Chapter Text
On the outskirts of the city, where no one would think to look, in an inconspicuous apartment on the top floor, a makeshift sanctuary had been established. In a room with wooden walls lay a slender, frail man. Raven hair against the pale, blood-drained skin created an otherworldly image, and if touched, his skin felt icy, like that of a corpse. The sleeping man, seemingly immersed in an eternal realm of dreams, had lain motionless for several months. Despite this, every day, someone was there, trying to care for his condition – Nikolai, a somewhat makeshift nurse, with mediocre skills in stitching and bandaging, but given his remarkable regeneration, he seldom had to tend to minor first aid tasks. Yet, for the sake of his friend, or was he truly a friend? It seemed Nikolai himself had become entangled in the chains binding his hands and feet, and breaking free from them was not destined. Still, he tried with all his might to rouse Fyodor from this state.
There were bad days at times when Fyodor's breathing became even more shallow and rapid. In haste, Nikolai would attempt to sustain his life, connecting a stolen life support machine swiftly and discreetly from the same hospital where he had taken Fyodor after teleporting him from the helicopter in a rush.
These challenging moments not only made Nikolai worry about Fyodor but also led him into introspection. He couldn't understand why Fyodor was so fascinated by Dazai. Envy for the closeness between them sometimes flashed in his thoughts, and he often questioned what was so special about Dazai that captivated his friend.
All of this mixed with moments when he confronted the reality of his actions. The helicopter explosion, the yellow flames, the rescue of his friend – each moment passed before his eyes as if he were living in eternity. Now, every time facing the sleeping state of Fyodor, Nikolai felt an almost hysterical laughter creeping up his throat. He restrained it, but his eyes reflected a mixture of emotions – fear, fatigue, and perhaps love.
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, impulsive and made in a state of sheer animal panic. He managed to pull Fyodor out using his overcoat just before the gas leaked, and the helicopter irreversibly exploded in yellow flames, as if infernal fires were searing his face, confirming the fallacy of his decision. His uncovered eye gazed spellbound at the flames that were supposed to engulf Fyodor. Part of him still hadn't accepted the fact that he had pulled him out. Maybe Fyodor was still in the helicopter, and he hadn't saved him at all? His actions seemed to have been taken not by him but in a dream; everything felt surreal.
He almost heard Dazai speaking to him in a daze, reaching out Fyodor's hand. He felt a cold fear engulfing him—did he not invent his actions? Did he make a mistake and not save him? No, no, perhaps in the rush, he overestimated his ability and failed to teleport the arm, let alone the beam that had to be teleported along with Fyodor to avoid worsening the bleeding. Soon, Dazai and his comrade departed, leaving him alone with a part of his friend. The irony was striking. He immediately returned his friend to the ground. Here was Fyodor in the flesh before him. Shaking, bleeding, teetering on the brink of death, yet still alive. This is how he saved Fyodor. What compelled him to do such a thing?
That's why Nikolai found himself sitting on the steps in front of their so called “new home” with a heavy head. He didn't know why he did it, although deep down, he understood that it was his decision – he couldn't comprehend himself and his actions.
He could sit for hours by Fyodor's bedside, pouring out his thoughts, discussing his problems, and pondering why he couldn't just switch off Fyodor's life support machine. Fyodor was always reserved in conversation, but still... Usually, in the end, he'd share his verdict on Nikolai's words and thoughts. Now, not hearing his voice at all, it's different. With a trembling hand, he reached out to the sleeping man’s charcoal black hair – it was soft, but coarse. Fyodor looked peaceful, but Nikolai could feel him shivering. A sudden chill ran through his body. Was he cold? If so, where could he get some warm cloths, some blankets?
In a rush, he tended to his friend, carefully replacing the oxygen hose in his nose and the clothes that had dripped onto the floor with fresh ones. He fetched the blanket he'd used to dry the blood from Fyodor's hand stitches yesterday (and the one today). By now, he noticed that his hands were slightly damp. Had he really been washing Fyodor's injuries? And the blood – oh god! Where had he wiped his hands after cleaning Fyodor's wounds? He couldn't remember. Then again, it didn't matter. All that mattered was seeing him safe and sound. Nikolai couldn't wait for him to wake up and talk. To be certain, he put two fingers to Fyodor's neck, feeling his pulse.
…
…
Alive. Thank God. Fyodor's chest rose and fell steadily, indicating that he wasn't going to die. He was lucky, very lucky. It meant that the damage done to his body had somehow been healed, and that he wouldn't die immediately. Nikolai sighed in relief.
He put a pillow under Fyodor's head, then dressed him in warm clothes (he couldn't risk leaving his friend in the cold wind), and covered Fyodor with blankets.
The thought occurred to him that somehow Fyodor must've known he would be saved, yet never spoke a word about any danger. Or was he really outsmarted by Dazai? Nikolai couldn't believe that to be possible; maybe if Fyodor weren't in this state, he would have laughed at this situation. He shook his head. Who knew anymore? But he would find the answer sooner or later. For now, the most important thing was that his friend was alright. He was alive, and he was safe. He needed to focus on Fyodor right now, but it was harder than ever before to ignore the growing pain behind his eyes.