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"Aren't you going to get going?" Nikolai asked, tilting his head slightly. "Dazai and Sigma-kun have been gone for a while now, you know. You aren't getting cold feet now are you?" the jester giggled a little, then sat next to Fyodor on the bench. "I don't feel like leaving here until you go, Dos-kun."
"Not to worry, I have a plan." The other replied, sounding as calm as ever. However, inside Fyodor was facing a... dilemma to say the least. Looking at the silver-haired man sitting beside him only made his inner predicament worse. Yes, he should probably start trying to escape, so why wasn't he? Knowing Dazai, the man had probably ended up somewhere around half-way through the prison's defenses by now. Yet something compelled him to stay here, staring absentmindedly at his companion.
Ah, well there was the problem, wasn't it? Nikolai Gogol. He had built a bond unlike any other with the jester in their time together, perplexing as it was. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Fyodor had a feeling that this would be the last time he would see his dear friend. There was no rhyme or reason to this, it was simply a feeling. Such a convincing, absolute feeling.
His heart ached. This feeling was unlike anything he had experienced with anyone else. It was a deep longing. Their relationship was... strange to say the least, consisting of mutual ambiguity as to what they were, built on the basis of something inexplicable as well as... well, attempted murder on one side of said relationship.
Nikolai wasn't shy about his murderous intent, so why did Fyodor not run away? His sense of self-preservation simply wasn't there when it came to Nikolai, there was no urging or feeling of a need to get away from him. He wanted to stay by his side forever. They would live as partners in crime, dear friends, the only people who really understood one another. Yes, that's what he wanted.
In a perfect world, perhaps. But in this reality, he only had thirty minutes left to live. Thirty minutes to escape this prison. Or maybe not. After all, the only thing waiting for him outside was the book. Yet, somehow being around his companion dulled his sense of determination, almost like an intriguing side goal for him to complete.
No, that comparison wasn't quite right. At this point, there were only really two choices. The book, or Nikolai. He could choose the book, his reason for all of the plans that had fallen into place prior, or Nikolai, his intimate friend. The book, well, nothing was certain about it. He faced the Armed Detective Agency, The Port Mafia, and the Hunting Dogs when it came to this. Nikolai on the other hand, was absolute. He could spend his last thirty minutes with him, no questions or adversity.
Well, there it was. The main reason he was having such a hard time making this decision. Weakness. He was tired, so, so tired of all this. He had worked himself to death over this plan, all for the sake of creating a better world. It was a noble goal. However, at this point, everyday he woke up (or didn't, as he simply didn't sleep some days,) a rush of fatigue swept over him. He was tired of living like this. How deplorable it was, rejecting plans for improving the state of the world in favor of personal gratification, but... he was tired of fighting. He would give in to weakness, as much as every rational part of his brain rejected it.
Tick tock. Time was running out, as evidenced by the clock mounted on the wall opposite him. I wonder how long until I start feeling the effects of the poison, he mused. Fyodor stood up and started pacing, hoping the movement would provide some sort of distraction from the thoughts swirling endlessly in his head.
"Ah!" Nikolai smiled and clapped his hands while standing up. "Are you going to get going now?"
"I'm not going anywhere." he replied, his voice firm.
"What do you mean, you're not going anywhere?" Nikolai asked, puzzled.
"I'm saying that I choose you, Kolya." He whispered, letting the affectionate nickname slip out.
"You choose me? But- why? Why would you throw it all away?"
"Because I'm tired. That's why. Is there really any purpose for the thing we call living, Nikolai? All my life, I've believed that my job was to create a better world, one without sin. But... maybe there's another reason. You. I'm so tired, Nikolai. So tired of all this," The words started spilling out like a river of thoughts Fyodor had been having for the longest time but had been afraid to voice. This time, the dam, his reason and sense and everything logical, had split open.
"This- this is wrong. I'm abandoning the work of God to commit a sin, Kolya. I'm no better than everyone else in this world."
"I don't care what anyone else has to say. You are my God, and I, your angel, and that is all that matters right now. We don't need the approval of anyone else, to me, your word is law. I love you, Fedya." He insisted, cupping the cheek of his partner in his hand.
"I think... I think I can love you."
~
"Now then, care to dance with death?" the jester asked, extending a hand. Fyodor laced his fingers through the clown's, positioning himself across from the taller man.
"There's no music?" he asked, as Nikolai started to sway.
"We'll make our own." and such he did, humming away at a melody that felt strangely familiar. The tune to which they were dancing was rather slow, but at an erratic tempo. Quite fitting to his situation, Fyodor thought. Here the two were, dancing around a room while the world was slowly crashing down around them.
The two twirled around the room in perfect sync, spinning and dipping, waltzing and stepping for what seemed to be forever. They whirled around in a desperate dance, as the hummed music dipped up and down in loudness and intensity.
Fyodor watched quietly as they danced, the sight of Nikolai spinning around with his eyes closed and hair flying around, only to land back in its original position, framing his face. The subtle warmth that he felt in his hands when they met spread through his body, letting feeling back in his fingers.
A sense of longing attacked him, like the cold hand of death gripping his heart, which felt like lead. This wouldn't last long, no, not long at all. How happy he would be, to stay here forever, in this lull in the constant loss and violence that were the last thirty or so years of his life. How happy he would be, to remain here as long as he wanted, just the two of them. How he wished that was the case.
In the midst of their dance, Nikolai's eye fluttered open, squinting into a crescent.
"How lovely you look tonight, my Fedya," he whispered, letting the makeshift song drop, "You'll be dying soon, and a part of me almost hopes otherwise," the jester muttered under his breath, "What a shame."
That's right, how much time had elapsed since the poison had entered his veins? Twenty, maybe twenty-five? As though the thought itself summoned it, a sharp pain was felt in the conjurer's heart, akin to a heart attack almost, or so Fyodor presumed, never having experienced one himself.
"Dammit, has the poison started already?" Nikolai asked, gently taking Fyodor's hand and leading him back to the bench. "I should have accounted for your immune system to be weaker..." the jester said to himself, pondering this.
The Russian was lying down on the bench by then, when he felt another jerk of his heart, this time incapacitating him. Nikolai knelt there, the conjurer's hand still entwined in his own, watching the life, and the blood, drain out of this dear friend.
"Good night, Dos-kun." The jester said in an almost sing-song tone, setting the now bloody hand of Fyodor's on his chest, and lightly brushing his hand over his intimate friend's face solemnly. "Good night, Fedya."