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To some, sleep was bliss ignorance to the world around. A way to be free from this thing called life, even if it were only for a few hours. A way to lay down and relax, a way to recharge, and a way to have fantasies and dreams that most people are unable to achieve.
To some, sleep was a chore, which distracted them from their daily lives. These people fight sleep, and stay up late in the wee hours of morning working and rebelling against their bodies. These people see sleep as an obstacle.
Fyodor was the latter.
They had recently finished the first part of their plan, and had decided to hide out at an abandoned house they’d found in the woods. It was huge, with panels of stained glass lining most of the rooms, neatly tiled floors, paired with moth-eaten curtains that floated gently in the wind.
That night, he was standing at the tall panels of stained glass, admiring the moonlight that filtered through the cracks of the glass. The different colours mesmerised him. He was unable to sleep. Or to be more precise, he refused to sleep.
Fyodor was stubborn. He hated having to succumb to sleep. He felt weak. Unable to fight back if attacked. Heck, he could fall asleep and never live to see another day. He has never felt safe sleeping. Not even when he was younger. Except for when his mother was next to him, holding him in her arms, singing an old nursery rhyme, running a slim hand through his soft inky black hair as his eyelids drooped.
But even that didn’t last long, as those hands were stained with the scarlet red of blood. Eyes lifeless and mouth dribbling with more blood, slowly dripping down his mothers chin. The songbird was dead, never to sing her sweet song again, and leaving her child to fend for itself.
It was all his fault. One simple brush of his hand and his mother had crumpled to the ground like a ragdoll, lifeless and still.
Fyodor had always yearned for touch, however with an ability like his, his wish was practically impossible. His subordinates hid at the sight of him, fearing he may kill them with a simple brush of his fingers. He understood their fear. His control over his ability was questionable. He wasn’t able to “turn it off” in Dazai’s words, and only those free from sin would survive.
This uncontrollable ability was what kept Fyodor from being truly human. The ever present fear of accidentally killing people dear to him. This fear keeps him locked away, forever holed up in his room and typing away on his laptops, thinking of new plans and never interacting with others again. If he never felt attached, he would never have to fear his ability taking away the people he would ever care about.
This plan worked, until a certain white haired jester barged into his life. Quite literally. The doors would never forget it. The jester was never affected by his deadly ability. His immunity made Fyodor wary of Nikolai. His bright smile and poised personality made him seem harmless, but it was simply a facade. It made him wonder…
A sound behind Fyodor snapped him back to reality. The shimmering sounds of a familiar ability, the taps of pointed shoes hitting the ground. Speak of the devil. Fyodor sighs, as his left arm gets yanked backwards and the familiar coldness of a dagger comes a hair away from his neck. Fyodor freezes, however he does not tense up to Nikolai’s disappointment. Fyodor stands facing the glass window, and Nikolai stands behind him, a hand pinning Fyodor's left arm to his back, and the other hand reaching over Fyodor's shoulder to hold a dagger to the front of Fyodor's neck.
“…Good evening Kolya. How may I help you?” Fyodor said, eyes flicking from the gleaming silver knife to Nikolai’s steady hand. There was a moment of silence before Nikolai spoke.
“Are you not going to sleep?” The normal energetic and loud tone was absent, his words laced with exhaustion which clearly displayed the lack of sleep. Fyodor hesitated, swiftly running through excuses in his mind.
“No. I was making more plans and suddenly felt the need to walk around.” It wasn’t a total lie. He was making backup plans for the search of the book. However, he had actually finished hours ago.
He knew he could not survive without sleep. And although he is very stubborn, he’s not very set on dying before beginning the plans. So he stays awake until a random subordinate — normally Ivan —- awakens and guards his room. He then goes to sleep for a few hours before waking up again, continuing his day.
Nikolai hums, knife still to the russians throat. However, his grip on his left arm loosens.
It was confusing, really. Confusing how Nikolai was so unafraid of his ability. The jester never feared going into contact with Fyodor. Always itching to hold Fyodor's pale and slim hands in his own larger and scarred ones. Not that Fyodor minded. In fact, he welcomed it.
It was confusing whenever Nikolai so much as brushed hands with him, his stomach would twist, and his cheeks would have a weird itching feeling. With much research, this was most likely a symptom of a human emotion called “love”.
It was also confusing how much Fyodor actually cherished Nikolai. The jester is much unlike the rest of his subordinates. If his subordinates were pawns, Nikolai was the queen. It was easy to sacrifice his pawns, as long as he wins the game. However, the queen was a hard gamble. The queen has the freedom to move anywhere on the board, thus being one of the most powerful pieces in chess. But even the most powerful must be sacrificed to ensure the chances of the king surviving.
The two stand in silence, the tension thickening, with both sides deep in thought. Finally, Fyodor clears his throat.
“…Kolya, if you are not going to end my life right now, the ache in my arm will.” Nikolai looks at his left arm and seems to snap out of something. He releases Fyodor, and he turns around to get a good look at the white haired man.
His hair was tangled and undone, his signature braid out of his favourite hair tie. His eyelids were sunken, and although a grin was being shone at him, he could tell it was fake almost immediately. As beautiful as Nikolai looked with his hair undone, exhaustion was clear on the jester's face, and Fyodor felt a rare stab of concern at his dishevelled appearance. After all, this is the man that gets up three hours before a mission to braid his hair, put on makeup — which took most of the three hours — and still manages to be late.
He would never let anyone see him in this state, this vulnerable, weak state.
“Why are you not asleep?” Fyodor asks, walking across the room to sit on his bed. He crosses his arms and beckons Nikolai to speak. The grin plastered on his face fades as he purses his lips. Then his mouth opens and closes once. Twice. The third time he opened his mouth, he whispered .
“…I don’t like sleeping alone.”
It was a simple sentence. Normally a grown adult would be ashamed to say this. Normally the other party would laugh at the person, asking them to get over it. It was in character for Fyodor to be afraid to say it, he was too stubborn to admit it. However, Nikolai — the most courageous man he’d ever met — was afraid to admit such a thing? Fyodor frowns, and his mouth moves faster than his brain.
“Would you like to sleep with me?”
The question seemed to echo throughout the house, as another meaning to that sentence also rang in his mind. However, a certain jester had also registered that meaning as well, his heterochromic eyes widening. Fyodor felt his face have the same itching feeling as he scrambled to explain.
“Not that way- I meant- As co-workers- In- Since I too can’t fall asleep on my own- I-“ Fyodor stuttered. In the end he gave up and buried his face in his hands and groaned. Loud but musical laughter filled Fyodor's ears, and he wished he could replay that sound again and again. It wasn’t like anything he’d heard. It wasn’t those overconfident laughters or those put on for a show. This laughter was genuine and sweet. He caught himself peeking in between his fingers and staring at the man who was bent over, clutching his stomach as he laughed.
“My, My! How scandalous, Fedya! Although if you don’t change your mind, I don’t mind taking you up on that offer!” Nikolai teased, wiping an imaginary tear away from his eye. He was back to normal, but…it was pure joy without the masks and the fake smiles.
It was genuine.
Fyodor stares at him and the only thing that ran through his mind was how angelic Nikolai looked. His face lit up with pure joy and amusement, his white hair glowing in the lights shining through the windows. If he had an ability to pause time and store memories, this would have been a perfect time to use it.
“-dya? Fedya?~ My someone is paralysed!” Nikolai narrows his eyes and grins.
“Quiz time! Is it the joke or-“ Nikolai’s duo coloured eyes stare straight into Fyodor's magenta eyes, his smile fading and facial features softening into worry. “-the lack of sleep?”
Fyodor tenses. He’d been caught. He averted Nikolai’s steady gaze, looking at the floor as if it held his great interest. The awkward silence drags on for what feels like years, but it was only a few seconds.
“…is the offer still up though?…”
__________
“Oh c’mon Fedya, you have THREE of the same shirt?” Nikolai remarks, glaring at the pale purple and white shirt, muttering multiple clothing stores under his breath.
Fyodor shrugs, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at Nikolai, who is scrutinising every single piece of clothing he owns.
“I have four more similar ones at several bases.” Fyodor states with a deadpan face, and Nikolai shudders, and starts muttering even faster. He flips through every shirt, pulling one out every once in a while. The shorter man looks at every expression with much amusement. Nikolai’s expressions were a range from absolutely disgusted to interested, turning his nose up at ones of his (purple) hoodies, and admiring one (also purple) button-up that was adorned with ruffles at the cuffs and the neckline.
This goes on for a few minutes, until Nikolai flicks to the last one (another hoodie). Nikolai hums, having filtered outfits that would look great on Fyodor, and the ones…that would not (the three similar outfits).
“Alright! I’m done!” Nikolai sings out, spinning around to turn to Fyodor, his overcoat flying behind him.
“Let’s get to sleep.”
__________
If you told Past Fyodor that he’d be laying in bed with another person — specifically a man — he would not have believed you. Yet here he is now, laid beside Nikolai.
At first, Fyodor had taken the right side of the bed, flinching away from the left side when Nikolai so much as twitched. Fyodor was drowsy, his eyes lidded and vision blurring. However, the blonde in front of him was wide awake, playing with a strand of his snow white hair and humming to himself. They were facing each other, either Fyodor being afraid to turn his back to him, or Nikolai simply preferring to face Fyodor.
Silence follows the two for a few minutes, with both having different levels of tension. Nikolai was completely relaxed, whereas every muscle in Fyodor's body was tensed up, itching to get up and out. It wasn’t that he did not want this. It was that his ability may activate, and he’d accidentally kill Nikolai.
“Hey Fedya?” Nikolai whispered, tilting his head to make eye contact with Fyodor. Fyodor looked into his eyes, showing that he was listening. Nikolai hesitated and darted his eyes away, breaking eye contact and caused silence to fill the room for a few more seconds. Clearly sensing his discomfort, Fyodor whispered back.
“I won’t judge you, Kolya,” Fyodor reassured, “I swear.”
Nikolai, seeming a little more confident, glanced back up at Fyodor's eyes to see what must be his attempt at comfort. Seeing Fyodor’s face was hilarious. Instead of having a reassuring smile, he sees what seems like a grimace instead.
Nikolai giggled at his face, lifting his hands to his face to hide his laughter. He knew Fyodor would not be offended, he was way too used to others laughing at his attempts at normal expressions. Soon enough he heard a chuckle from the demon himself.
“That’s great! May I touch your hair?” Nikolai whispers, and nearly jumps in excitement when Fyodor nods, the action done slowly, clearly displaying his exhaustion.
Nikolai takes a lock of Fyodor's hair in his hand, holding it delicately. He twists it around his fingers, feeling its soft texture, and admiring how well-kept it was, even with his ushanka always worn. As Nikolai plays with his hair, Fyodor finds himself falling asleep like how he’d with his mother. He found the feeling of Nikolai’s fingers brushing through his hair soothing. His throat catches, and his eyes felt like they were wet.
He was crying.
Nikolai stares at him, watching the one everyone calls a demon cry. His mind pieces it all together, and once again starts to brush Fyodor's hair with his fingers, being as gentle as possible. He also starts to hum an old russian song that they both knew, and Fyodor's whole body relaxes completely. He moves closer, tucking his head under Nikolai’s chin and pulling him closer.
Fyodor had fallen asleep, having been thoroughly relaxed for the first time in years. Nikolai gazes at him, trying not to move so as to not wake the Russian up. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, Nikolai whispers to him, “Goodnight, Fedya.” and falls asleep.
—————
If anyone had asked Ivan, he would have not revealed that when he went to wake Fyodor, he’d seen the two holding onto each other, both sleeping soundly.
He never saw Fyodor's closet sorted properly, and the clear look of comfort on both of the terrorists' faces.
He totally did not see anything, he smiles to himself as he quietly shuts the door behind him after leaving the room.