Work Text:
"Kill me? I never thought you would ask," Fyodor softly remarks, and though the idea of being asked such a question from Nikolai wouldn't surprise him, the cruel and ineffable action of death behind his meaningful words just seems so… awfully sweet.
"I'm truly flattered, but please know I'll be the first to hold the knife."
"Whatever you suggest," the Jester says, taking Fyodor's hand into his, below the very throne he sits on.
They are villains; they aren't meant to play games. Yet this was what it always was, a game of charades where there would only be one standing alone on a stage of cacophony.
They are terrorists. They are disgusting rats, unkempt monsters to the world, fallen angels whose wings were crumpled and destroyed by society, unable to fly under such pathetic circumstances, who will cleanse it all in a sick and twisted untold prophecy by the Book, a sin against God and a crime upon humanity.
The Decay of Angels.
They are only seen as what they had to be, never as what they were, the birds that once flew with feathers so bright and white. They aren't the type to ever have the capability to love, and yet it's as though Nikolai wants Fyodor to.
To forget. To feel and to adore and to die. T̶o̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶h̶u̶m̶a̶n̶.̶
Even if just for a moment.
Even if Fyodor knows Nikolai will disregard of all those feelings, all for the sake of becoming a step closer to what God could ever be.
Whatever that means in the end.
"They are monsters." But who are we really talking about here?
Fukuchi desires world peace, as it's something that everybody wants, and yet to achieve it, deaths must be paid, so how many will have to suffer, how many will have to offer their lives for only themselves, as it's the only way to survive this repeating cycle until he realises nothing will ever change as long as disagreements and human wants exist?
Nikolai wants to be free of the chains that have restricted him, yearning for the wings that he thinks will grant him freedom; as the jester of the circus has always had dreams that could never be sought out, and in the end, they are laughed at by those who can't simply understand how empty it feels to be stuck in a cage Nikolai has already realised cannot be escaped.
And Fyodor just wishes for the world to burn in his hands, as it's the one thing he knows to be true; as immortals will never find joy until they destroy whatever is left, and so the end can only happen when they start it, a performance he can only see amusement in when there is pain inflicted by him.
Yet these are all things humankind wanted. Peace, freedom, entertainment.
They are called devils but still have the same cruel desires everyone else has.
To sin. To lie and to cheat and to die.
(To be human—something that contradicts everything Nikolai has ever believed in.
For a moment, he almost forgets why he wanted to be free.)
So may God forgive them and give them the wings that they deserve, the very same wings they lost. At least, that's what all of them hope.
The dagger is then plunged into Fyodor's chest.
Sanguinary is splattered against the frames of the poker cards they are displayed in. The crime of death has never been sweeter, and the jester cannot help but grin.
He has killed a beautiful angel.
Tears roll down his cheek.
Despite destroying the one thing he has ever deeply cared for in his life in an attempt to throw away his humanity—he still feels very human.
Even after all his efforts, the both of them know—his wants will never be achieved.
He has killed a beautiful angel.
He will never have the chance to fly.