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As Nikolai watched the helicopter crash into Meursault, with Fyodor inside, stabbed through the gut and coughing up blood, he was completely frozen in place. He couldn’t move, couldn’t call out, couldn’t even use his ability. But honestly, there wasn’t really anything he could do but watch.
As the smoke cleared, Nikolai had no idea how he felt. For so long, he’d been planning this day, eagerly waiting for Fyodor’s bullshit to finally catch up to him. But now, with the burning, crumpled helicopter on the ground in front of him, he didn’t feel free, he felt… empty. He had (technically, thank you, Dazai) succeeded at one of his main goals in life. He had killed his dearest friend. But now, what the hell was he supposed to do? He assumed the Decay of Angels were done, with Fyodor dead, Sigma out of commission, Bram who-fucking-knows-where, and Fukuchi likely either dead or arrested. He had nowhere to go, and no way off of this stupid prison. He absolutely wasn’t hitching a ride with Dazai and Chuuya, partly because he was bound to be arrested the second his feet touched the ground, but also because though they seemed interesting enough, Nikolai would put money on their trip to the ground featuring a lot of bickering, then furiously making out, bickering again, and so on and so forth. Even through the haze that had settled over his mind, Nikolai could hear Chuuya bitching about the fangs, and Dazai responding with offers to help take them out (cue suggestive wink), telling him how handsome he looked with them, and how he might finally get a girlfriend. Nikolai had known both of them for a solid thirty minutes max, and even he could tell neither of them wanted Chuuya to get a girlfriend.
Nikolai’s attention was finally snapped away from the infamous “Double Black” as he felt his shirt grow wet and sticky. He looked down, remembering that he was still holding Fyodor’s now-detached hand. He chuckled a bit to himself. “Ah Fedya… I can’t believe this is the most romantic you’ve ever been.” Nikolai sighed. The beauty of the starry sky above contrasted beautifully with the destruction of the prison below. The stars and nebulas however many light years away made Fyodor’s blood and the injuries on his dismembered arm shone in tandem. If it had been anyone else’s blood, anyone else’s detached arm, and anyone else’s failed escape plan, Nikolai might’ve laughed or cracked a joke. In this moment, however, his sense of humor abandoned him altogether. He could only stare blankly at the lake of blood that had formed under the crumpled helicopter, and squeeze Fyodor’s hand tighter, imagining he was still alive to feel it. Maybe if he held it tightly, closely, and long enough, it would regain that barely-there warmth that reminded him that Fyodor was alive, and that despite his title of “the Demon Fyodor,” he was still human. Fyodor’s brain was a normal brain, made of organic matter, and not a computer tasked with calculating plots, backstabbings, and how to be as much a bastard as physically possible.
Nikolai’s shirt and coat were undoubtedly ruined, but he couldn’t care less. Shirts and coats could be cleaned, or replaced if needed, but Fyodor couldn’t. If anything, in some weird, twisted way, staining his clothes with Fyodor’s blood felt better than admiring his hand from a distance. It gave Fyodor permanence beyond death, showed that his stupid anemic body left a mark on the world that at least one person didn’t want to scrub away and forget about. Nikolai smiled softly to himself. “You’d think I’m such an idiot if you saw me moping over your body like this, wouldn’t you, Fyodor? You bastard.” He chuckled at the thought of Fyodor under the rubble, cursing Nikolai out in Russian for being a sappy bastard. “Well, too bad for you. I can mourn you as much as I’d like, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I can hold your hand for as long as I want, and you can’t stop me.”
Soon, Nikolai grew tired of standing, and opted to sit down facing the destroyed helicopter as he continued his mourning. He traced the scars of wounds long healed, and gingerly unwrapped the now-blood soaked bandages covering his hand. Next, he carefully cleaned all the blood off of Fyodor’s arm, before rewrapping it in fresh bandages. It was the least he could do for all that remained of his dearest friend.
As the sun slowly rose overhead, Nikolai grew progressively more tired. He knew he had to leave, he knew he wanted to leave, but something within him kept him tethered in place. Something kept him glued in front of the wreckage that covered the rest of his friend’s corpse. He so desperately wanted to disappear into his coat, and vanish to somewhere else, somewhere he could pretend his beloved Fedya was still alive. But alas, that place doesn’t exist. No matter where he’d go, he’d always imagine Fyodor by his side, trying to kill him. Trying to fulfill his promise to Nikolai.
Nikolai gazed into the sunrise, and shed a silent tear as he gripped Fyodor’s hand ever-tighter.
“I suppose only some birds fly, Fedya. Perhaps I’m meant to be a penguin, wings burdened by you and your memory.”