Chapter Text
Ivan knelt on the floor and folded his hands. He cleared his throat nervously and looked at the little cross that he had propped up on the cardboard box. The candles next to it were pure decoration, the fire alarm in his room would go off quickly if he were to light them.
A small Jesus was nailed to the cross, his expression one of agonising endurance. The entire thing was made of metal, the edges of the cross and the thorns on Jesus’ head quite sharp. It glinted in the morning sun.
Ivan licked his lips and closed his eyes, trying to focus. It had been easy in the beginning, when his religious conviction had been new and fresh. The words for his daily prayers would not stop coming. It had been easy to be grateful for everything in his life, all the abundance he was burdened with. The opportunities given to him by Varvara Petrovna, his friendship with Nikolai, and all the daily luxuries he had taken for granted for most of his childhood.
For a while now, however, it had been difficult to find words. It was not so immediately obvious anymore just how much he had been given; how lucky he was. How much God had done for him. That was because since the beginning of the year, he had systemically gotten rid of most of the superfluous things in his life. He had given away many of his books, except the ones he needed for his studies, and most of his clothes, too, keeping only a simple wardrobe. He also drastically slimmed down what he consumed, reminding himself to be humble, to be good – he didn’t need much, really, if he was being realistic. Jesus fed the world with bread and fish, and even the last supper was only bread and wine (in the literal sense – of course Ivan was aware that the apostles were given something far, far more precious than simple bread and wine).
There was no need for gluttony. He bought a loaf of bread every few days, which served him as lunch and dinner (topped with butter, yes, and jam that Marya sent him, and cheese – he was not yet at the point where he could stand eating just plain bread, but he knew it was a matter of discipline). For breakfast, he had porridge with a little dollop of honey. His coffee he took black and otherwise he only drank water. Occasionally, he indulged in fresh fruit (apples, mostly), but he cut out sweets, especially chocolate. Also, alcohol and sodas and fast food and all these indulgences the modern world seemed unable to go without.
“Dear God”, he began, then breathed, trying to focus. “Thank you for the roof over my head and the clothes that warm me. Thank you for….”
He faltered. Many of the things he would be able to name – sunshine and black tea and fresh air and dogs – were so general that he was not sure he could personally thank God for them; after all, they were not created for him specifically. He doubted that God was in any way preoccupied with him, at least not right now. Sure, HE loved them all, but certainly some people were more worthy of this love and attention than others. Why should God look after one sinner who was not even trying especially hard?
He tried again: “Thank you for showing me how imperfect I am. Thank you for reminding me that I need to work on myself.” Yes, that sounded right – his self-doubt could not be anything else than God gently pointing him in the direction of what was right. “Thank you for keeping me humble.”
He nodded to himself, clenched his hands together once more, then stood up. He needed to hurry now; his first lecture started at nine and he was already dangerously close to missing his metro. Scooping up his backpack, he glanced back at the cross one last time, then rushed out the door.
***
He was almost late. But Nikolai reserved a seat for him.
Ivan mumbled “Thank you” as he slid onto the chair next to his friend, his heart still beating fast after he ran all the way from the metro station.
Nikolai just nodded. He looked bored and uninterested, his eyes half-closed, chin resting on his palm. He was doodling on the side of his notepad.
Ivan threw a glance over his shoulder as he heard a giggle – there were two girls he did not know, sitting two rows behind them. He had a feeling they were looking at Nikolai’s back, whispering about him, speculating… He glared at them, before turning back to his desk.
It had been the same at school. Most girls fawned over Nikolai, or were at least interested in him. Ivan wished his friend had not been born so attractive. It would surely help him to be good. Resisting temptation was important, yes, but perhaps for Nikolai it would have been easier if there was not always so much temptation going around.
Then again – was that not the whole point? Did God not reserve his hardest battles for his strongest soldiers, did he not test those the most he expected to succeed in the end?
If all of this is a test, Nikolai has already failed a hundred times.
Ivan shook his head and concentrated on the lecture that was about to start. Their professor, Mikhail Sergeyevich, walked in. He seemed about as enthusiastic as Nikolai, carrying a mug of coffee with his laptop.
Ivan felt conflicted about the man. On the one hand, his lectures were good, comprehensive, interesting and to the point. On the other hand… Ivan still remembered the very first class they had had with him. How he looked at them all, all these fresh young students of theology, ready to learn more. It had startled Ivan when he said: “Before we start – please raise your hand if you don’t believe in God. This isn’t a test you can fail, don’t worry. I just want to know.”
The students had hesitated, looked around, whispered to their neighbours. A few tentative hands were raised. Nikolai, next to Ivan back then, too, had haltingly raised his hand, expression cautious. Ivan had tried not to notice it and stared straight ahead, lips pressed together hard. He had waited for the professor to say something along the lines of that they would learn through their studies. That they would find true belief eventually.
Mikhail Sergeyevich had nodded. “Very well. You are going to be the best theologians.” Then, without further comment, he had begun his lecture.
It had shocked Ivan, and it shocked him still. It was the only mention of personal belief their professor had ever made. Whenever they talked about belief now, it was always as something abstract, something distanced from the person. Never again had the question of what they believed in themselves come up.
After that first lecture, Ivan had stopped Nikolai as they went outside, pulling him aside to confront him. “What was that?” he had asked, voice barely containing his bafflement, his disappointment. “Why did you lie? Why did you say you don’t…you don’t believe…” He couldn’t even get the words out.
“I just wanted to see what happens.” Nikolai had shrugged. “What he’d do.”
“That’s awful. Why would you… Kolya, you lied!” His voice had risen, his body shaking.
Nikolai had answered his gaze with eyes that were deep and dark and betrayed nothing. “I know”, he had said after a while, sounding distant. “Of course, I still believe in God. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
The lecture now passed fast, with Ivan scribbling notes diligently, and Nikolai only occasionally marking something down. When they could leave, Ivan followed Nikolai outside. It was a warm day, though the wind was already chilly, reminding them that winter was inevitably approaching. Ivan shuddered.
“Did you hand in your essay already?” He asked and glanced at Nikolai, who pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his backpack. Of course. Nikolai had started smoking as a teenager, but for a while he seemed to have quit. Only recently, Ivan had noticed him doing it again. He had reprimanded Nikolai a couple of times about it, and the other had mumbled something about bad habits rearing their head again. But he was still doing it.
“Mhmm”, Nikolai hummed. The cigarette was burning now, and he tilted his head back. Inhaled. His pale throat moved, his eyes fluttered shut. He relaxed visibly. Ivan had never seen self-destruction look so beautiful.
And no wonder, for Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.
“What did you write?” Ivan pulled his backpack tighter towards his body, as if trying to shield himself from something. Their task was to write an essay on the definition of sin. He had started, but everything he had written down so far seemed lacklustre, toothless. There was something he needed to express, but whenever he tried to focus on it, it slipped through his fingers like water.
“I listed the main ways Jews, Christians and Muslims define sin and then quoted a couple of different theologians on why these ways are good or bad.” Nikolai shrugged and yawned. “I came to the conclusion that basically, everything is a sin if you really want to. And nothing is, if you really think about it. I didn’t put in a whole lot of effort, to be honest.”
“Why not?” It came out of his mouth all wrong, much too sharp and almost accusing. He didn’t look at Nikolai, but he felt his face burn.
“I wanted it to be done.” Nikolai lifted a hand and rubbed his temple, his eyes closing. Ivan glanced over. He looked tired.
“We still have a few weeks.”
“I know.”
Ivan looked at his friend (what else could he call him, what else was he?). He was leaning against the wall, snuggled deep into his coat. Maybe he had not slept well. Maybe he had not been sleeping well for a while. It might explain the mood he had been in since the start of their second semester.
They had gone to the same school, but they had only really become friends at sixteen. Ivan could not fully explain why – perhaps because they were both different from the others, though in wildly dissimiliar ways. Nikolai, mysterious and cool, with an aura of beautiful ruin around him. And Ivan, the weirdo who got angry easily and choked on his words when he had to speak in front of the class.
But they had found together, and they had found God together. Reading the bible had been an act of rebellion first and foremost, most of the adults in their life atheists raised in the late USSR, with no religious conviction, belittling Christians for their seemingly naïve faith. Soon, though, it changed from an act of rebellion to one of honest belief. With a fever unknown to him before, Ivan sunk into Christianity like into a lover’s embrace. And Nikolai with him.
It had done him good, Ivan thought. Before, Nikolai had been ambitionless and tired, mean and sometimes downright cruel. He had no friends, no girlfriend, but he had left a couple broken hearts in his way. As Ivan grew closer to him, he also found out that Nikolai had developed some rather…nasty habits, which he fought to give up with the help of his newfound religion.
(To this day, it embarrassed him to think about the time they had discussed the story of Onan with each other. Nikolai had hesitated at first, but then confessed that he used to indulge in the same sin. It had left a weirdly tingling sensation in Ivan’s stomach.)
When the time came to think about university, Nikolai’s mother, a rich factory owner, had granted Ivan the possibility of a sort of private scholarship. Ivan was convinced that Nikolai had to have put in a good word with her. He had accepted, and off to St. Petersburg they were. To study theology, which they agreed on enthusiastically.
In the first semester, everything had gone smoothly. The courses, the exams, everything was interesting and only brought Ivan closer to his faith. He had thought it was the same for Nikolai. However, during their break, Nikolai had spent some time alone in St. Petersburg while Ivan travelled back to their city to visit his sister. And Ivan could not shake the impression that something had changed during that time….
“Stavrogin!”
Ivan turned around as he heard someone yelling across campus. Behind him, Nikolai snorted. Immediately, Ivan felt something acidic spurt into his veins, making him clench his fist in anticipated annoyance.
Verkhovensky.
The rat hopped towards them, dressed, as always, slightly ridiculously in skinny jeans and a pink woollen coat. He had fastened his blond hair in a low ponytail, and a star necklace dangled around his neck. As he came closer, Ivan realised that it was not actually a star but a pentagram. Of course. The fucking edgelord.
“Well, hello there, Nikolai Vsevolodovich!”
Ivan hated, hated, hated Pyotr Verkhovensky’s voice – at the best of times, it was chirpy like an overly enthusiastic bird’s (though lacking the natural innocence of a bird). At the worst, it was excessively sweet, cloying, sticking to Ivan’s ears like cotton candy. (He had made a comment about this to Nikolai, once – to his surprise, Nikolai had said that he found Pyotr’s voice to be quite pleasant most of the time. Ivan had not known what to say further. But he had prayed later that God might restore Nikolai’s hearing.)
They met Pyotr Verkhovensky shortly after they moved to St. Petersburg. Stepan Trofimovich, his father and dear personal friend of Nikolai’s mother, accompanied them to “show them around” (even though he had not set foot in the city in ten years) and make sure they would settle well into their accommodations. While he was there, he also wanted to meet with his son, whom he had not seen since the boy had been thirteen, and introduce him to Ivan and Nikolai.
He had gushed about the boy the whole way to the café where they were supposed to meet, telling them what a devout, sweet child he was, how tender, but also how anxious and therefore near impossible to deal with for a single man – thus the decision to let him grow up with Stepan Trofimovich’s sister after his mother, Stepan Trofimovich’s ex-wife, had died. He assured them that they were in constant contact through letters (Stepan Trofimovich found e-mails tasteless and inconvenient), and his darling Petrusha was, while not exactly intelligent, a sweet-natured boy. Also, he was exactly as, ehm, enthusiastic about religion as them!
While he knew Stepan Trofimovich had a rather creative approach to facts and tended to see things through his very own unique lens, he still expected his account to mostly mirror reality. His surprise was great when instead of a shy, introverted, Christian young man, he met Pyotr Verkhovensky.
On that very first meeting, Pyotr was twenty minutes late, which he barely acknowledged as he finally sauntered into the café. He had been dressed in a way that Ivan supposed should be fashionable, but made him look like some kind of degenerate, with tight leather pants and a colourful shirt with a pink scarf wrapped around his shoulders. If Ivan remembered correctly, Pyotr had even worn eyeliner.
He had barely acknowledged his father, and had ignored most of what he said during the meeting, inspecting his fingernails while Stepan Trofimovich talked, and here and there jumping in with some bored-sounding remark that took his father aback.
Ivan had cringed the whole time and was ready to fall to his knees and thank God once it was over. Unfortunately, Verkhovensky junior seemed to have taken a certain fancy to Nikolai. And Nikolai… Ivan’s best guess was that he did not want to be rude. That he tried to exercise some Christian goodness (though Ivan was convinced that Verkhovensky junior was a lost cause). Whatever it was, he let him stick around. Tolerated it that Pyotr met them before their lectures, since they had courses in the same building. Sometimes reacted to Pyotr’s mindless chattering. Even let him sit at the same table as him and Ivan when they happened to meet at the cafeteria.
It was annoying, and confusing, and Ivan did not understand it. He only knew that he disliked it.
“Stavrogin, how wonderful to see you! How was your weekend?! Mine was so very busy, I hardly had time to eat, and I am sure I have not slept at all! Ah, are you smoking? Oh, and I see you’re not alone.”
As always, Pyotr only spared him a glance before bouncing straight to Nikolai. He was even holding a reusable coffee cup in his fingers. God. Ivan had never seen someone so fake. To his utter disgust, Pyotr audaciously extended a hand and plucked the cigarette from Nikolai’s fingers, before bringing it to his own lips (that were unnecessarily puckered) and taking a drag.
Ivan immediately looked at Nikolai, to see if the other would react appropriately and tell Pyotr to stop, to go away. But for some reason, the corners of Nikolai’s mouth were twitching and he pushed himself off the wall, stepping close to the intruder.
“If you keep being this forward, Verkhovensky, someone is going to give you a good trashing one day.”
Pyotr chuckled and held out the cigarette, his smile a bit too wide for Ivan’s liking. “Then I only hope they’ll have mercy on a poor sinner and be sufficiently gentle with me.”
Nikolai actually chuckled at that, which made Ivan’s stomach twist in anger. “So, you prefer it gentle?”
“Mhmm…depends on the mood I am in.” The way Pyotr cocked his head to the side, shutting one eye and bouncing on his heels…Enough was enough.
“Nikolai and I have another lecture later, and we should really get some work at the library done in the meantime. So, please excuse us, Verkhovensky.” Ivan said it calmly, though nobody could miss the biting undertone in his words.
Pyotr only threw him a quick glance before addressing Nikolai again, now in a voice that reminded Ivan of the weirdly infantile way Marilyn Monroe talked in some black-and-white-movies. “Oh, no. Really? And here I was, thinking we could have a cup of coffee together. Nikolai Vsevolodovich, are you really going to the library?”
Ivan was about to say more, to tell Pyotr to get a life, when Nikolai said: “It would probably be good to get some more work in. Though I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee later. Maybe after our last lecture.”
“Marvelous! You could text me when you are done?”
“I could.”
Pyotr laughed, and Ivan told himself that it was a fake laugh. “And are you going to?”
Nikolai snorted. “Let’s see. Maybe.”
“I hope so.” Pyotr winked (actually winked – Who did that, outside of movies?!) and touched Nikolai’s shoulder for a moment, before he skipped to the entrance of the building. “See you!”
Ivan rolled his eyes. “What an idiot. Let’s go.”
Nikolai hummed and started walking. He looked more awake now, and there was some colour in his face. Some light in his eyes. Apparently, the cool air (and maybe the cigarette) had revitalised him. “By the way, Alexei texted me a few minutes ago that he’ll be in the library today, too. Maybe we can find him and work at the same table.”
“Sure.” At least a person he liked more than Pyotr Verkhovensky, though that was a very low bar to clear. They had met Alexei Kirillov in one of their lectures on philosophy and religion in the first semester, when he had asked to borrow a pencil from Ivan. The young man was odd, but not in the irritating way Verkhovensky junior was. He did philosophy, hence why he had been in that particular class, and although he was gangly and pale, had dark eyes and a strange way of talking, Ivan felt comfortable in his presence.
He always smelled of tea and blushed deeply when he was excited, something Ivan thought was endearing. And he was never deliberately mean. Still, Ivan found himself getting irritated at his equanimity sometimes, as it seemed to be bordering on indifference, something he could not tolerate in regards to certain topics.
But there was a thought Ivan could not get rid of. “Since when do you have his number?”
Nikolai looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Alexei’s?”
“Verkhovensky’s.”
“I’ve always had it.”
“Really?” Ivan frowned. Nikolai answered his gaze with a face that did not express any particular emotion.
“Yes. He gave it to me. Don’t you remember? When we first met him?”
“No.”
“Maybe you didn’t notice.” Nikolai shrugged.
“Why did you keep it?”
Nikolai cocked his head to the side, now apparently starting to get tired of the questions. “Why not? Do you want it?”
“Obviously not”, Ivan almost spat. “And I hope you’re not actually meeting up with him later.”
“And why is that?”
“He’s bad company.”
“Really? I always find him pretty funny.”
Ivan clenched his teeth. “That’s the problem, Nikolai. He’s trivial. Flippant. Unserious.”
Nikolai exhaled and looked at the way ahead. “And that’s a crime now?”
“Not a crime. I just think – “
“What do you think?”
Ivan looked at Nikolai’s jaw, that now sat tighter than before. “I just think being around him isn’t good for you. I…I don’t want you to slip into some of your old habits again.”
Nikolai abruptly stopped, and Ivan halted, too, looking at him. The other tilted his head back, clenching and unclenching one of his fists. “Ivan. I just want to drink a coffee later, and he happens to want to do that, too. Okay? That is all that is happening.”
Ivan swallowed. “I know. I am just worried about you, you know?”
“I know.” Nikolai tilted his head back into its normal position. His blue eyes were cool. “Jesus. Everyone is always so worried about me.”
“I just – “
“I am fine. Thank you.” Nikolai shook his head. “And now let’s go. I want to get out of the cold.”
Ivan nodded. He could feel his cheeks burning from embarrassment. He did not like talking to Nikolai like this. But he wanted to save the other from himself.
After all, if Nikolai lost his way again, who could tell what he would do?