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Fyodor got a lot of nosebleeds when he was younger, and thus was accustomed to the sight of his own blood. It used to scare him in the past, - an instinct more than anything, really, his brain knowing this was not where his blood was meant to be when he looked at his hands, his clothes, the sink, all red, red, red. Sometimes it was less fear that Fyodor felt and more dull fascination as he observed the tiny spots grow into opaque, wet stains, detached from the familiar taste on his tongue and first hints of dizziness, almost like it was someone else bleeding out, someone far-away and unimportant. He has always had poor health, and, not knowing any other life, he learned how to deal with it early, on his own, to take his rapidly beating heart and racing thoughts under control when needed.
Perhaps this is why his head is quiet when he sees the first dark drops on the snow that soon turn into a puddle. His blood. Fyodor looks around. Crooked black branches, dull sky and crimson, mangled bodies near him. He clutches the wound with his hand and starts dragging himself in the direction of their hideout, painting his way through white with red. It was supposed to be a small task, but his reaction always got worse during winter's colds. His mind has been wandering far away from the present too, causing him to get sloppy. Distracted. Even he couldn't, it seems, escape the all-encompassing melancholia that comes with living in a place so bleak, devoid of warmth and comfort.
Walking is even harder now that he's bleeding out, even though he is not in any immediate danger. The coldness seeps into his bones, into his very being, and it feels not unlike what Fyodor imagines dying feels like, the fragile body quickly, yet so painfully slowly losing heat. His limbs are heavy and it hurts, and his destination feels so far away. It's tempting to give up then and there, to fall and let the snowflakes cover his dead frozen body with a heavy blanket. Moments like these test a person's faith, their resolve and dedication to their cause and to life itself, Fyodor briefly thinks as he presses forward. His legs are barely moving, getting stuck in the knee-deep snow, so bright his eyes hurt.
The walls in their building are a pale, sickly-grey color, covered in faded graffiti, pieces of dry old paint sticking off or already on the floor. He stumbles his way up the stairs, leaving a trail of blood on the dirty stone. As his steps echo throughout the silent house, Fyodor wonders if anyone would even be able to tell it apart from the rest of the grime under his boots.
Being inside brings as little relief as one would expect from a place like this, but relief is not what he is looking for either way, even though he knows part of him still unconsciously seeks rest. Their flat's number, slightly glowing in the dull daylight, grows closer, until Fyodor is almost falling over on their doorstep, reaching for the faulty buzzer. It lets out a dying screech more suited for a wounded animal than an object, and he can hear the shuffling of clothes inside, then the sound of a turning lock.
There is no one there when the door opens, Fyodor staggering in into the empty hallway. It's dark, the closest window is the one in the kitchen, and he can see specks of dust floating in the air, highlighted by the light coming from it. The central heating in their house is still broken, but the thick rugs both on floors and walls coupled with hoards of dilapidated books, tea-sets and furniture keep in some warmth inside the apartment, the smell of age filling every inch of it. Fyodor tugs his boots off in a weird parody of good manners he always maintains in their hideouts, no matter how dingy they are, and walks further into the flat.
"My, my," Nikolai coos somewhere to the side. "And you said it would be an easy one."
He doesn't answer, doesn't even look up at him, not wanting to admit a miscalculation, heading straight for their medical supplies. They are surprisingly scarce for people who cannot afford dying right now, but his wound is nasty enough to require stitches, so the little they have would have to do.
Fyodor's room is even dimmer, the thick curtains shut tightly, letting next to no light in. The space around is cluttered, outlines of furniture looming over his figure. He shrugs his shirt off, draping the cloak over bare shoulders so he wouldn't feel as cold and unprotected, its fur wet from the melted snowflakes. His bed is unmade, the sheets and blankets in disarray, but Fyodor just climbs on top of them, putting down the small first-aid box. He ignores the steps outside and tries to focus on patching himself up, but doesn't have the chance to go much further.
"Knock-knock," Nikolai announces, already halfway through the door with a bowl of water, almost invisible steam rising from it. "Thought you might need some help."
Fyodor's hand stills mid-air, his grip on the needle unsteady, far too shaky from both the cold and blood loss. His friend's eyes linger on it, his lips quirking up.
"Well, that just won't do. Don't want it to leave a nasty scar, do we?" He is all smiles with Fyodor, like he is with everyone else, but it's more tame, softer around the edges, a tint of almost-worry clouding his gaze. Nikolai comes closer, prying the needle from his stiff fingers. "Let me."
Fyodor's eyes don't leave him as he produces a bar of soap and a small towel out of thin air, as he observes how expertly his delicate hands roam over his skin, cleaning his wound. If it were anyone else in his position, they probably would've been dead by now, gotten too close to him to be left alive. Nikolai is sitting in front of him, and when he's satisfied with the first step of his work, he reaches out to push Fyodor back so he is half-lying on a pillow, making him let out a short startled breath. He really wouldn't allow anyone else to handle him like that. Nikolai seems to find that amusing, because his fingers are shaking now too, and he takes a second to compose himself.
The process of stitching doesn't feel like much of anything, it's the gash that still hurts, but Fyodor has had worse. When his friend is done, he does his best to place a plaster in the right spot. The thing is nasty-pink, with colorful dinosaurs all over, the one that is usually meant for children.
"Really?"
Nikolai just shrugs at the unimpressed look shot his way. "It's the only ones they had here. But also this," he rummages in his cloak, a tiny bit of his tongue poking out in fake concentration, then fetches a small protein bar, offering it in a gallant gesture, "For you being a good patient."
Fyodor feels a momentary need to comment on how unnecessary this is, but he does secretly - well, not so much anymore, it seems, - like these, so he plays along and accepts it with a slow, solemn nod, like it's some important ritual the two of them share. He does this often, indulges and encourages his friend's love for theatrics. It was a calculated move in the beginning. Since Nikolai was a vital part of his plans, maintaining a good relationship has been important from early on, but Fyodor noticed it started coming more naturally to him with time, almost like he was doing it because he enjoyed it rather than to gain control over the other. But it doesn't really matter, as long as it still has the desired effect, if not even a stronger one. Fyodor opens the silly bright wrapping and takes a careful bite. Nikolai's lips curl up in excitement.
"Did you know they put blood in those?" he announces happily, grinning up at him.
"Do they now?" That makes sense, considering that they are made to help with iron deficiency. Fyodor stops for a moment, examining the remaining piece of the candy. The thought of Nikolai buying one - or stealing, most likely - specifically for him is quite funny. He worries too much for someone who wants to get rid of all attachments. But Fyodor supposes it goes both ways. He doesn't hide a small chuckle escaping him that's as malicious as it is affectionate, soon distracted by the other man speaking up.
"Your hand too? And you were planning to deal with this on your own." Nikolai gets closer and reaches for his wrist, not too concerned, yet still very careful. It also got caught up in the mess, a bloody cut and a few dark bruises blooming across pale skin.
"I would've managed."
"Fedya, Fedya. Even you can't be fully free from being human." He rarely holds back when speaking, and no matter how refreshing it could be in contrast with lies Fyodor surrounds himself with, it also often has the opposite effect. He tries to pull away, irritated, but Nikolai's grip around his hand only tightens. "Though you are the closest to God any of us can get, of course." he adds in one breath, almost an apology, then quickly brings his face closer to Fyodor's wrist, pressing his lips right below the wound, near the palm.
He still manages to get a smudge of blood on his cheek, though if on accident or not is left to interpretation, as many things with Nikolai are. Always making a mess and a show of himself, even when the audience is a single person, his Kolya. It looks good on him, as red tends to, and Fyodor admires it for a few moments before reaching to wipe it away. And when his hand, the one that brings only death and despair, cups Nikolai's face, there are no screams or gore, just two people sharing a quiet moment.
After Nikolai is done with bandaging his hand, they sit silently for a while, both deep in thought, each other's presence allowing them to let their guard down.
"Do you think my scars are ugly?" Fyodor asks, indifferent face turned to him. There is no insecurity in the way he says it, just plain, detached curiosity, and his friend lets out a small laugh in return.
"No, of course not. Just didn't want to add another, that’s all." He reaches out, tracing one with his finger. Nikolai's hands are cold too, though much less than his own, and Fyodor involuntarily shudders under the sharp nails.
The other is still sitting on the floor, with his head settled down on the bed near him, Fyodor playing with his hair absentmindedly. Such scenes aren't that rare, despite the nature of what they do and the kind of people they are, but with their plans coming into motion, it's going to change soon. Fyodor can't say he isn't looking forward to it after all these years, yet he is certainly going to miss this. Both of them are used to being surrounded by pain and suffering, but this time they'll go through them separately, something they haven't done in years, and he wants to remember his closest, his only friend like this, with his braid undone, white strands scattered around him, adorning his face, with as few masks to cover his true self as there could be. It's not what most people describe as caring for someone, they both know he would sacrifice Nikolai for his goal if needed, he in turn would kill Fyodor if it meant setting himself free, and he probably will try to, in a short while. But that's just how the nature of their relationship is. And perhaps having something this human to help him keep going is not a bad thing, even if it is very much an imperfection.
"If I am the closest to God, then you are the closest to my angel, Kolya. And when we rid the world of all ability users, I'll finally be able to fulfill my promise and set you free." he repeats the private secret just the two of them share for the thousandth time, quietly, as if it were a prayer.
"I wonder. Will you?" Their eyes meet, and Fyodor can see that dangerous, aching glint in the single dull eye of his friend, but it's gone the next second, giving way to the soft, almost tender expression, and he knows that this man is going to be the death of him, but he cannot find it in himself to mind all that much.