smile. Gogol blinks down at the hand, taking it carefully. Fyodor's gaze was amused, wine-like eyes lightening up when Gogol took it. "Dostoevsky, might I add."

"Nikolai Gogol," he replies back, glancing at the elder preaching up in front. "I haven't seen you around— I thought I knew everyone here, and if not by name, then by face."

Fyodor hums, "I don't try to make myself known," he breaks his stare away to look down at the book in his hands, opening it and flipping it to the page the elder was already reading almost immediately. Gogol watches as the boy places a finger right below the verse being read aloud. "Though you've probably met my mother."

"What's her name?"

"Maria. Familiar?"

He sees the resemblance now. Maria Dostoevsky wasn't precisely feared, as she was God-devout and kind to those who earned it, but there was a sharp glint to her stare almost always. She had never insulted Gogol, for any reason, had never so much as uttered a rude thing to anyone, but he was still wary of her edge.

Gogol smiles lightly, "I know her, yes."

"I'm not one to participate the way she does," Fyodor admits, "But I'll say we share the same opinions. Though, one expects nothing less when you're raised this way."

This way is emphasized, and Gogol's eyebrows furrow, "What do you mean, this way? Do you regret being raised as god-fearing?"

"Not really," Fyodor flips the page of his bible, and Gogol frantically does the same, though he's no longer interested in the reading the elder is doing. "I'm simply thinking about what it would have been like to not be tied to faith. I myself can't imagine it, as I've come to appreciate who I am in this religion… but for those who lost their faith, who cannot be saved… what are they like, I wonder?"

Gogol blinks, glancing back down at his bible. The words and whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive, if you have faith, staring back at him almost ominously, like a warning.

"Possibly… insane?"

Fyodor hums. "Possibly. Or, at the least, interesting."

"Because it's a different way of thinking to yours."

The boy glances at him, a grin tugging at his lips, "I was always curious about the thoughts of others. Think of it as indulging in finding out how someone's thought process works."

"As if you're deconstructing them."

"You're smart," Fyodor agrees. "I'll be sitting next to you more often, Kolya. Save me this seat, no?"

Nobody ever reserves seats, though there are a few that sit in certain places so much it's become their spot. Gogol and a few others have their permanent seats, because they're always early and able to save their seat, but for someone else to reserve an empty seat—

He can't even remember the people that would sit next to him.

Gogol smiles, shrugging a bit, "Sure. You can count on that."

The bells above them ring in harmony again, and he can't help but think of how it had started to sound like the clink of glasses offering a toast to the other.

————

15 & 15; daybreak

He doesn't steal often. When he does, he spends hours praying.

If his Lord was truly merciful — if he was good, as understanding as a holy book depicted him — he would understand that Gogol did not do it because he wanted to. Homelessness forced the boy into shaping the outcome of his hunger, his satiation balanced by the scales of punishment; in which case would be his knees, and whether or not he would be willing to face the soreness.

Gogol did not take pain well. He cried easily, the slightest mishap tearing into him like a physical wound; so the bruises on his skin would become quite bothersome when he was on the run after not being careful in his crime. He did always get away, naturally, nobody would catch him with this strange, cursed ability he had.

On Saturday morning, Gogol spots his breakfast cooling on a counter through the window of a shop that wasn't meant to open yet. Noticing the hassle the workers were going through, a chord of guilt struck within him and echoed somewhere inside him. Still, there was no hesitation as his ability was used, and the warm bread was stolen right underneath the noses of arguing employees.

He got away easily this time, thank the Lord, with the bread hidden under his coat. Gogol held it carefully, already tempted by the way the warmth seeped so easily into his skin. He turns a street corner, pulling it out to blink at it, mumbling a quick thanks, and biting into his latest catch.

Of course, it was good. The inside was perfectly soft, and it made Gogol sigh, all the more guilty as he escaped further and further away. His coat flowed behind him as he made his way to a more familiar park, somewhat shaped like a home, not quite like one.

His gaze narrowed in on the benches immediately, though, when Gogol first spotted another boy sitting there. A weird sense of familiarity ran through him, and he forced himself to rid all cowardice, stepping forward. Gogol caught the moment Fyodor looked up from the bird teetering around his shoe, his face that usual, blank stare— or at least until he saw Gogol, because it instantly broke out into a pleased smile.

Gogol continued forward, catching Fyodor's words as he said, "Why, this is a coincidence. I didn't expect to see you outside of church."

"Neither did I," the other replies, "Though my surprise is moreso directed at why you'd choose this park amongst others."

Fyodor tilts his head. "Surprise?"

"Well, it's not exactly popular," Gogol gestures, displaying the almost empty park, save for a young girl in white and her elder sister. "I visit almost everyday. You're new."

"Hm," the boy thinks for a while, gaze shifting down to the birds still hopping around his foot. Gogol takes this moment to stare at a casual outfit, instead of Fyodor's Sunday best; but he didn't look that much different. On this Saturday morning, Fyodor wore a thin turtleneck and slacks. Around his neck hung a cross that glinted gold. Gogol bit his tongue to refrain from any noise of jealousy. "Astute observation, as always, Kolya. Do you see these birds?"

Gogol glances at the birds Fyodor points out, lips pressing together shortly, "I see them."

"Today, I got a message from a little birdie," Fyodor smiled, reaching to his left and leaning down to stroke one of the birds on the head, "It said to sit around and wait."

He blinks. "Nuh uh."

"Mhm. Ask them."

Gogol stares blankly at Fyodor, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn't come, his face contorts into one of confusion, "You were told to wait… for me? Were you meant to wait for me?"

"Well," Fyodor gestured at the bird that was now hopping between Nikolai's feet, a hand coming up to cover his mouth as he looked up at him, the amusement clear on his features. "I'd say that's a yes. Sit with me?"

The boy sighs, "I would have, anyway. I came here to eat," Gogol uncovers his bread, glancing at Fyodor. A conflicting inner monologue begins with him, questioning whether he should offer some of this stolen bread and risk damning Fyodor into hell with him, or remain looking like an asshole for not sharing.

Fyodor solves that problem for him, luckily, tilting his head down and refocusing on the birds. Gogol takes the moment to sit down, biting down on his bread and chewing slowly. A bird pecks at his foot and he frowns down at it. "What? What is it?"

Gogol watches as it puffs up, wings fluttering before pecking at his ankle instead now, and he huffs, tucking his foot behind the other, "Okay, that's not very nice."

Somehow, that makes the boy next to him startle into a laugh, and he glances at him— Fyodor's eyes were bright, his joy ringing throughout the park. Gogol blinked, lips parting, "Did I… say something funny, or?"

"Did you?" Fyodor's eyes glimmered, reflecting like jewels. "Kolya, do you think the birds understand you?"

He frowns, "Maybe," he says, a little embarrassed, and on the defensive side, "Do they understand you, then?"

"They definitely don't," Fyodor replies, that same smile still in place, slightly crooked, "Though they seem to like you more than me."

It was true, he supposed. The swarm of birds had shifted onto Gogol's side of the bench, beaks brushing against the floor around his feet. He hummed, sidelong glancing at Fyodor, "I haven't done anything."

Fyodor shrugged, "Perhaps they think you're a bird, with that head of yours. You'd blend right in."

"... Is that an insult?"

Gogol only hears that same laugh once more, tucking itself tightly into his ribs. He can't help but laugh along this time, small snorts escaping him and startling a bird or two. Fyodor sighed lightly once their giggling settled into silence, a pleased expression on his face as he tilted his head and reminded him, "Eat your bread before the birds start thinking it's for them."

He tucks it away from the birds in his coat just to pull a chuckle out of Fyodor, grinning as he bit into the now slightly cold bread— but he didn't mind it, somehow. He swallowed it down in easy silence with the other, only breaking it when his thoughts got too loud to ignore. "Do you think all sins weigh differently in hell?"

The boy turns his head towards him, loose strands falling over his eyes messily due to the speed in which he did, "Huh?"

Gogol pauses mid-bite, pressing his lips together, "The sin of murder must weigh more than the sin of… thievery, or something, right?"

"Are you guilty of something, Kolya?" Fyodor's legs bring themselves up on the bench, turning slightly so he can face the other, "This doesn't sound like a made up scenario."

He shrugs, looking down at his bread. It wasn't so appetizing anymore, but he knew he'd regret not eating it later, so he bit into it and replied once he had swallowed it down, "In order to remain alive, I must sin over and over again; I do not kill, but thievery is still punishment-worthy, right? So would God be just and give me an equal sentence in hell to other sinners, or would he be kinder?"

Fyodor's gaze narrowed in specifically on a dark spot on the bench they sat on, near Gogol's shoulder, "God's just hand will decide that for himself once your soul is no more. For now; I would only worry about that guilt you carry— nothing makes a sin weigh heavier than shame and fear."

"How would I do that?"

"Have you confessed?"

Gogol shakes his head slowly, taking another bite as he watches Fyodor think, his eyebrow furrowing slightly. He could see a faint line on his forehead. "Do you want to confess? I'll come with you."

He shakes his head again, more sure this time, "They'll tell me to pray that he forgives me— I've already done that. I still do."

"Then he should have nothing to forgive. Likely, he doesn't want to hear you apologize for the same thing again. Say you'll have to keep doing it for… however long you have to," Fyodor offers, "And when you stop, you can properly ask for forgiveness."

He licks his lips, thinking, but Fyodor adds another thing.

"I'm guessing you steal because you're homeless, right?"

"Yeah."

"Why aren't you in a foster home? Or an orphanage?"

Gogol presses his lips together, refusing to answer by biting down on the bread. The inside of it felt bland against his tongue now as Fyodor's eyes narrowed, sitting up a little, "Nikolai?"

He swallows down the bite, frowning, "Decline to answer."

"You—"

"It's really not important," he says. "I'm just not allowed."

Fyodor eyes him carefully, slowly choosing his words, "You're hiding something from me. I won't probe, but I am definitely intrigued in how it would make someone turn on you."

Gogol shrugs, continuing to eat his bread. He was nearly finished with it, though he had no hunger to satiate anymore. Fyodor's gaze becomes a little harder as he says, "So if you won't confess in a church— why don't you confess to me, instead?"

His chewing slows, "Huh?"

"Tell me your sin," Fyodor insists, "I'll forgive you."

The boy blinks at him, bewildered, "What? You're not… you're not God, though. You can't forgive a sin that isn't yours to accept the apology of, Fedya."

"In the name of your sin, I'll create myself a faux-god," Fyodor's eyelids close briefly, "If blasphemy is my sin, you won't be alone."

"And what, you'll forgive yourself?" Gogol demands. It scares off a few more birds, and he almost feels bad, if it weren't for Fyodor's returning glare in which he focuses immediately.

In a low voice, Fyodor replies, "Yes. By helping a sinner, I, in turn, am doing good. We can be in his good graces."

"You'll achieve this by faking some sort of Godhood? What about the traits you lack? Are you all-knowing, all-powerful?"

His friend is silent for a count of three. Then, Fyodor reaches a hand between the two. "Take it," he requests, his eyes blank. Gogol's arm wants to tug away from reach, but Fyodor seems to sense it and grabs at his fingers, holding them.

In the beginning, nothing; he had expected his hand to somehow catch fire. Then a second passed. And another. Until finally, Fyodor was laughing, his eyes wide with surprise, "I didn't think that would work. It was merely a hypothesis, and yet—" His free hand takes Gogol's other one, knocking his bread away. The birds flocked to peck at it. "Kolya. I have a secret to tell you."

Gogol blinks, mouth parting as his hands are squeezed, "Huh? A secret… is this bad? Or good? I'm confused."

"Do you know about ability users?"

His blood runs cold, suddenly. As though ice had dropped down his back, Gogol flinches, and despite him thinking he was subtle, Fyodor's lips spread into a smile. "Well, that's an answer enough, don't you think?" His hold on Gogol's hands tightened.

"I'm one of them."

He struggles not to pull out of Fyodor's grip immediately, biting at the inside of his cheek. "You… are?"

"I just tried to use it on you."

Gogol feels hair stand up, though he's unsure of the reason why— the temperature was fine, he ran warm enough to not mind the occasional chill, and he couldn't be scared of Fyodor. He's come to know him… fairly decently, the past month or two. He blinks at him, unsure as he asks, "Am I immune to it, or something?"

"Definitely not," Fyodor smiles. "My ability has to be triggered, if you know what I mean. There's a criteria."

"What's the criteria?"

His friend hums, pulling his hands away and tucking them under his chin, "Guilt."

"... What?"

"My ability is crime and punishment. If I come across crime, I am able to execute a punishment."

Gogol's mouth dries, "How does that work?"

"It's simple, really. Think of it as judgment from a higher being. My ability decides if you deserve the blessing of a quick punishment—"

He slowly realizes what that means, his stomach twisting, "So you… tried to kill me, just now?"

Fyodor's eyes brightened, "I thought the chance of you surviving was near zero percent, yes. Though for some reason… I believed you failing to activate my ability might make more sense. Your guilt doesn't stem from the act of crime itself. So that's a loophole."

"... There's too much logistics in that."

"It's a rather simple ability. It activates under my judgment, as well, though I have to consciously make it just, and let the ability decide for itself. Usually, we're in agreement."

Gogol eyes Fyodor's hands, "What about that loophole you mentioned, then?" His stomach twisted, expecting the answer. The boy simply looks at him, a sick child-like joy contradicting the words that tumble out of his mouth.

"Your guilt comes from your rejection of belief. Kolya, you in fact do not care if your prayers are answered, because it's something you're forcing yourself to do.

"To you, God is nothing. To you, God is everything. Are you seeking praise? The feeling of purity, to wash out your disgust at yourself?"

————

15 & 16; noon.

Gogol witnesses a murder at fifteen, on a cold Monday night.

There's a strange amount of blood. An unnatural crimson, as though tainted by filth. Fyodor stands off to the side, tensed shoulders and hands clasped in front of him tightly.

"Are you scared?" His voice is devoid of emotion— but Gogol knows his friend far too well to believe it for a second. Fyodor often lacked empathy where Nikolai felt it too strongly; but he's at least able to recognize the uneasiness Fyodor felt with sinning.

He hums in disagreement, crouching to view the wounds, "He was a sinner," his gloved finger hovered over crimson on the nape of the man's neck, watching as it sunk into the black cloth. "I trust your judgment like I would trust a God's."

"You don't believe in God," Fyodor sighs, though he seems to understand. His shoe brushed against the dead man's pant leg. "He must have had a family, right?"

"If he did, they were very unfortunate," Gogol says, standing up. There's a chill in his skin that he brushes off as the cold gets to him, but he's almost positive it's the prickly feeling of Fyodor's gaze getting sharper. "We should… dispose of him, right?"

Fyodor unclasped his hands, "Admittedly, my physical condition regarding terms of strength is near poor. I didn't think this through."

Yes, you did. Gogol bites back a smile, "Allow me to show you something, Fedya?"

"Go on."

Using the overcoat had lessened since he had stopped stealing— it seemed Maria Dostoevsky didn't mind having another mouth to feed on occasion, and Fyodor constantly brought him food whenever they planned to hang out, so he had no time nor excuse to use it. Still, it's familiar, and it's like jumping back into shoes that remain perfect for his size. Gogol takes the man, warping away within his coat.

The infinite-seeming amount of space he had in this dimension was often puzzling, but he didn't complain as he made several jumps to get to his destination— a lake.

Gogol waits.

Fyodor eventually shows up; he senses him before he even hears the light drag of his feet, not having quite yet mastered the art of silence, though it was faint even to his ears. Judging by Fyodor's amused face, he wasn't surprised by the fact he was an ability user; it was possibly the ability itself.

"You can… teleport?" Fyodor guesses.

"That's a fun idea," Gogol smiles, shaking his head in answer, "Not technically. It works a little differently than that," he turns the body over, checking the face once more; he closes the eyelids. "It's more like… space manipulation, of sorts. Think of a portal where I can move stuff through it, including myself. There's limits, of course."

Fyodor hums, watching as Gogol prepares to lift the body, placing him in the dark water carefully. "What limits would those be?"

"There's a thirty meter limit," he steps closer to the body and nudges it forward, then using his foot to get him floating away when he couldn't do much with a hand. "Though the amount of stuff I can fit has no limit. You win some, you lose some."

"It's very advantageous," Fyodor notes. "And how effective will this disposal be, exactly?" He refers to the man in the water, already submerging into a further end. Gogol frowns.

"They'll definitely find him. Since you used your ability, though, and your DNA will be washed off, it's impossible to trace back to you," Gogol glances at him. "You're safe."

Fyodor makes a noise of affirmation, looking at him, an eyebrow raised, "Have you been in this situation before?"

"What?"

"Murder. Assistance in a crime."

"It's definitely a first, don't worry."

His friend shrugs, "You're not reacting to it. It makes one wonder, that's all. You're aware it's a sin, right?"

Gogol smiles, "Why, does my faux-god not forgive me like he forgave himself already?" Naturally, there's that hesitance in him, awaiting for when Fyodor will reach his hand out between them, and his life will end in the form of a God's blessing. Fear, there was none. It was an expectancy that would go unfulfilled because time and time again, Fyodor forgives him better than any higher deity.

The grin he gets from Fyodor in return is blinding. "You twisted thing. Let's go back, I'm hungry now."

————

16 & 16; afternoon.

"Here," Fyodor says the minute they've exited the cathedral, stepping down the porcelain floors and into the blinding sun; spring was treating Moscow nicely as of late. Gogol blinks down at the box in Fyodor's hands, eyebrows raising. "For your birthday, Kolya. Don't tell me you've forgotten it?"

Gogol shakes his head, "I haven't, I just… Fedya," he starts, exasperated. He can hear the faint chuckle behind them belonging to Fyodor's mother. His cheeks flush.

"I know, I know," Fyodor smiles, "You told me not to get you anything because you couldn't do anything for my birthday. However— it's been nearly a year since I've met you. I think I'm warranted to get you a gift if I please."

The box is placed into his hands, and Gogol swallows down the lump in his throat, shaped like reluctance and lingering regret. He lifts the ribbon that was tied on it, looping it around his finger before opening the lid.

Inside, there were flowers made of origami, mimicking yellow roses. They laid over the top of a book, titled Best Tricks and Tips for Magicians. There was a box of cards on the side and a personalized letter. Gogol lifts his head, mouth parted in astonishment. Fyodor looks smug, glancing back at his mother.

"I told you he'd like it," Maria chuckles, lifting her hands in a shrugging motion, making her jewelry clink and jingle. Fyodor nodded rapidly. He glances back at the box, taking out the letter first, handing the box to his friend.

"Hold," Gogol demands. Fyodor grins.

He opens the letter, immediately reigning in the eye roll upon seeing Fyodor's best penmanship; the kind he specifically reserved for church or his notebook in which still remained a mystery to Gogol. Then, he begins to read.

Dearest Kolya,

Happy 16th birthday ･◡･! I've mentioned feelings are weird for me, so this might be short. I'm happy I met you. I like talking to you, though I like how easy silence is with you, too. My mom is a little tired of me talking about you so much (you can ask, she would say yes immediately—but please don't, she'll embarrass me). My favorite memory with you is when we played hide and seek and I found you, but you ran and tripped. Laughing with you is better than when I laugh on my own, or other people. Everyone has their person, their best friend, or something. If you are my person, Nikolai, I hope I can be yours, too. Have fun being 16, you crane.

Yours,

Fedya (Dostoevsky).

"Okay, you'll ruin the ink, give me that," Fyodor huffs, taking the letter away. When Nikolai protests, he clicks his tongue in refusal, "Stop crying first. My pen was expensive. I rewrote this ten times."

Maria sighs, "I wish he were joking, dear, but I'm afraid I had the terrifying honor of fetching him new paper anytime he messed up a letter."

Fyodor's face tints red, "Mom. That was unnecessary."

"Was it?" She muses.

As though it were rebirth, and Fyodor his creator, Nikolai felt a few things click in place. He hadn't noticed he started crying until Fyodor pointed it out, reaching up with a sleeve to wipe at his face. Regardless, Fyodor huffed, smacking his hand away, and putting the box down on the floor, "Mom, do you have—"

"A tissue? Of course," she pulls one out of her purse, shaking it out and handing it to Fyodor. The boy thanks her, and then sighs as he faces Nikolai again.

"I didn't think you were the emotional type," he mumbles, hesitant with the tissue. Nikolai tries to take it, but Fyodor shakes his head as he pats on the wet skin. "You'll make your face red if I let you use it. Let's not ruin that for your birthday."

Nikolai can't help a weak laugh, shaking his head and laughing just a little harder when Fyodor flicked him, grabbing his head for it to stay still as he wiped his tears. "The letter was nice. Thank you, Fedya."

"It better have been," his friend snorts, and then he whispers, wiping just under Nikolai's left eye. "I spent days on it, embarrassingly enough, so I guess this isn't a bad reaction. I'd hate it if your face was red, though," his nose wrinkles.

Nikolai grins, "What, is my red face ugly?"

"Your red crying face," Fyodor specifies, moving to his right eye, "That might just be me being unable to handle criers, though."

"You're doing just fine with me," Nikolai points out.

Fyodor smiles, finishing his wiping and letting go of Nikolai's face. The warmth leaves him as he does. "Yes, I wonder why that is."

"Your person? Sounds awfully cheesy, doesn't it?"

Fyodor shrugs, "You deserve the honesty. Don't push it."

"Do you boys want a picture?" Maria prompts as her son bends to pick up the box he had put down, silently handing Nikolai back his gifts and the letter. "I brought my camera."

Nikolai's face twists into one of bewildered amusement, "I'm sorry, why would you bring a camera to church?"

"Situations like these come up," she smiles at him. "Pose against the wall over there, it's a clean background," she suggests, gesturing forward to move. Fyodor sighs and mumbles an apology that Nikolai giggles at, not upset in the slightest as they stand in front of a wall. "Oh, Fedya, come on," she pulls out her camera, clicking a few buttons, "Pose with him, I'll be printing these."

"Mom."

"Quiet, you," she waves a hand at him, aiming the camera. "Complain, and I'll have you writing verses for days."

Nikolai has to laugh at Fyodor's expression of disdain, his reluctance obvious as he lifts an arm and rests it around his shoulder. It's only funnier when Maria glares directly at her son and Fyodor immediately twists his face into a more pleasant one, but he bites back laughter and instead grins widely at the camera. He subconsciously leans closer to Fyodor, holding a thumbs up.

"Ready?" Maria asks, though she doesn't get an answer before the clicking sound is heard and the picture is taken. "Okay… one more," she suggests. Fyodor hums, glancing at Nikolai.

"It's your birthday," he says.

"Uh huh."

"What pose next?"

Nikolai tilts his head, lips pressed together as he thinks, "Am I allowed to choose any?"

"That's the point," Fyodor replies.

He grins, "Get on my back."

Fyodor deadpans a flat, "Absolutely not."

Maria frowns immediately, "That would be fun, Fedya! Don't let your fear of heights ruin this."

Nikolai slowly turns towards Fyodor, lips stretching, "You have—"

"Mother, lying is a sin."

"Listen to yourself then," Maria responds.

"Kolya," Fyodor starts. "If you drop me. If you drop me—"

"I'm offended you think I would," Nikolai immediately crouches, "Go on, then. It'll be quick."

The indecision on his face was wildly amusing for Nikolai to witness, the emotions flashing quickly; dismay, reluctance, and resignation to his fate. His legs kick over Nikolai's hips, and he can hear the prayer under Fyodor's breath as he raises to his feet, hands scrambling to wrap around Nikolai's shoulders.

"Oh, g— am I not heavy?" Fyodor asks, sounding genuinely shocked as Nikokai readjusts them, his hands under his thighs.

He only shakes his head at him, not being able to look at him directly as he maintains his grip, "Nope. Smile for the camera, Fedya."

"Hey, wait, let me adjust," Fyodor hisses, hands tightening.

"Whenever you're ready, Ms. Dostoevsky," Nikolai grins.

"You're evil," Fyodor mumbles, "Wretched, evil, hellspawn—"

"Do not say such things about him!" Maria scolds him.

Nikolai laughs, his face hurting, "I'm dragging you with me, you know. You think you'll start ascending and then oh what's that tugging on my leg?!"

"Stop. My demise," Fyodor shushes him between giggles, "Take the picture, Mom."

The rest can be described in the following sequence; the sound of a camera clicking and capturing the smiling boys, and Fyodor yelping as he's dropped.

————

Male, 36, found dead at the shore of Finland. It's presumed he was sent adrift in the waters for as long as half a year.

————

The case of Igor Petrov has gone cold.

————

17 & 18; evening.

The fireplace is warm.

Nikolai wouldn't say he drops by the Dostoevsky household often, but on occasion, there are moments where it's almost obligated— such as Fyodor's eighteenth birthday.

Unfortunately, his day of birth was on a colder month, and therefore he sat nearest by the fire. The bible rests on the table, still looking as new as Fyodor remembered from their first encounter. Nikolai laid his head on his friend's lazily, and Fyodor instinctively raised a hand to play with the loose strands of his braid.

"You should've worn it down," Fyodor mumbles.

Nikolai sighs, "Make up your mind… last time you got mad at all the hairs on the couch."

"Yeah, well, I've decided they're nice decor now. Oh Rapunzel, let down your hair, or however it goes." He swiftly dodges the smack Nikolai intended to land on him.

He obliges, partially because it was what he wanted, partially because the braid was already so loose from swinging with Fyodor earlier. He places the band around his wrist and runs his fingers through the undone braid quickly.

"This is why you shed so much," Fyodor grumbles, taking his hands and stopping them, replacing them with his. He separates the strands carefully, eyebrows furrowing in that same manner when he's focused intensely on something.

Nikolai sighs, letting the man do what he wanted. "Do you think you'll eat the icing this time?"

"Not a chance," Fyodor huffs, though he's smiling. "Extra for you, though, if you'd like," he shrugs, pulling some hairs apart. Nikolai hums at the light scratch, thinking.

"This is definitely not a topic to bring up at a birthday," Nikolai starts, and Fyodor has to laugh, interrupting him.

"What made you gain self awareness?"

Nikolai mockingly sniffles, "Years of missing social cues, thanks."

There's a snort, and Fyodor gestures, "Continue, please."

"How'd you find out about your ability?"

For a moment, Nikolai is met with silence, and he leans closer, Fyodor's hair obscuring his eyes slightly. His friend gazes at him, head tilted, hands still in his hair. "Tell me yours first."

"I accidentally relocated a friend's backpack into a dumpster."

Fyodor stares at him, his lips pressing together like he was suppressing a smile. "Really?"

"Mhm. I got suspended, I think?"

"I see. My story isn't as funny, I don't think," his gaze shifting from Nikolai's to the hair, intent on focusing. Nikolai watches with his heart thrumming in his veins, listening as Fyodor continues, "You're aware I don't have a father, right?"

"None in sight."

Fyodor shrugs, "I killed him."

He blinks at him, trying to gauge the emotion that Fyodor was speaking with— but it was toneless, and his face purposefully blank as he spoke again, "I was twelve. I was sick, if I remember correctly, so I was bedridden. My father wasn't a good person, an abuser, in fact, that happened to hit my mother that night."

"She was knocked out for a while, and she couldn't give me medicine at the designated time. So my father took over, and went inside my room with a tray. He wanted to give me some soup, too."

Nikolai felt like he knew the ending to this. He still remained silent.

"I was a stubborn child," Fyodor says. "I did not want him to feed me. So I tried taking the spoon—"

"You touched him."

Fyodor nodded quietly.

"I'm sorry. Your ability isn't always….clean, though. What happened?"

His friend smiles at him, pulling his hands away as his gaze drifts to the left, "I'll have to tell you another time. Hi, mom."

Nikolai glances behind him to see Maria holding a tray excitedly, a smile wide on her face as she strides over and places it on the table, "I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"Kind of," Nikolai replies, though he ignores Fyodor's rapid blinking in surprise. "This looks delicious," he motions at the cupcakes, and the icing bags placed on the tray.

Fyodor's mom looks almost equally surprised, but she says nothing before Fyodor himself does, shaking his head, "Not like that. Uh, thanks, mom. Nikolai takes three sugars, by the way."

"You remembered?"

"Okay, it hasn't been that long."

"Like, four months, maybe!"

"Not a big deal."

"I'll make sure to use three sugars," Maria smiles, tapping the table and standing back up, "And I'll bring the candles after."

Fyodor wasn't a fan of cakes— claimed they were too much, and messy, so he couldn't bring himself to try one. However, cupcakes were a different story. He was extremely selective with icing, almost never using it. Nikolai guessed he wouldn't this time based on his earlier comment. The equivalent of a cake to him was a bunch of their mini-versions, so Maria accommodated Fyodor by placing candles on the non-iced bread.

When Maria left once more, Fyodor smiled down at Nikolai, "You're going to give my mother a heart attack. She wasn't interrupting anything, you crane."

"I thought we were letting go of that nickname."

"In your dreams."

"She was interrupting, though," Nikolai insists. You were telling me something."

Fyodor's eyes glittered with a bit of mischief, "When someone asks that the way she did, she meant it romantically. As in, you made her think we were in the middle of a romantic affliction."

He blinks slowly, "I what now?"

That ends up with Fyodor covering his mouth, coughing to cover a loud laugh, and Nikolai frowns, tugging at Fyodor's arm, "This isn't funny, quit laughing—"

"Kind of," Fyodor mimics his words from earlier, and this time doesn't even budge when Nikolai goes to smack his arm.

He's embarrassed, the heat in his cheeks only becoming more and more visible the longer Fyodor tries to reign in his laughter and proceeding to fail regardless, his eyes bright. There's a conflict in his stomach, pleased by Fyodor's easy laughter, but the humiliation is a little too much for Nikolai to bear.

"I would never—"

Fyodor's shoulders shake even harder, and Nikolai's jaw drops, "Excuse me! I would never imply such a thing with you!"

"Except you just did."

"Could you stop?"

Fyodor shakes his head, "You don't get how funny it is."

"Of course I don't. What if you were uncomfortable? I wouldn't forgive myself for that," Nikolai's frown deepens. Fyodor's eyelashes flutter in surprise, almost, and his face softens.

"Alright. I'm sorry. I'm not uncomfortable though, see?" His smile is small, but it's there, and it's genuine. "Are you uncomfortable, Kolya?"

Nikolai hopes to whatever being, if there is one, that his face was still red from the humiliation so it doesn't give the new heat in his cheeks away, "Uh, no, I guess not. I'm definitely a little more concerned about what your mother thinks."

"About what? Us?"

"More like if she still thinks I was in the middle of confessing to you, or something."

Fyodor smiles slyly, as if he knows something— it was a similar look to the one he gave him when reassuring Nikolai that he wouldn't buy him a gift. Nikolai's eyes narrow at him, "You know something."

"Who, me?"

"Fedya—"

"An order of tea and candles?" Maria chooses that moment to walk in, another tray in hand neatly sliding beside the other, three cups of variety; Fyodor preferred a sour cherry tea, while Maria went with a classic jasmine tea. Nikolai played it safe with Earl gray.

Fyodor glances up, removing his hands from Nikolai's hair, "Thanks, mom," he says in approval, watching as Maria carefully stuck a candle into a cupcake that looked purposefully bigger than the rest. The candle was singular, connected to say 18.

"Back away a little," Maria suggests, and the two do as she lights the candle, placing the lighter to the side now. "Okay. Make a wish, Fedya," she holds up the cupcake in front of him.

It's miniscule; the look Fyodor sends him, as if unintentional, perhaps a subconscious choice to gaze over at him before quickly refocusing on the candle. Nikolai feels a strange thrum in his chest, rhythmic pulse beneath his skin; it makes itself known before his friend, and in turn, Nikolai tunes everything out.

Instead of how people described it in those books that Fyodor's mother reads, Nikolai feels not in his chest— instead, the flame courses through his torso and aches, pulling roughly at strings that weren't visible yesterday, or the day before. It twists and yanks inside of him, his heart suddenly beating while Nikolai was aware of it.

Love?

It was Fyodor that tugged him out of it, naturally, his fingers snapping sharply under his nose. Nikolai blinks at him, startled.

"Your tea and cupcake," Fyodor motions towards them with his chin. Nikolai notices the cherry tea a quarter empty, and he glances at Maria. She says nothing, but she's studying him curiously, not even flinching when he stared back. With a weak smile, Nikolai reaches for his cupcake.

Maria nudges the icing bags forward, and he reaches for the pink one, gripping it and squeezing out a swirl onto his dessert. Fyodor's knee brushes against him, and he glances at him. His friend smiles, "Are you okay? You zoned out for a while."

Nikolai nods, "Don't worry about it," he dismisses the subject, putting the icing bag back down. He leans back into the couch, "What did you think about the gifts?"

He hears Fyodor shift in his seat, and Nikolai looks over to see the man get up. His voice is distant as he answers, "I was waiting to open them in front of you."

"That's embarrassing. Open them tomorrow."

"You're right here, though," Fyodor turns back around with the bag, smiling. He retakes his seat beside Nikolai, the bag in his lap. Maria watches Fedya with a smile, nodding and urging him to open them. "I liked seeing your reaction. You don't want to see mine?"

"... It's not like that."

"Kolya."

Nikolai sighs, "Alright, fine, get on with it," his tongue dips into the icing on the cupcake, and his eyebrows raise in pleasant surprise, looking at Maria briefly, "Natural?"

"Of course."

"It's amazing, Ms. Dostoevsky. Thank you."

Maria smiles at him, waving his praise away. Fyodor messes with the bag to create a rustling sound, "Should I start?"

"You're acting like a man-child," Nikolai points out.

Fyodor rolls his eyes, a hand digging into the bag to rid of the paper tissue. He puts it off to the side, eyes widening a fraction as he pulls it out— the onyx rosary is a great contrast to his pale skin, and Nikolai watches as he twists it in his palms.

"Onyx," he murmurs, glancing at his mother. She shakes her head, and Nikolai's eyebrows furrow. He felt as though he missed something. Fyodor smiles at him, "It's my favorite. I thought you may have asked my mom for advice."

"Oh," Nikolai blinks, pleasantly smug, "It was more of an elimination game, I think." He takes a bite out of his cupcake thoughtfully.

Fyodor shakes his head, "It's still very surprising. Thank you. It's beautiful. You didn't have to."

"You lost yours," Nikolai reminds him, swallowing down the bite, "I figured you'd need a replacement."

"He hadn't mentioned it to me," Maria hums over her cup, "I'm glad you replaced his. It's lovely."

Fyodor shrugs, "It wasn't that urgent, but I do prefer carrying one. I'll cherish this," he promises, settling it on his thigh as he digs once more into the bag. He looks at Nikolai with a bewildered expression, though a smile tugs at his lips. "A letter, huh?"

"You gave me one before, what's wrong with returning it?"

"I'm not reading this here," Fyodor laughs, putting it back, "I'll tell you how I felt about it next time I see you."

Maria snorts, "So tomorrow?"

"Inseparable," Nikolai shrugs, though his heart betrays him by pounding a little harder at the word. Fyodor doesn't disagree, only smiling as he pulls out a box.

He watches nervously as Fyodor undoes the ribbon, "I know you've been wanting to start writing for a while—"

"You didn't."

"You told me you didn't have time to ask for it, so I got you some things to help you start off."

Fyodor turns the notebook, bound by black leather, over his hands incredulously, "I can throw out that notepad I had, then."

"You've been using the back of them, I think it's time," Nikolai smiles, "Don't throw it. Save it," he gestures with the remaining half of his cupcake. Then he tosses the rest into his mouth.

There's a flicker of fondness behind those eyes, and Fyodor nods, continuing to rummage around the bag. Upon finding the last item, he sends Nikolai a deadpan look that has him giggling. He forces himself to swallow down the cupcake in order to not choke.

Maria frowns, "What is it?"

Fyodor's eyes don't leave Nikolai's, who twists away in his laughter, as he responds, "Kolya here thinks it's funny to call me a rat sometimes," he holds up the origami in his hand, "So he made me a self portrait of sorts."

His mother stifles a laugh, and Nikolai only laughs harder as Fyodor scrunches up his nose. "You… you can put it on the table next to your bed," Nikolai suggests between chuckles, "You'll see it every night."

"As if," Fyodor rolls his eyes, but he eventually begins to smile anyway. He places the items back into the bag, putting it to the side. "My mom would wake up to screams everyday."

Maria shrugs, standing, "I'm calling it early tonight, boys. Don't stay up too long. Mykola, make sure he behaves."

"Of course."

"Pardon?" Fyodor deadpans. "I am an adult—"

"Goodnight, Ms. Dostoevsky!" Nikolai says, a little too loudly as she leaves. The two remain quiet until she's in her room, closing the door behind herself with a click.

Nikolai sighs, turning to Fyodor, "Bring out the chess board."

"You want to embarrass yourself willingly? Just what have you done with my Kolya?" Fyodor teases him, though he obliges by standing up and searching for the board, all too unaware of the sudden spike in Nikolai's chest. My Kolya.

The younger of the two sighs. "Birthday-special event. Go easy on me."

————

19 & 19; sunset

"It wasn't on purpose."

"I know."

"..."

"I'll help you."

————

19 & 19; sunset

"Do you think my ability is evil?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"No reason. Nevermind."

————

19 & 19; sunset

"What would a world without abilities be like?"

"Saner, I suppose."

"There are some dangerous abilities out there."

"Are you vaguing yourself, Fedya?"

"All it takes is a touch, Nikolai. Do you know the ache of being refused a simple handshake?"

————

19 & 20; night

Beneath two trees, their branches intertwined, in the middle of a sunlit meadow, Fyodor and Nikolai lay in near-silence, the faint throb of his friend's heart beneath his ear. A hand lazily runs through the layers of his hair. It was one of the few times that Fyodor's fingers didn't leave ice in their wake, almost warm to the touch.

Nikolai gazes up at him, though he was only able to view half of his face, some obscured by his growing hair. He reached up carefully to tuck away a few strands, ignoring how Fyodor blinks, staring down at him in curiosity. A strand goes behind his ear, and Nikolai is able to view his eyes more clearly.

"Kolya?" He utters an inquisitive mumble, "Thought you were sleeping."

"Mm. No," Nikolai replies, starting to take back his hand. Fyodor refuses, however, and keeps his hand near his face. He finds himself cupping the other man's cheek, the skin warm. He doesn't move.

Fyodor sighs quietly, squeezing the hand. His eyes close slowly. Nikolai stares at him, slightly confused— and yet, he's selfish, and he takes what isn't his by remaining as he is. He does question it though, lips pursing, "Fedya? What's going on?"

"Nothing," is all he gets in response. Fyodor's eyes part, a small smile on his lips. "I suppose I'm still happy my ability refuses to kill you."

"Even if I'm definitely damned?"

"Mhm."

Nikolai's heart quivers in its confines. He laughs, "In turn, aren't you damned then, too?"

"I suppose," Fyodor's smile gets wider, his forehead bumping against Nikolai's. "But it feels just like heaven, so what's the difference?"

He's unsure what compels him at that moment. Perhaps it was the sudden shift in the sun's shade, now shining over them and casting shadows on Fyodor's face, or the way his fingers dig into Nikolai's shoulder blade lightly, as if urging him. Regardless of why, Nikolai closes that shrinking gap between them first.

It's a quiet sound— that of two pairs of lips brushing against each other. And that's all it was. Fyodor's mouth lingers on Nikolai's bottom lip before pulling away.

"Your ability should kill me," Nikolai laughs, "I'm bypassing a strange physics." He drops the hand that was previously holding Fyodor's face.

Fyodor shakes his head, a smile on his mouth, "You've gotten too confident," he remarks. "Stop that."

"Request declined."

"Sleep, then. It's getting warmer."

Nikolai sighs, "That, I can do," he says easily. "You'll sleep too?"

"I'll enjoy the view for a while, but I will. Don't worry."

Fyodor's strange relationship with sleep was something displeasing to Nikolai; for as long as he's known him, he's aware the other is extremely ambitious and gives anything in order to feed into a single goal. In this case, Fyodor's writing.

"You left your notebook, right?"

The man laughs, and he can feel it under his ear. He helplessly smiles, glancing up at Fyodor. He looks down at Nikolai, "I don't have it. Promise."

"I should be patting you down."

"Kolya," Fyodor rolls his eyes, "Sleep."

Nikolai wraps an arm around Fyodor's waist, readjusting himself more comfortably. He tells him to wake him once they're leaving, though he's unsure if that came out coherent; either way, he fell asleep with little difficulty. The sound of Fyodor's heartbeat followed him into his dreams.

————

20 & 20; twilight.

If there's something Nikolai is hyper aware of regarding himself, it would be physical touch and just how he reacts to it. Like electricity volts beneath his skin and far enough inside his veins that he feels it everywhere. It's pleasing, and it's best when it comes from someone that he holds dear to him.

Fyodor isn't avoidant to touch—

Or he wasn't, at least.

The aforementioned man sits at his desk, referring to his notebook every so often as he typed on the laptop in front of him. Nikolai stares at him from the bed, propped up on one arm.

He doesn't demand to be touched. Nikolai appreciates it out of Fyodor's own will, but watching his lover (though the word never feels enough) purposefully grow distant in their own home has become painful.

At first, his gut twisted with the thought Fyodor may not be interested in him anymore, feeling strangely lightheaded as he thought through the possibilities of what he had done to cause this; because naturally, it must be Nikolai's fault, right?

It got worse when he realized Fyodor was consciously doing it. Sometimes, he would get close to brushing his hand against Nikolai's, looking as if he wanted to— only to clench his fist into a ball and shove it into his pocket.

After about a week or two of this, Nikolai had enough.

"Fyodor," Nikolai calls out. He hears the stumble in the keys below Fyodor's fingers, and he knows he's heard him. "We have to talk about this. You know it."

He doesn't even bother to look up, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Why are you torturing yourself like this?" Nikolai sits up, legs brushing against the sheets as he pulls them up to his chest. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Kolya," Fyodor pauses typing, his eyelids shutting closed. "I'm working. Can we talk later?"

Nikolai's eyes narrow, "You forget I know you. On accident, you'll fall asleep and pray I forget I asked anything." When Fyodor replies with nothing but parting his eyes open to stare at Nikolai warily, he continues. "You don't touch me."

"I thought that we agreed until marriage," Fyodor says under his breath.

Nikolai sighs, "Not that, you celibate."

"Now why do you use it like an insult?"

"Fedya," Nikolai pleads. "Let me speak."

The man frowns, closing the laptop quietly. He gestures for Nikolai to keep going, and he pressed his lips together. "Thank you. Is this a trial of yours, then? Withholding from so much as holding my hand?'

"It's no trial," Fyodor looks resigned. At least Nikolai wouldn't walk away without answers. "I don't think I can explain it to someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

Fyodor stands up, the chair being pushed back as he does. He looks hesitant even as he walks over, "Do you remember," he starts, sitting on the edge of the bed, "That talk we had about abilities?" Nikolai's hand twitches as Fyodor keeps his firmly in his lap. He nods.

"About what a world without them would be like," Nikolai recalls. "Since they're the root of most of the world's evil."

The bed creaks as Fyodor readjusts himself, "Initially, and I've already confessed at church, I believed myself to hold the responsibility of correcting humanity."

"... What?"

Fyodor smiles. "Since I realized abilities were evil, and I was gifted— or cursed, whatever you prefer— with an ability that served as the right hand of God; I thought, maybe this is my purpose. To eliminate their existence and maintain the balance our lord so wanted, I would have to get rid of them."

"You would pile up sin," Nikolai's eyes widened.

"Which is why I confessed to my thoughts," Fyodor nodded. "To go about murder, even if I was exempted by the lord's graces, is still a sin, and I myself would not, should not be viewed as human by then. At that point, I would be something more similar to a demon."

Nikolai frowned. "But… what does this have—"

"I'm getting there. I sat with my ability many times, you know. I know him, and he knows me. I've always pictured it as a judgment scale, weighing the fear of consequence, weighing my opinion. If you put a man that beats his wife in front of me, and I clasp his hand; he will surely die. However," his lips press together, eyebrows pulling down as he extends his hand for Nikolai to take. He watches him carefully as he grabs it, not missing the twitch in his mouth. "If you put a man that… assisted in many crimes, and has committed some himself, in front of me; he will not die, on the condition that my judgment of him is so imbalanced, my ability will not activate."

Imbalanced. Fyodor's view of Nikolai clashed with what his ability thought, and in that contradiction, the ability did not meddle. He continues, "I've never been particularly affectionate. I've never wanted to touch, be touched, to love or have someone for me, so the possibility of my ability not working was never a… worry. And then came you."

"Me?"

"I'm afraid I feel something a little stronger than love, and it's thrown off my ability. Still… I don't trust it," Fyodor's face twists into something a little more sorrowful, and Nikolai swallows as his lover squeezes his hand. "I am afraid my ability will go against me, someday. And I let that rule me."

Nikolai frowns, processing the words. Initially, he thought Fyodor may lead up to saying he no longer loved him, and in which case, a single touch would be enough to end him— but he had his hand clasped inside his own, and he felt no fear, so that theory easily evaporated. His voice lowers, "Like it's sentient?"

"Precisely like that. I've… become more aware of it, lately. I'm conscious of keeping my judgment empty if I have to touch someone, but that in itself lets me feel him creeping at my back. It's waiting the way a predator waits on prey."

His other hand cups the previous one hesitantly, holding Fyodor's, "Does touching me cause that, too?"

Fyodor smiles at him, a little relieved. "No. Or not yet. I've been waiting for it to happen, and it was the primary reason I was scared to touch you. If there was a chance at all that my ability would want to kill you, I would surely step away to ensure your safety."

"Don't I get a say in this?" Nikolai asks, his lips pulling down, "And if I choose the risk? If I die by your hand, I doubt I could ever be angry— to fall to someone I used as a replacement to God. To fall to the only creation of mankind that I could ever put my faith into…"

A finger raises to his mouth, belonging to Fyodor. His face is twisted into something pained, embarrassed, even, "I didn't ask you to speak blasphemy. You'll damn us both."

Nikolai grins against his finger, pulling it away gently. He grasps the hand and holds it between them, "I don't mind it, is what I'm trying to say. You're worth every risk."

"Oh, you agonize me," Fyodor sighs, and then more quietly, he says, "I'm sorry. For making you think I didn't want you. That couldn't be further from the truth."

Rubies met topaz, and Nikolai shakes his head, "I appreciate you telling me the truth. Consider taking my words seriously, yeah?"

Fyodor smiles gently at him, "Okay."

"Don't be an ass. You can touch me."

"Okay."

"Talk to me if something like this comes up again instead of neglecting me."

"Okay," Fyodor's smile gets wider, "Anything else?"

Nikolai pretends to consider the question, shrugging, "If you're taking requests, a kiss might be nice."

Fyodor laughs, leaning towards him. Nikolai's pulse quickened, welcoming the mouth brushing against his. He hears a quiet reply between laughs against his lips, "Okay."

————

Dearest Kolya,

I apologize. From the depths of my heart. I suppose fear isn't something I can deal with normally, but my circumstances were never normal, either. Please understand. You of all people would know, having held me these past nights.

If I cannot eliminate him within me,

I will eliminate the vessel of judgment,

yours truly,

Fedya.

p.s. I love you. My notebook is under the fake board in my desk— you've always wanted to read it. Keep it safe.

————

20 & 21; dusk.

"Almighty God, we rejoice in your promise of love, joy and peace. In your mercy turn the darkness of death into the dawn of new life, and the sorrow of parting into the joy of heaven; through our Saviour Jesus Christ, who died, rose again and lives for evermore. We ask of you your blessing, to lead your child into heaven…"

September is a dreaded month.

"Did you know?" Maria isn't in any better shape than he is, but he had time to collect himself, to mentally prepare for whatever faux sympathy he would be shown on the day of Fyodor's funeral. She wore a dress that flattered her pale skin, a familiar rosary hanging at the base of her throat. Nikolai swallowed. While many of his lover's properties went to him, the rosary was specifically for Maria.

The Dostoevskys wore black easily.

He shook his head at the question, replying quietly, "He never… Fedya was a devout man," Nikolai stumbles over the name, blinking rapidly. He wouldn't allow himself to tear up at a mere mention. "Suicide was the last thing I thought he'd do."

"He didn't call it that, either, did he?" Maria refers to the note left to her. Nikolai hadn't read it, but he assumed it was a personalized apology. "Fyodor said it was for the sake of goodwill, and the balance that God would not have if he kept existing."

Nikolai responds bitterly, "His ability."

"Pardon?"

"He always had an issue with it," he explains. He remains facing forward, watching the preacher without hearing the words, "Fedya saw himself as an extension of God— and that blasphemy didn't end well. His ability itself was sin, but if it was used against the sinner, it created a paradox, as it was now used for good."

But that "good" was the elimination of creations Fyodor had no rule over. Regardless of the righteousness and objective moral standpoint that his ability had, the usage of it itself was considered "evil" still. He could not get rid of that cycle, and it twisted into something more like a terrible singularity; his wish to destroy, or be destroyed.

Maria made an audible noise tangled with sorrow, and Nikolai forced himself to stand. She looked up at him, and it took most of his courage to muster a wobbly smile. "I'm going to pray."

She didn't miss the crack in his voice, and he didn't miss the way her eyes widened in surprise. He made his way forward, his sleeve wiping furiously at his left eye.

The lights were bright. The casket was burned into his vision. People he didn't know stood around in black, their eyebrows all pulled down the same way— a generic display of remorse.

A Bible closes as he steps forward, and the sound of footsteps backing away isn't even heard by him. He hesitates looking into the casket, but eventually drags his eyes down.

It doesn't look like Fyodor. The corners of his mouth are pulled up, into an unnatural smile. His hair was swept the wrong way. This man was foreign, and he felt a spark of anger low in his gut. He reaches inside, biting at the inside of his mouth.

Fyodor's skin was cold to the touch. He ignored this, fixing the hair first, curling one of the strands around his finger. After this, he tugged his mouth into a more neutral look. It could almost pass as his usual facial expression.

He tilts his head so Fyodor is in better view. The suit fit him nicely. A petal or two from the flowers resting on his chest fell on his shoulder. Fyodor, even in death, remained a sight. A smile tugged at his mouth, and he whispered, "Blessings to you, Fedya; may heaven receive you well. I hope you hold no regrets. I'll visit you often."

In a lower voice, he adds, "Father, who resides in heaven; forgive his sin. There is worse. Amen."

It takes a while for him to step away from the casket, of course. He forces his feet to carry him away, too afraid he may beg to not be separated from his lover. With stinging eyes and a headache, Nikolai watches as the casket is escorted. Maria's nails dig into his arm.

"Should I take you home?" Nikolai offers. "You shouldn't be alone."

Maria's eyes welled up again, "I see why Fedya loved you so much."

Nikolai swallows, sucking in a breath. The words were shaped both like warm hands and sharpened ice, digging into his lungs hazardously. Still, the reminder he was loved by her son, maybe even in death, was strangely reassuring. Internally, he promises to allow himself further sorrow in the form of crying once he is alone again. For now, Maria needed comfort as the last Dostoevsky.

"Let's go home."