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They wouldn't dance on bones.
They would not have made a feast during the plague, they would have silently and lovingly eaten the ashes left over from the burned passion. She will run her delicate, stained fingers over his lips while he chokes on soot, and smile.
Their strange encounters always take place under the cover of a merciful night, and yet they are always different.
Agatha doesn't like the world.
She turns her nose up at nature, hides behind high collars, despises annoying insects and loud birds. She loves the pavements killed by passers-by, tall majestic towers, crowded shops, the noise of the streets and the howling of the wind on the balconies. The world is something indecently boring, so much so that she wants not to yawn, but rather to put a bullet in her head, just to find something worthwhile at least beyond life. In an eternally gray cocoon that clings intrusively to her body, she looks around through a veil of contempt and self-esteem.
Christie, with an arrogant graceful gait, trampling flowers, walks through the cemetery that Dostoevsky built.
Dostoevsky, touching electricity and technology with his fingers, always squints his eyes, as if afraid to let sin enter the brain, he remains in the shadows and loves people, cutting his heart to release the rot of light contempt with hot blood — a terrible caricature of Jesus Christ — he takes on their sins, washes himself with them and with the blood of heretics to save. There is a hot heart beating inside the gray cocoon, and it is so bright that you want to live forever, just to watch the cyclical contraction.
Agatha likes to hold Fyodor's hand while they walk through the streets of London.
She will not say or show anything, only enjoy the coolness, the aching affection with which Dostoevsky's fingers entwine her like leeches that want to cling to their victim forever. His hungry gaze, cast at her by the moment, is a witness to the most catchy and unnecessary transgression. How stupid it is to fall for a brilliantly poisonous outrage, to fall in love with him so purely and sincerely, exposing trembling hands and legs barely bending from fatigue.
The worst of sins is his transgression…
...Human weakness. Should the savior be weak? Can he?
Fyodor is weak.
He understands this when in a restaurant he cannot let go of her palm, when in parks he looks not at fragrant cherry blossoms, but at her slightly curly blond hair (lost sunbeams), when he makes an idol of her, kissing her hands madly. His uncontrollable passion could have burned down the last copy of the Bible.
No more scriptures or sermons will save him.
Fyodor does not like cities, he hides his treasure in the trees among the ripe fruits of knowledge.
It is sacrilege to capture her face on film or save it with a digital card on a laptop screen, so he admires her empty-handed among the pines, the way she runs her palm over the surface of the water, which makes her ripple in greeting and love, the way she tiredly and slightly contemptuously lays her head on the trunk of a mighty oak.
She is only interested in Dostoevsky among the beetles and leaves.
He likes to pick wolf berries and look at the red or black fruits, think about how to eat them together with Agatha, holding hands while the crows are screaming above them. Fyodor will throw the berries on the ground and trample them, plucking the scarlet strawberries. He will carefully put juicy forest candies on her tongue, tracing her lip with his thumb. She licks her lips like a wolf, leaving berry blood on her fangs.
And each of their meetings is like a little passionate ritual. For a little fervent funeral.
Their love is dirty and brilliantly clean, their love is trembling hands on different sides of the planet, their love is the sun, desperately reaching for the sea.
They will never be together.
They think about it every time. With a slight longing and calmness.
Agatha plunges into doom when she holds Dostoevsky by the hair. When he kisses her collarbones, slowly stroking her waist — so tremulously and slightly trembling, as if he is afraid that he will never see such beauty again.
Agatha plunges into doom when she scratches his chest, leaving wet kisses on his neck, and he pathetically and submissively wheezes in her ear (a passion-stricken preacher). He is too proud to ask to continue, so he only remains gloomily silent, trying not to seem like an imp hiding among the bushes — a giant who pushes mountains out of his way.
Agatha plunges into doom when, in the darkness of the most expensive hotel room, she throws her legs over his shoulders, and Fyodor kisses her hips, bites slightly, leaves pinkish traces, from which she cannot restrain contented moans. Stupidly in love, like a naive girl who for the first time noticed a strange stirring in her chest and blindly follows him, believing in fate, she strokes his head greedily and fervently, does not want to let go, wants to make him her own.
He's meant for her. Or he should be destined for some other world.
But sluggish and relaxed, when he kisses her on the forehead, giving her another incredible pleasure, she lets him go every time, throwing a veil of indifference over her shoulders.
Fyodor creates despair when he gently presses her against the trunk of a tree among strawberry bushes. When birds sing (howl desperately), when the river gently splashes (threatens death) from the wind and small animals and birds. He lingers his fingers on her cheeks, drives carefully — he is afraid to leave at least one trace of himself. Infallible, inanimate, divine — Christie cannot be touched by a servant like him. Especially when fingers are a burial ground of sins.
Fyodor creates despair when Agatha leans back against him, and he bites her neck with noisy inhalations and exhalations. When she tries to reach him, but her graceful pale hands hang in the air, as if she wants all the pagan gods to sinfully kiss her fingers, stroke them, take them with them. But only Fyodor kisses, strokes, and takes her away, whose palms go down to her hips, and she does not resist — she presses harder, more demanding.
Fyodor creates despair when he jerkily moves his fingers, and Christie does not restrain her quagmire moans, grabs Dostoevsky as best she can, cursing the dark forest in which she is doing so well, but silently blessing her lover. She moves her hips lazily and pleadingly, and he can't take his eyes off the pale skin, on which moss and raindrops from the leaves are settling. The forest goddess, his pagan muse, his unforgivable sin.
In doom and despair, they will disperse. They will smoke on the balcony of a hotel room, hiding behind expensive bathrobes, or near a wooden house, hiding behind colorful plaid blankets that will make Christie sick.
They will look at each other in love, exhaling smoke, which will dissolve all the pictures of a bright but unreal future.
They will interlace their fingers, as if they are going to be shot together among the cherry bushes.
But instead of a quick death and cold blood, it's a breakup.
Instead of a bullet, a last kiss.