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Snow and hail crashed into the ground, hitting everything in their way. It was entirely dark out as the night had begun. Dark clouds covered the miraculous world and stories of the moon and stars, concealing all the light that would usually come from there.
Nikolai fought his way through the storm. With every step he took through the snow, he feared stumbling and landing in the cold. Oh, he was shivering even as he ran, tears streaming down his face. They almost felt like crystals in the cold.
Yes, he had a goal, yet could not predict how far away that goal was. He ran and ran and hoped to end up at his favorite place, his comfort zone. Every part of his body ached, be it mentally or physically. At such an age and being so little, he was fragile, so very fragile. He so wished to be older and stronger, to be a bird or an angel that soared through the sky, free of everything.
But he wasn’t––he was twelve and bound to a mortal body.
Heaving heavily, the boy lost his fight and his will. He collapsed, cold engulfing his body, his heart, his everything. The frost numbed him, allowing him to close his eyes peacefully. If he were to die here and now, he would accept it. Death would allow him the liberty he desired. Life would deny it to him, always.
“Why are you lying there on the ground?”
Nikolai’s consciousness was fading, but he made out the faintest of noises. Panic rushed through his body. What if his parents had found him? However, he had given up his will to fight, body unresponsive. He could almost taste the flavor of death, sweet and oh-so bitter. Coldness spread to his heart, and he couldn’t find the pain that came with it more comforting.
Yet, even as he embraced death with open arms, he was able to open his eyes and feel warmth. Time had passed, and he wasn’t on the freezing ground anymore. No, he lay on familiar wooden ground. Smells of wood and grass filled his nose. In front of him was a small fire made with wood and sticks from further away, its warmth approaching Nikolai’s heart.
He was in his favorite shack. But he did not recall ever getting here.
“You are awake, I see,” a voice came beside him. Startled, for Nikolai had not seen the person, his will returned, and with his greatest strength, he pushed himself up. Only then did he see the face of the person whose words were like weapons, whose appearance would forever be embedded into Nikolai’s mind.
The boy seemed Nikolai’s age, eyes young and dark but observant. His black hair reached his chin, while his skin could rival Nikolai’s snow-white hair, bleak and lacking every color. He wore a warm black jacket with fur, yet he still appeared to be freezing.
For a moment, both of them merely looked at each other, absorbing the other’s every feature to figure him out. Then, Fyodor coughed. “I am assuming you must be feeling cold, so please feel free to stay as long as you want,” he muttered. His speech was awkward as he drew out some words more than others, but his expression remained indifferent.
“Who are you, and why did you save me?” Nikolai then inquired, eyes young and curious. He sounded hopeful, searching for an answer to every question he had. The stranger did not talk for a bit. Then, he smiled, albeit lacking any sweetness. “My name is Fyodor Dostoyevsky,” he began, establishing eye contact as he talked, “and I saved you so that there would not be a corpse whenever I walk to this place.”
Nikolai stared before breaking out in hysterical laughter. He threw his head back as he laughed freely like he hadn’t for several years. It was so honest that it was hilarious. No regular person would ever tell someone that straight to their face. After lies and deception, such honesty was relaxing and comforting.
“I like you, Fyodor!” Nikolai shouted with excitement, Fyodor flinching at such volume. “No, Fyodor sounds too formal. Let’s go with…” he put a finger on his lips in thought, “Fedya! Yes, that sounds better!” He chuckled upon seeing the other’s bewilderment, and suddenly, years of energy and thrill rushed through him. “My name is Nikolai Gogol, but if I call you Fedya, you may call me Kolya instead!”
Such cheerfulness was naïve, but in the end, it brought an honest smile to Fyodor’s lips. It was soft and almost invisible, but it was there and showed emotion. “Kolya,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on the other’s face, “what happened to you to arrive in such a state?”
And then, Nikolai’s cheerfulness crumbled. His smile vanished as his eyes blew wide, and he laughed, so unlike the one of full joy before. Desperation and agony were deeply concealed in his tone. Clutching his right eye, he dropped to his knees anew, eye contact with his new friend unbroken.
“Dear Fedya, you do not understand the agony of lacking the one thing you so dearly desire. I want to be free, but why are my parents against it? Why do they restrict my every move? They chain me to their decisions and force me to behave against my will. Is it so wrong of me to go against them, go against their will and freedom to obtain mine?”
He had thought he had lost everything. Yet, in that moment, word after word spilled out of his mouth uncontrollably. They had only met a few minutes prior, but Nikolai felt more at ease talking to Fyodor than he ever did with his parents. How peculiar it was to endear the presence of a mere stranger more than the ones of his blood.
“No, you are not in the wrong in the slightest,” Fyodor spoke, and Nikolai’s heart got pierced, for no one had ever supported his decisions; no one had ever been on his side when he told how he suffered and cried. “Every human has the right to freedom, a will. But your parents force their choices and supposed ‘freedom’ onto you, do they not? They hinder you from grander accomplishments.”
Fyodor’s smile had long faded, abandoned. “My parents are the same in that regard. They selfishly only act for their own benefit, not caring or attempting to acknowledge if it is wrong or right because it looks the same in their heads and eyes. They treat you as someone––no, something––different because you do not fit their standard of what is appropriate and what is not.”
Those words rang true in Nikolai’s mind, and abruptly, he acknowledged something. He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t wrong. No, his parents were, always had been. Why did he ever doubt it?
But then, what would he do? If he was right, how was he supposed to obtain such a faraway wish as liberty when the chains blocked his way?
“But for now,” Fyodor said almost as if he had heard Nikolai’s thoughts, “we have to endure those things, as unbearable as they can get sometimes.”
Nikolai wondered if the other possessed a plan, a way for them to escape the entrapment that was their parents, figures above them. He had endured twelve years beforehand, and with those few moments, Nikolai trusted a random stranger, a new friend, more than his parents.
However, Nikolai noticed something. “Say, Fedya,” he said as he removed his hand from his eye, “I have been coming here for a while already, but you never turned up. Why now? Where did you come from?”
It was cute to witness how Fyodor thought, eyes slightly moving to the side before trailing back to Nikolai. “I live nearby,” he replied, “and I never considered coming here before today. I merely wanted to enjoy the scenery and happened to stumble upon you. Then, I grabbed pieces of wood I could find and created a fire to warm you and myself.”
The lie was simple, constructed by few words and deliberation, and it stung in Nikolai’s heart, for he valued honesty. But if Fyodor did not deign to voice the truth, he had to accept it. Furthermore, he thought it intriguing how easily he had deciphered Fyodor’s lie. Fyodor may have been more of an intellectual than any children his age, yet his fingers fumbled in his lap, and his eyes traveled to the side more easily.
It was an act older Fyodor could polish, but young Fyodor struggled with. Perhaps, Nikolai merely happened to be more observant. It was true; he took great pleasure in finding Fyodor out, a person, a child, whose mind advanced beyond his own. Every word uttered from those lips felt like a new idea had been placed into Nikolai’s mind and soul. Despite that, however, Fyodor did not return such trust, and so he lied.
“Am I to assume we will meet again, then?” Nikolai asked then, eyes shining in the same young curiosity they had prior. He so dearly wanted to say, to plea, “Please, please, meet me again, for I am so taken in by you. I do not know what to do if you leave. Come back.” Yet, words like that seemed foreign to say out loud, as if it was in another language Nikolai had not learned yet.
“We will, here and elsewhere. This meeting was no coincidence, and neither will any of our future ones be,” Fyodor said, gazing deep into Nikolai’s eyes. Those words were genuine and full of unspoken promises that Nikolai beamed, excitement returning to his feeble heart. Then, Fyodor arose from his seated position and stepped toward the door. Without any other words, he left the shack, the cold wind howling through the night sky.
He had trusted fate to bring them back together.
Chuckling and smiling and finally behaving like the child he was, Nikolai grinned at the door.
“I can not wait to see you again,” he whispered into the nothingness.
<><><><><><><><><>
The shack transformed from a sacred place Nikolai had frequented for comfort to be alone into a place he went to for the comfort of his new friend. Whenever his parents asked about his whereabouts, Nikolai smiled sweetly and uttered words of delicate lies he had learned to use as weapons.
“Say, Fedya,” he muttered one day as his shoes stepped on fine sand, “what do you plan on doing with your parents?”
Two years had passed since they had first met, and Fyodor remained as quiet and secretive as before. No, he even furthered his techniques in manipulation and deceit, building up a wall surrounding his real self no one could break. It was a sick thing to find pleasure in, but Nikolai enjoyed being the only one to look through those walls.
“I will free them,” Fyodor replied nonchalantly as his gaze swept over the ocean's dark blue.
The air at the beach was cold and unsettling. There were no sounds aside from their footsteps, and Nikolai rubbed his arms on occasion to warm himself. Cold breezes blew by to mess with their hair as they walked.
“Free them, you say,” Nikolai mumbled, eyes widening. “Do they even deserve that?” He stopped in his tracks and turned around to face the ocean. Birds flew in the distance. As Nikolai smiled, he stretched out his right arm, hand engulfing the shadows of the flying creatures. “Do such sinful people deserve the right to obtain freedom?”
Chuckling, Fyodor stopped, too, and stepped next to the other. “Everyone deserves salvation. I am merely the guide to lead them to that path,” he said with an insincere smile. His gaze traveled across the waves that crashed onto the shore a few meters away. For once, he did not bother to step away from the water that would stain his clothes.
“Then,” Nikolai mumbled, regaining the other’s attention, “do I deserve to be free too?” The birds in the background began chirping, filling the eerie silence with chatter.
“As everyone does, yes,” Fyodor replied as he folded his freezing hands behind his back. “But the freedom you seek is different from the one everyone else does.” Those words differed from the reply Nikolai had received two years prior, even if only slightly. It filled him with the peace of being understood, yet a deep feeling started to dwell in his heart.
He did not desire to inquire about such a feeling.
So, a grin spread across his lips as he wandered into the water, black boots drenching. Then, he changed his mind and pivoted. Eagerly, he grabbed Fyodor’s arm and dragged him along. In response, the other appeared caught off-guard before regaining his composure swiftly.
“Do you see the birds over there?” Nikolai exclaimed as the water hit his knees. His eyes shone in contrast to the gray sky. “I want to fly like them; I want to be them. The water is the closest I can get to being in the sky.” Despite the discomfort of warm cloth clinging to his skin, he beamed.
Fyodor did not share such sentiment, lips quivering as he took ahold of his arms. The cold nagged at his covered skin, and his lips turned slightly blue the longer he remained standing. Nonetheless, even after Nikolai had forcefully let go of his arms, giving Fyodor the freedom to do as he will, he shoes did not leave the spot.
He didn’t want that freedom, anyway.
“So, you like birds?” Fyodor asked despite knowing the obvious answer. Nikolai was the only person Fyodor desired to ask such unnecessary questions. He took enjoyment out of figuring the other out, and seemingly meaningless questions possessed their own meanings with him.
As predicted, Nikolai’s lips stretched even further, a soft glint in his eyes. “I adore them. They have the freedom I am seeking. They do not have to be locked inside a cage and instead can roam free through the sky.” He turned to face Fyodor. “Do you not find that admirable?”
Instead of receiving the opportunity to respond, a wave hit Fyodor while being too focused on Nikolai. Yelping in shock, he jumped to the side. His entire body grew frozen upon facing the cold after growing wet. Nikolai, however, laughed, doubling over as he witnessed the expression on the other’s face.
“You look like a wet kitten!” Nikolai exclaimed in between his laughs, laughing slowly dissolving into giggling. Contrary to the cheerful expression of Nikolai, Fyodor wore one of displeasure and annoyance. Mumbling beneath his breath, he turned and walked out of the water. Still chuckling, Nikolai followed close after.
“Now, now, Fedya. Turn that frown upside down!” he said as they stepped back onto the shore. Even as his friend suffered, he did not seem to mind in the slightest. The frown, however, did not turn upside down, Fyodor’s quivering blue lips stretching into a thin line. His entire body was drenched, and drops of water ran down his clothes.
Upon witnessing the other’s indifference, Nikolai shrugged off his jacket. “Here,” he said, grinning while draping the coat over Fyodor’s shoulders, “this may warm you a little. I did not get wet all the way, so I should be fine!” Dry as it was, it brought comfort to Fyodor’s cold demeanor. Where the warmth came from, he could not figure. After all, it warmed more than just his body.
“Will you not grow cold instead?” Fyodor asked with an indifferent expression. Opposed to a simple “thank you,” Fyodor found himself asking more useless questions. Every time he had thanked any other person, it had felt insincere, anyway. To ask questions meant to inquire; it meant to care about one enough to want to figure them out. The wind blew by, allowing him to sneeze afterward.
Nikolai chuckled at the sneeze before turning around to walk forward. “I am not drenched from top to bottom, at least. Besides,” he said as he gazed back into dark, lifeless eyes, “the first time we met, you warmed me up. Now it is my turn.” He winked, eyes young and curious and playful.
It was ironic how Nikolai had been the one to drag Fyodor into the cold water in the first place. Nonetheless, Fyodor did not find himself to get angry in the slightest, and his gaze traveled to the water anew.
“Even so, let us return here after everything is over.”
Nikolai stopped at such words. As he froze on the spot, he muttered, “After everything is over? Why so?” There was fear and uncertainty in his tone, yet his eyes carried an excited glint.
Fyodor smiled. “Do you know what water symbolizes?” he asked as his gaze remained straight ahead. Without receiving an answer, he then continued, “It symbolizes rebirth. When everything is said and done, we should return here and acknowledge our newly found freedom, as you put it.”
Silence erupted as Fyodor stepped past an unmoving Nikolai, the dry coat swinging through the air. Then, Nikolai smiled anew, all teeth and barely any lips. “You never cease to amaze me, Fedya!” he exclaimed happily before catching up. “A rebirth, you say? How interesting to view it that way.”
Fyodor chuckled. “I suppose so. What would you imagine yourself to be like then?”
Another unnecessary question, for the answer appeared obvious.
“A bird,” Nikolai said, smiling. “A bird by your side.”
Fyodor’s eyes widened slightly.
<><><><><><><><><>
Sixteen years. Nikolai had lived for sixteen years, bowing his head to his parents, to God sitting from above, who appeared to judge every action Nikolai took. Sixteen years he had spent in Church, in a place he utterly despised as it ripped away any small source of liberty he might have found in himself years prior.
“Do this!” they hissed every time Nikolai breathed in. “Do that!” they exclaimed whenever Nikolai released his breath. And as not to disturb those people even further, he complied and forced himself to be chained, locked inside a cage he had been in since birth.
Sixteen years and Fyodor Dostoevsky had been in his life for four.
“There is no truth in belief. Everyone’s belief is different, and how would one judge if they are right or wrong?” Fyodor muttered one day, eyes cast toward the sky as he and Nikolai sat on the grass near the church. The sun spread its rays as no clouds hovered in the clear blue sky.
It was Fyodor’s special way to comfort him, Nikolai knew. After Nikolai had stormed out of the church after having been lectured on this and that, he had sought a place to find comfort in, to calm himself down. Coincidentally, Fyodor had witnessed such an act and followed closely, leading to the two lying down in the moss-green grass adorned by colorful flowers.
“But you believe in God, don’t you?” Nikolai countered, albeit a smile returned to his lips. It was a sweet attempt at comfort (which worked) because if he discredited the truth in beliefs, would that not further show how wrong Nikolai’s parents were? In such a situation, Nikolai desired to know he was not at fault, despite what his parents taught him.
He loathed loved how well Fyodor knew him.
“I do, yes,” Fyodor replied with ease. “God has made me. I firmly believe such a fact and that people have a mission, just like me.” He grew quiet for a few seconds as birds chirping filled the air. Nikolai chuckled lowly before he leaned back, eyes never leaving Fyodor while he made himself comfortable on the ground. After he leaned against his arm to further study his friend, Fyodor let out another breath.
“The concept of God, a higher being, is peculiar, would you not agree?” Fyodor continued, gaze slowly traversing back to Nikolai. “Even if He were not to exist, people would create another higher being merely to maintain order. As long as they have a system and rules, they can work and function. Following such events, facts and lies of God get twisted easily, creating a system of beliefs hard to follow.”
For a second, Nikolai’s eyes widened, and his head slightly slipped away from the hand holding it. Never before had he viewed it that way. Never before had someone shown him parts and secrets of the world he never learned about. Nonetheless, he regained his composure and muttered, “What big words for a sixteen-year-old boy.” He laughed at the idea, even as he knew they were both far from ordinary.
Deep down, Nikolai acknowledged how Fyodor tore him away from the clutches of his parents little by little, words powerful and more useful than any action taken. Questioning the beliefs and morals of his parents meant to defy their views and their literate ways to raise Nikolai. He defied his parents’ will merely by acknowledging the real world and their wrong teachings.
Deep down, Nikolai knew he had run away from the church, from his parents, for the first time that day due to hanging out with Fyodor often enough to be influenced. He had become rebellious for freedom because someone was there to teach him that.
And then, as Nikolai watched the other’s raven hair swing through the air, watched as his lips parted slightly to suck in a breath, watched as dark purple eyes full of secrets bore into his own, he felt a tug in his heart, so akin to a burning desire. It hurt to get closer, and he did not dare to, but he wanted to, for the light was so tempting.
He had been attached to his parents by brute force, and slowly those ties were loosening their hold. In their stead, new ties to a friend began to bind by choice. But was it by choice when those strings were so similar to the ones to his parents? They differed initially, but in the end, both would eventually lead to Nikolai’s proclaimed freedom being out of reach as he remained chained down on the ground.
“I have been thinking too much lately, Fedya,” he confessed to his dear friend, forcing his gaze away from the source of the thinking. The burning in his heart worsened as he felt the other lie down next to him.
“Is thinking not good?” Fyodor asked with his head turned to Nikolai. Those eyes studied every part of Nikolai, and he felt so pried open yet sturdy under such fierceness. And so, Nikolai redirected his head to Fyodor, whose prying gaze tried to read him like a book. Nikolai returned that stare with the same intensity even as he felt himself light on fire.
A feeling so dangerous gnawed at his heart, and he could not name it.
“Not when it is too much to handle,” Nikolai replied with a small smile. It quickly turned into a too-wide grin. “Your pretty little head does not seem to have a problem with it, though.” For anyone else, those words would feel full of sarcasm hidden behind a mean stab. Yet, both of them knew it was more a compliment than anything.
Nonetheless, Fyodor was unimpressed, an eyebrow raised. “Kolya, I worry about a lot, too,” he mumbled, almost slightly offended by that accusation. He looked so serious as he bit his bottom lip that Nikolai chuckled a little. As much as the other tried to conceal it, he had smiled slightly upon hearing ‘pretty little head.’
Instead of responding, Nikolai’s eyes traversed the flower field surrounding Fyodor. Slowly, he plucked a daisy from the small space between them. Only then did he acknowledge how close they had gotten.
“This flower is dying,” he mumbled, pouting as his free hand graced the withered petals. They contrasted the overall innocent shine of the other white, youthful petals.
“Now that you removed it, it will soon fully die, anyway,” Fyodor said, sighing. Then, his eyes studied the flower the same way he did with Nikolai. They pierced through the petals one by one and looked up at Nikolai from time to time as if there was a connection to be drawn between the two.
“How pure innocence can die so fast,” Fyodor muttered after he returned his gaze to Nikolai. Smiling, even as he did not understand the other’s intention, Nikolai nodded, eyes wide and bright. Only when he was with Fyodor did he ever regain his lost youth. Only when he was with Fyodor did he laugh and smile like he could with no one else.
Only when he was with Fyodor did his heart fill with complicated emotions that threatened to spill over the more time they spent together.
“But the flower is still pretty, is it not?” Nikolai asked with a blinding smile, even as his heart cried out words and threats in a language he was familiar with, only choosing to be deaf to ignore what they implied. Admitting to those feelings would mean destroying what they had, destroying every purpose Nikolai had found in life.
Take his face in your hands and savor the skin with your fingers. Peel the soft, pretty skin off until he is no more. Free yourself of this burden of feelings.
Fyodor’s dry, beautiful lips stretched into a small smile as he gazed into Nikolai’s eyes, almost as if he saw what Nikolai felt. “I agree, it still is,” Fyodor said while his intense gaze trapped Nikolai in his spot, allowing shivers to run down his spine. Nikolai’s own smile faded, uncertainty crawling into his eyes.
It wasn’t about the flower anymore.
<><><><><><><><><>
“Be grateful we even give you cake on your birthday!”
Nikolai had grown numb to such complaints from his parents. They continued until they ran out of breath and had to take a break. Even then, their eyes carried venom in them as they stared at their child in disappointment.
Unaffected, Nikolai merely grinned after such an outburst. “I never even complained about anything,” he said, the hidden implication clear behind those words.
You always find something to complain about no matter what I do.
Even as his parents dissolved into a complaining mess anew, Nikolai did not care, for he had better things to do on his eighteenth birthday. After all, Fyodor had promised him something wondrous as a gift, something he would forever remember. That required them to meet up at the other’s house, so Nikolai jumped out of his seat and strolled to the door, his steps lazy.
His parents appeared baffled upon such a display of disobedience that they remained silent, watching as their son opened the door only to slam it behind him with a loud smack afterward. Soon after, they would fall into another pit of complaints, but Nikolai had been far enough not to witness it.
The sun did not win against the clouds as it had been overtaken, its rays unable to spread. No birds flew, Nikolai noted. The neighborhood was quiet, as usual, and it unsettled Nikolai more than it calmed him. Growing up with only silence to pray made him despise it, and how ironic it was for him to dislike the loud prattling of his parents while preferring the quiet talk of his dear friend.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, a man Nikolai loved in the most complicated of manners, as it turned out. He desired to steal the other’s heart, to hold it and treasure it in more ways than one. Red, bloody, and beautiful. The more they met, the more that desire grew and grew until he was forced to listen to the voices of his heart.
He never knew how to act upon that desire, though, so everything remained as it had been.
“I am finally here!” he announced to no one, as there was no audience, Fyodor still locked up inside. Nonetheless, Nikolai liked to imagine he had an audience following him wherever he went, an audience he could perform for whenever he so desired. Putting up a face the previous years for his parents hadn’t been so hard, after all.
“Fedya!” he shouted after nothing happened. “I am here!” After waiting a few more seconds, he noticed the door was slightly ajar. Fresh air and a smell of something new greeted him as he pushed the door to the side. “Do not mind if I do.” He grinned a little to himself while traversing through the empty halls.
The grin fell as he gazed at a sight he hadn’t expected.
Blood dripped down soft, pale skin in a way Nikolai had imagined more than he could count, albeit under different circumstances. Although, it was only a tiny portion of the liquid spread across the entire floor of the presumably living room. Red stained the lifeless bodies on the ground.
Among those corpses, Fyodor looked the most lifeless out of all.
“Happy birthday, Kolya,” Fyodor mumbled with a forced smile. It pained to look at, yet Nikolai was too stunned to speak. His eyes traveled to the bodies belonging to the parents of Fyodor, as Nikolai presumed, and then back to the cause of it all, a knife full of blood in his right hand. Blood dripped from it, too, staining the brown carpet with the color of great sin.
“So this is what you meant by ‘freeing your parents,’” Nikolai stated, a strange smile lying on his lips. It wasn’t a question, for Nikolai understood what had transpired, but the shock lay in his veins nonetheless. With wide eyes, his lips stretched into a grin too broad to be sane. “In this way, you did not only free them but also yourself, correct?”
Freedom. A concept so dire and hard to grasp, something Nikolai desired more than anything. At that moment, that concept seemed closer, the solution clearer. To kill meant to free. If he killed his parents, would that not free him from the chains and clutches they had on him? Would that not provide him the liberty he so dearly sought?
“If you want to see it that way, then yes,” Fyodor responded as he stood there, unmoving. Despite having killed his parents, he appeared almost apathetic, eyes lifelessly staring holes into the ground. Yet, the grip on his knife was tight as his knuckles turned white in his grip. Something bothered him, but Nikolai, in that state, was unable to care.
Instead, he gazed at the pale, young man standing before him, drenched in blood with corpses at his feet. With the light shining through rusty windows, Fyodor looked as if painted on a canvas by an artist who fell in love with their art. The light almost created a halo on his head, and Nikolai could only stare at the red adorning white with marvel, taken in by the picturesque sight before him.
Oh, how his heart ached upon such a sight and how his arms tingled with the sensation of moving and forcing the knife out of the other’s grasp to grace him with the touch of it until the red on his face was his own, not the one belonging to his parents.
And how Nikolai’s heart ached as he desired to run his fingers across the other’s face to remove the blood, remove all the sin he placed on himself, and caress him lovingly. Then, Nikolai would take Fyodor’s body and hold it forever against his own.
He did none of those things.
“Then it shall be my turn to free myself,” he said instead, tearing his gaze away from the sight to pursue his ideal, his purpose, of freedom. And so, he pivoted to move toward the door. However, Fyodor did not follow. His feet remained firmly on the ground, and his eyes carried the same apathy as prior. Only then did Nikolai notice it wasn’t apathy; it was emptiness.
Snapping himself out of a daze he knew he would have pursued otherwise, he grabbed Fyodor’s free hand and dragged him along. “I do not want to spend my birthday alone,” Nikolai argued, his clean hand wrapping around a dirty, stained one. Together, they stepped out of the house and walked across the ugly roads of the neighborhood.
No one paid any attention to a man covered in blood. They were too busy to care about themselves.
A comfortable silence settled between the two, and Nikolai, for once, did not mind it. Despite disliking silent spaces, Fyodor had always been an exception for anything. Squeezing the other’s hand was everything Nikolai could need toward his new path to freedom, carved by his friend.
But was it his freedom if the path had been carved by someone else?
Was Fyodor not dangerous to Nikolai?
Dragging unnecessary thoughts away, Nikolai took the final step to the front of his house. Suddenly, his body tensed, and his breathing slightly quickened after properly acknowledging what he was about to commit. Nikolai would forever erase all his innocence and lose the cause of his existence. But by doing so, he would fulfill his purpose. He would reach his freedom.
Slowly, his free hand reached out to twist the doorknob. The old wood creaked loudly as Nikolai had grown accustomed to. After stepping inside, he closed the door behind Fyodor and began heading for the kitchen, where he presumed his parents to be, cutting vegetables to prepare dinner as a regular part of the routine.
However, Nikolai stopped beforehand. “Stay here,” he mumbled as his free hand grasped the other’s hand holding the knife. Nodding, Fyodor provided him with the sharp object without another word. A knowing glint lay in his eyes, and they shone so brightly now as opposed to how dim they had looked prior.
Nikolai’s hands held onto Fyodor’s for a while longer, memorizing the rough pattern of the dry hands. It was comforting even among all the blood––all the sin––they were shedding. It was wondrous in its own special way, and Nikolai dreaded to let go of such comfort that warmed him like no one else had done before.
Yet, a new kind of thrill rushed through his veins as he turned his head toward the kitchen, the source of all the noise in the house.
Letting go of the hands that could have stopped him from committing such acts if they had grabbed him hard enough for Nikolai to stay, he took slow steps to reach his targets. His parents talked and talked so much they hadn’t heard him closing in, and they had their backs turned to him. It was almost too easy.
His ears blocked out any sounds as he stepped closer. Even as his parents acknowledged his presence, the statements of shock and anger fell deaf on Nikolai’s ears. Other than the insane smile on his lips, his movements seemed robotic and as if set on autopilot.
“Am I not such a good boy?” he mumbled amidst the calm stirring in his head.
Only when the sharp object hit flesh did Nikolai snap back to reality. Blood traveled down his hand as the knife dug deeper and deeper into the body and soul of his father. He screamed, and Nikolai laughed at such a horrendous yet beautiful sound. After experiencing pain and agony, letting his parents suffer the same way seemed sweet.
“W-what are you doing?! Get over here at once!” his mother shouted, fear deeply concealed behind her words as she edged further away. Nikolai craved the taste of that fear, savoring it with every breath his mother took. Upon much deliberation, he shrugged. “If you say so, dear mother,” he drawled with a grin, twisting the knife in his father’s back.
A scream.
Nikolai pulled out the knife.
A scream. Then, silence.
He had killed a man.
So easily.
Why had he not done this before?
Now, his mother scrambled away in fear, and, unfortunately for her, her back merely hit the wall. The door was too far away, marking her fate. “I raised you!” she exclaimed with the most powerful tone she could muster. Despite such strong words, her voice cracked, and her hands shook uncontrollably behind her back.
Luring over his prey, Nikolai raised the stained knife over his head. Grinning, he licked the blood from the blade, slightly cutting his tongue. He did not care.
“But you did not do it right, it seems!”
Another scream filled the house as the knife cut through several layers of skin, distributing the color of sin across the kitchen tiles and the decaying body of a woman Nikolai used to consider his mother. A few sprinkles of blood landed on his face, and it filled him with something he never knew he needed. Twisting the sharp objects allowed the screams to die down and melt into the calming silence of the house.
Nikolai loved the silence.
After eighteen years of living, he was free. Free of the expectations, free of the restrictions, free of the prying eyes of his parents.
But he could never be free of the fundamental element constructing the human body: emotion. Not with Fyodor by his side, at least. Oh, and how hard it was to strip him away from the feelings binding him to his only dear friend, who he loved so much it tore him apart.
So, as he returned to the only person by his side, Nikolai dropped the knife onto the ground with a loud clang and pulled the other closer. Without another word, he pressed his lips against Fyodor’s, hands clinging to the hems of the other’s shirt. Albeit surprised at first, Fyodor did not pull back and returned the kiss slightly.
It was messy among all the blood and pain Nikolai caused as he bit down harshly, but Nikolai wanted to see the other bleed, and if he did not do it this way, he would pick up the knife again and repeat the actions done to his parents.
The core of their relationship was messy, and Nikolai’s head shouted at him to pull away and end everything as it was. To find freedom, hadn’t that been his purpose? So what was he doing by kissing the source of the new shackles at the feet that hindered him from flying?
However, his heart whispered into his ear to follow his emotions, even if only temporarily, and give in to those desires revolving around his emotions.
Conflicted as he was, Nikolai kissed Fyodor out of the desire of his heart.
Conflicted as he was, Nikolai knew he would end all that before it got too much and threatened to overspill until he couldn’t breathe anymore.
“Was this a good birthday present?”
“The best I could have ever asked for.”
<><><><><><><><><>
“You said we would return to the beach once everything is over,” Nikolai mumbled someday. He did not know how many years, or weeks, or days it had been since he had committed that turning point of an action. Ever since that day, every hour melted into another, and he had stopped counting after a while.
The restrictions of time were useless, anyway.
They had settled into a house far away from the previous turmoil into an unknown and unpopulated city removed from society. It was calm and uneventful, and while Nikolai had learned to love the calm of the silence, it drove him mad nonetheless. A second passing by could feel like an hour. He did not know how long they had been staying at that house, either.
“I did say something along those lines,” Fyodor said as he looked out of the rotten window of their house. “But we are too far away from that same beach now.”
Nikolai pouted before distorting his features into a frown. “We have a beach here nearby too, do we not?” he asked while tracing his finger alongside the rim of the chair he sat on. A plan had begun forming in his mind, and he could not figure out if it was a start or an end to something. Sighing, he pushed himself up and stepped toward the door.
While Nikolai had thought his ludicrous desires and urges would die down as time passed, they intensified the more breaths he took and the more looks he threw Fyodor’s way. Gazing into those cold, dark purple eyes filled Nikolai with something he did not want to possess, as a free bird would not obtain deep bonds binding it to the ground.
So, as a result, why not be reborn? Why not take Fyodor’s––the man Nikolai adored, and trusted, and loved––implication regarding rebirth in the water?
Love was the most twisted curse of all, after all.
“Then let us go to that beach instead!” Nikolai exclaimed as he slightly turned his head to look the other in the eyes, an excited yet insane smile tugging at his lips. Fyodor, in turn, merely chuckled. He snatched his coat before walking next to his friend. “If you want to, Kolya,” he mumbled, amusement concealed in his tone.
Together, they walked out of a house they would never return to. Crunching leaf after leaf beneath their feet, Nikolai and Fyodor made their way to the destination of either an end or a new beginning. Both of them knew, even as Fyodor never properly acknowledged such sentiment. It was strange to walk with a purpose and goal in mind, Nikolai mused, eyes cast toward the sky where the birds sang songs full of joy.
In a new life, that would be him. Free and happy, two things he lacked. Being with Fyodor had provided him with the most happiness he had ever felt, yet not being free would limit that joy in ways, nonetheless. It was complicated, and he knew but could not change his own heart. Twisted was what he used to call his way of thinking. Fyodor taught him it was merely complicated, never wrong.
“Why did you lie back then?” Nikolai inquired, crushing the silence into pieces as he did with the leaf on the ground. A withered daisy lay not far from it. “Back when we first met, you said it was pure coincidence. But you followed me, did you not? Why so?” Thinking back, in the hazy state, he hadn’t acknowledged the words coming from behind him, hence why he had thought it had been his parents coming to hunt him down.
“I did,” Fyodor freely admitted, intertwining his hands behind his back. It was the right, pure truth, now that he did trust Nikolai as opposed to when he didn’t all those years ago. “I saw you in the church before, so I was intrigued. You looked like a puppet, dancing to the tunes of your parents. The child I was, I wondered if you would be able to disobey your parents to dance to my tunes instead.”
They had arrived at the beach, the crashing of the waves filling the silence after Fyodor’s words. Shocked yet not surprised, Nikolai chuckled lowly, a dangerous sound erupting from his chest. “I suppose you were quite able to do that, were you not?” If all of it had been Fyodor’s intention, did he not merely follow the dance of Fyodor’s words?
“I was not,” Fyodor replied while strolling toward the cold water. Unlike before, he went ahead before the other. “By merely coming here, you disobey my original intentions. That shows you have free will, Kolya, and that is precisely why I am still fascinated by you.”
As he turned his head, his features contained a soft smile. “You are unpredictable. I can not predict you. I found out the moment I properly met you.”
Every assumption Nikolai had drawn the moment before shattered as Fyodor smiled at him, true and wicked. Those words hurt as much as they felt incredible, and Nikolai found himself laughing, hurting his lungs with how much he cackled and let every emotion out before it was too late.
“You still seem to know everything, though,” Nikolai muttered with a smirk while striding to his friend’s side. He reached out for the other’s freezing hand to hold it and squeeze it with every care he had left in his body.
“I am no god in this life, so I am unable to know everything,” Fyodor responded in the same tone, eyes drifting to the linked hands with an unbothered expression. Those calculating eyes had begun resting after his parents died, and he moved to live with Nikolai.
Together, they stepped into the purifying water, so sinless that it burned Nikolai’s skin and body, which had been stained even before he had murdered his parents. After all, he was about to end two more lives at that moment, an idea he had entertained beyond the age of sixteen.
“In the next, you may be closer to it, anyway,” Nikolai murmured as the water reached his ankles.
“Then will you be the bird at my side?” Fyodor asked, the water reaching above his hips.
“Why, of course, if you allow me to roam free.”
The water engulfed them until their chests. Lazily, Nikolai untwined their hands and instead put his own on Fyodor’s shoulders. Fyodor seemed unsure as to where to put his hands, so he merely placed them on the other’s back, only providing a ghost of a touch.
They did not need to utter any more useless words as they had already said goodbye in their own unique and special way.
So, Nikolai drew the other closer to connect their lips before pushing Fyodor down, allowing himself to be dragged below, too, as the hold had gotten stronger and more forced. With no struggle to remain above the surface, they sunk and sunk until their breathing grew less and less, eyes closing while their pulse decreased steadily.
The fish in the sea were the last witnesses to such a complicated and twisted love drowning. They never stopped staring at the couple of bodies lying on the ground at the bottom of the sea.