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Golden Hour Writing Challenge of July: Day 8
Prompt: Window Glow
Ship: Fyolai
Yes I know it’s a toxic ship, but also Fyodor hates pizza crusts so he gives them to Nikolai
. . . . . . . .
Nikolai had been sitting in the windowsill of he and Fyodor’s bedroom for well over an hour, watching the sun set and letting the final rays warm his perpetually freezing skin (He wasn’t all that cold, in his opinion. But then again, Fyodor had a penchant for the dramatics when it came to his husband). The house was silent, save for the occasional rustle of their puppy stretching from the four poster bed, or Fyodor’s footsteps going off to do god knows what.
The two had been living together for little over three years now, but “together” wasn’t exactly the right word. Not long after the Singularity Incident, Fyodor was incarcerated for little over a year, and was nearly given the death sentence before Dazai (curse the man, he almost drowned his Fedya!) informed the judge and jury of the Russian man’s ability, and he only got home a little over a week ago.
Nikolai, who had taken up a sort of internship at the Armed Detective Agency, had been oddly distant for a person as Ranpo had put it; “Golden retriever-coded”. The jester didn’t use social media very often, much to his colleagues’ surprise, but he knew just enough of the slang to know that he was seen as a very happy-go-lucky type of guy, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
Of course, Nikolai Gogol was a true performer. His makeup was flawless, costume a perfect guise of a person with no real fears or plans to follow. In reality, he was exactly the opposite. Not behind closed doors, when the day was done and even Fyodor was asleep (back when he was around more often and not constantly leaving for random reasons), the facade would fall and he’d spend hours either staring at a wall or crying into his hands, which would more than often end either in waking up and having to pretend like everything was fine, or or maybe, just maybe, if he woke up, Fyodor would hold him until he felt stable enough to not jump off the second story of the house.
‘Kolya? Kolya, are you listening? Nikolai? Nikolai. Mykola!’
Nikolai’s head snapped up at the raise in volume, when had Fedya come in? Fyodor stood just a few steps inside the doorway, the orange-glow of sunset spilling through the window and haloing Nikolai’s lanky silhouette in a strangely reverent sort of way. His arms were crossed—not in anger, not really—but in that pointed, “I’ve been talking to a wall for ten minutes” way that made Nikolai want to both laugh and shrink into the nearest cushion at the same time.
‘Huh? Oh, yeah! You were saying something about… uh… Raskolnikov? Did he chew something up again?’
Fyodor raised an eyebrow incredulously, eyes narrowing at Nikolai’s rushed response. Even if he hadn’t said anything at all, it had already been painfully obvious that he wasn’t paying any attention to what his husband had been talking about. Nikolai was a good actor, not a good liar.
‘No. I said I was ordering pizza and wanted to know what you want as toppings
Oh. Of course. There wasn’t much either of them talked about in the evening aside from food, being as Nikolai, of course, put most of his energy into the mask he wore, and Fyodor was constantly looking over his shoulder at the parole officer that had to keep an eye on him whenever he was in public. Cons of being a convicted felon, he supposed. A laughable thing, really.
‘I thought you hated pizza. If I remember correctly, you said they make your teeth hurt cuz’ of the tough bottom.’
‘I hate crusts, not pizza itself. Besides, you always eat something junk food-esque, so I figured you might like something low energy tonight.’
Fyodor corrected dryly, walking over and resting his chin on the birds nest of fluffy white hair that was Nikolai’s head, who had gone back to staring forlornly at the darkening sky outside.
‘Hm. I definitely like pizza when it’s offered to me as an offering like I’m some tragic god.’
Fyodor snorted under his breath, sliding his arms under Nikolai’s and hoisting him up. For someone with severe anaemia, he was surprisingly strong, even if he could only hold Nikolai off the floor for little more than 3 minutes, which was definitely an accomplishment in the white haired man’s book.
‘If you’re a god, then I must be nothing more than a lowly heretic.’
‘I wouldn’t be against you worshipping me.’
‘Some other time.’
Nikolai sighed dramatically, snaking a hand around Fyodor’s waist, which the other man promptly removed with an unamused huff, traipsing ahead of the jester with a pointed “I will not hesitate to leave you to make your own dinner” type of look. If you asked anyone else, it would have looked like he was simply glaring, but Nikolai had known him for over six years, and spending that much time with one person tends to give you at least a small idea of their mannerisms.
‘You never answered my question, by the way. What do you want on the pizza?’
‘Hmmm. Pineapple!’
‘You’re a menace to society, Kolya. Pineapple belongs as pineapple alone, certainly not on a SAVORY dish.’
‘Did you just call pizza a dish? What kind of fossil are you, Leonardo Da Vinci?’
‘What else do you want me to call it?’
‘A food! For god’s sake, Fedya.’
‘I thought you were a god.’
Fyodor only rolled his eyes, half-ignoring the jab, as he opened the food app on his phone. Nikolai leaned against the doorframe now, having followed him to the kitchen like a moth drawn to a flame, arms swinging in an the exaggerated way that always made it look like his joints bent wrong.
‘Fine. One sacrilegious pineapple pizza. Anything else? Anchovies? Olive oil? A sense of normalcy?’
‘I’d like pepperoni, but only on one side. Just so my precious follower doesn’t upset his refined palette.’
Nikolai declared, turning his nose up in the air like a haughty monarch from his precious Victorian drama shows. Fyodor snorted again, this time softer, almost fond. He tapped the order in without further comment. Their silence settled like dust—thick but not uncomfortable. Just the way they lived now.
The puppy—Raskolnikov, naturally—trotted into the room and immediately made a beeline for Fyodor’s feet, tail wagging. Nikolai watched the exchange with an unreadable smile, then looked away again, back to the window.
The last thread of sunlight clung to the horizon, staining the glass orange and gold. A slow breath hissed out of him, more exhale than sigh.
“You missed the best part, Fedya. The in-between. That one minute when everything looks like it’s dipped in honey.’
‘I see it now, Kolya. It’s hurting my eyes.’
‘No. You’re just seeing the end of it.’
Fyodor didn't answer, or rather, he answered, but quietly enough that fry as he might, Nikolai couldn’t tell for the life of him what his dear partner had said. Instead, he simply nodded like he understood and shuffled over to hug him.
‘I know I’ve been... away,’
‘Mmhm.’
‘You didn’t cry this week.’
‘I was probably just tired. Fukuzawa always has me busy.’
‘Tell the truth.’
‘I’m an actor.’
‘Kolya.’
The silence returned, weighted this time with something unspoken and stupid and fragile. Fyodor shifted, scooping up the little black and white puppy and handing him to Nikolai, earning him an approving smile and Raskolnikov having his head peppered in kisses, staining his fur pink with Nikolai’s cherry lipgloss.
‘A sacrifice.’
‘Accepted.’
The two of them stayed like that for a while, staring at the little dog until the doorbell rang, when Fyodor disappeared from view, leaving Nikolai alone.
He didn’t really mind, though. As long as his Fedya was home.