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Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s dead corpse lay on the ground of a barren wasteland. Beside him laid Sigma, whose lifeless body had been placed there.
The only living person within a 30 mile radius was Nikolai Gogol. The clown, who was towered over these bodies, wondered what had just happened. Of course, this was all his doing, however, but the results didn’t feel satisfying.
He always assumed that after Dostoyevsky was killed, he would be free and happy. Yet, all he felt was regret.
-
“I want to kill Dos-Kun. In order to do that, I want you to use you to read what Dos-Kun’s ability is.”
Those words Nikolai had spoken to Sigma, months before, after saving their life. Strangely enough, he always appeared whenever Sigma was in a life or death situation. Even now.
When Gogol asked the manager to do that, they were hesitant. Through time, though, Sigma slowly started trusting him more and more. His words of comfort, acts of service, and absolute loyalty lead Sigma to trust him enough to put their life in his hands.
-
“Sigma, my love,” He spoke softly, twirling their hair through his fingers, “I would lay down my life for you.”
“Would you, really?” They inquired, staring out the window that showed the two of them only light and warmth. The room was yellow from the reflection.
“I really would.” He was rarely this serious, and Sigma knew they could believe him.
That was one of the first times Nikolai let his guard down for them, and certainly not the last.
-
When Nikolai asked, once again, for them to use their ability to expose Dostoyevsky, they wholeheartedly confirmed. They knew that Gogol would protect them no matter what.
And so, when the time came, they were both fearless. Sigma had been instructed on finding a blind spot in Dostoyevsky’s behavior, indicating the perfect moment to strike. Nikolai had given them the beads from his cravat to hold onto, for good luck. The manager tightened them in their fist.
There wasn’t even much of a fight. It was over within minutes. Nikolai saw his moment to pounce, and took it. Fyodor was brushed into The Overcoat, while distracted, and came out in unfamiliar terrain. It was incredibly rare to catch him off guard; it felt like he did it on purpose.
After gaining his footing back, Dostoyevsky widened his eyes in surprise, as a way to give kudos for being able to kidnap him. A small smile broke out, and Gogol could tell he was in for… well, something. One of his favorite things about Fyodor was his unpredictability.
Nikolai lunged toward, to his beloved friend, and mid-lunge, released Sigma from his Overcoat. Fyodor stepped back and braced the instant Gogol’s arm lifted. In a swift and beautiful drop, Sigma ran toward Dostoyevsky, as Nikolai returned to watching from a few feet away.
He watched as Sigma wrapped his slender fingers around Dostoyevsky’s neck. He watched as their eyes widened in realization, and how Fyodor pushed them away immediately. The action was done on purpose; Dostoyevsky let them see what it was.
Nikolai was very lucky that Sigma had good intuition. They withdrew, knowing his secret, trying to run back to their partner. Gogol took a step forward, hand slightly extended out. One false move could cost him his life.
Fyodor grabbed a fistful of their hair and held them back, flashing Gogol a cruel smile. Sigma yelped, reaching out, as far as they could, for Nikolai. Now was when he would save them, like he said all throughout planning.
When Nikolai saw the terrified look on their face, he took a giant stride forward, ready to whisk them away.
Fyodor knew this. He expected most of this to happen, after figuring out what was going on.
Activating his ability, Dostoyevsky slaughtered Sigma in seconds. It was a painless death, for the most part, but Sigma knew what was happening. Their hair was released, and the tips of their fingers grazed Nikolai before collapsing on the dirt.
He knew now. Nikolai knew Dostoyevsky’s ability.
He peered down at Sigma’s body, laying in front of him, and felt numb. He couldn’t feel his hands, or his legs.
He felt nothing as he blacked out.
After awakening, God knows how long, he realized he was still standing. He was alive. He was alive, and he was the only one.
Fyodor lay dead, near Sigma.
Quickly, he looked down for any injuries. He couldn’t feel anything at the moment. What had happened? Did it really matter?
He walked over to Dostoyevsky’s corpse, stepping into the pool of blood.
He did it. He killed his closest friend. The only person to ever truly understand him. He had now achieved freedom, being left by the chains of people.
So why didn’t he feel happy? He still felt this heavy burden on his back, weighing him down. His heart ached; what was this feeling? Why did his eyes burn? Why was there an itch in his throat that would not go away?
He kneeled before the corpse, soaking in blood. Fyodor would never look the same in his eyes.
What had he done?
Why did he think that he could truly be free, with his best friend dead and gone?
He peered, mourning, to Sigma’s corpse. His soulmate. Their death was necessary in order for Dostoyevsky to die, yet Nikolai felt his lip quiver at the sight of them. His hands shook incessantly.
He dedicated nearly a year to loving that person. It was genuine love, too, he realized. Caring night after night for the touch starved manager, giving them everything they needed. They were his angel. His saving grace. His beautiful, shining star.
But now they were dead. All because of Nikolai.
For the first time in ages, tears welled up in his eyes. Normally, he would bite his lip and fight them back, but this time, he let it go. A singular tear slowly rolled down his cheek before he sobbed.
He cried so hard over his mistake. Was it a mistake? It certainly wasn’t what he wanted.
This entire time, he was convinced that people were holding him back. It was offensive to him that they cared. Really, they were holding him back from being more miserable. Before, he would never admit to wanting a better life, but now, that’s all he wanted.
He truly believed that revenge trumped love, and that the sacrifice had to be made. Now, he had nothing.
Had those nights with Sigma meant nothing to him before? The delicate touch they gave him; the most loving touch he had ever felt? The feeling of being hugged from behind? Kissed on the forehead? The feeling of his hair being braided by them?
Had it really meant nothing?
He could never get it back.
It was true that people didn’t value other people until they were gone. Nikolai sobbed, face in the dirt, hands and legs covered in Dostoyevsky’s blood.
-
Sigma woke up, feeling only pain. They didn’t know how they survived Dostoyevsky’s ability. They couldn’t manage to get up. Slowly, they calmed their breath and tried soothing the aching they felt in their body.
They remembered what happened, before they collapsed.
Nikolai used them. Used them just like everyone else did. Was everything a lie? Everything that he promised them?
“I love you” never felt more untrue.
All they felt in this moment was hatred, resentment, and sorrow.
Their entire life they had been manipulated. Over and over again, promised the same things. They were disgusted with themself for being so vulnerable; for letting someone manipulate their feelings like that.
They trusted him. With their life. And he sacrificed their life, despite all that he had said.
They were wrong. Nikolai wasn’t their savior. He was life ruining. It was a mistake falling in love with him.
They opened their eyes. In their peripheral vision, they could see the horrid jester, hunched over the body of Dostoyevsky. So, he was alive. He got what he wanted.
Sigma’s heart ached so badly. Worse than the rest of their body.
They breathed in, taking as much air into their lungs as they could. Gathering their strength, they crawled to Dostoyevsky, putting all the strength into their arms.
Nikolai gasped, hearing the movement and noises that they let out.
“Sigma! You..” He trailed off, watching their movements. He wanted to hold them, to apologize, to kiss them. Tears blocked his vision as they streamed down his face, as if all the tears held back over the years were now releasing all at once.
He was being given a second chance.
Sigma, however, ignored the beckoning. They laid in Dostoyevsky’s blood, pushing aside his coat. Nikolai observed Sigma’s body get stained with blood.
Tucked away into a sewn-in pocket on the interior of Fyodor’s jacket laid a page. The page that had written Sigma to life, among other things. They had taken this information from him before fainting.
Stealing it away as quick as possible, they wiped the blood off of one hand on the back of their shirt, and pressed the other hand on the dirt. They struggled to get on their knees.
Nikolai was paralyzed. Sigma’s entire existence was held in that page. Everything they were made of was contained inside. All they could do was helplessly stare at Sigma’s movements, longing to touch them just once.
After minutes of struggling and falling, Sigma kneeled. Their hair was disheveled, there was dirt on their cheeks and forehead, their clothes were covered in blood and dust, and they had the most upsetting look on their face.
“Nikolai,” They rasped.
Gogol leaned forward, nearly tumbling down. He stuttered, speaking fast, “Yes, my angel?”
For the first time in the entire ordeal, they looked at him dead in the eyes. Their fingers held tightly onto the page.
Making sure Nikolai was watching, Sigma slowly tore the Page in half.
Then once more.
They tore until it was mere shreds.
They stared at him with betrayed and hateful eyes.
Nikolai held his breath, immediately reaching out for them, but before he could touch them, they were gone.
In their place laid a pile of sand, and Gogol’s beads.
Eyes wide and breath gone, he stared devastatingly at what was left of Sigma. He just wanted to hold them one last time. Kiss them one last time. Touch them one last time. He would never get that.
He would never feel Sigma’s warm embrace ever again. Never hear their sweet voice. Never see their beautiful face as they slept. Never tuck their hair behind their ear as they closed their eyes in embarrassment.
It was all gone. All because of Nikolai.
Hands shaking incredibly, he reached into his coat to pull out a small glass jar, tinted purple. Holding back more tears, he carefully took Sigma’s dust and slid it into the jar. Lastly, he placed his beads inside, one last gift.
He collapsed in the dirt, throat dry, and eyes burning. He cried until he could no longer cry. He felt no longer himself. Everything he had built for himself was now gone, and there was no going back.
He held tightly to the jar, holding it close to his heart.
As weeks and months passed, all Nikolai could do was wander. He had no more home. He had no more love. No motivation. No excitement. He had lost everything.
While roaming the empty land, every now and then he would hear the voice of Fyodor or Sigma calling out for him. It plagued his mind. Hearing Sigma’s sweet voice beckon him nearly broke him every single time.
It wasn’t real.
He waited out his days until his death, searching for them, for their souls. He heard the soft and gentle voice of Sigma singing a lullaby, every night, driving him to insanity.
He would find them again some day.
Until then, he condemned himself to a life of mirages and lies, always ready to die.
There was no reason to live anymore. He couldn’t live a life without Sigma. His true freedom.