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Fyodor rarely receives customers on Sundays, but his shop remains open, tucked into a modest alleyway. He peeks out the windowsill, the bloated glass morphing the passerby on narrow streets into caricatures of light and color. They are God-fearing people; churchgoers who hurry to tea after morning mass, rambunctious children running through the crowds to collect coins in the divots of cobblestone to spend at the local sweets shop, tattered women begging for stale bread outside the adjacent bakery.
Today marks ten years since he’s arrived in London, and Fyodor can’t say anything has changed. How boring.
It would be easy to create a new world here. To cause chaos that will burn mundane sin to ash and expose the fresh purity bubbling beneath. Fyodor has started the crusade on his own, thanks to the unique gift that has been bestowed upon him: the gift to end one’s life with the slightest touch.
He knows he’s feeding into it, but he’ll let them talk. The day they find out that the rumors surrounding the Northern Demon are true is the day that Fyodor announces it to the world himself. He is doing this in their best interest; gossip moves as quickly as the edge of his straight razor, after all, and they’ll forget about their dearly beloved husbands soon enough.
A gentle jingle of a bell gives him pause. Standing in the doorway is a tall, slender figure, which Fyodor immediately recognizes. In the darkness of his shop, the light from the outside surrounds a mop of blond hair like a halo.
Fyodor, dressed all in black, steps closer to the man in white.
“Nikolai Gogol,” he says, calm. Measured. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Fyodor Dostoevsky!” the man exclaims, as if reuniting with an old friend, voice lifting in a familiar lilt. It confirms what Fyodor has suspected for months now: that the clown who frequents this neighborhood hails from a similar place as he does. Fyodor has watched him through the window, enjoying how his morphed body contorts into absurd shapes as he performs for fleeting audiences of women and children.
When Fyodor has taken the rare occasion to exit his shop, chewing on stale toast with syrupy compote that he later tosses to the family of ravens living nearby, he’s taken the time to observe Nikolai, who always seems to be watching him. Whenever their eyes meet, Nikolai’s smile is sharp enough to cut diamond. It surges through his empty insides, pushes through blood and bone marrow to engrave a name into Fyodor’s ribs.
That same smile reappears, unobstructed – a flash of crooked, pearly teeth, front incisors separated by a small, endearing gap.
“ My , I’ve heard so much about you. The honor is all mine, truly!”
Something twists in Fyodor’s gut, a mix of irritation and enchantment, and Fydor tells himself it’s only because Nikolai is difficult to ignore. He’s become the talk of the town since he arrived a few months ago – Fyodor has shaved more than one father or husband who has complained about a certain boisterous foreigner entertaining in the streets. During his performances, Nikolai portrays a character of mania, putting a facade on display for the sake of pleasing a finicky audience. Now that Fyodor is facing him, though, it doesn’t seem like the man is as over-the-top in private as he is in public.
In fact, something about Nikolai seems almost haunted, as if Fyodor is staring into the fragile core of a person – the delicate innards of an automaton whose shell has been abandoned on an empty stage.
Nikolai stands a few inches taller than him, hair so long that it covers one of his eyes. The one that shows is large, expressive; possessing an element of melancholy that Fyodor feels an inescapable urge to capture and explore. His jawline is delicate, almost feminine , but a bit of stubble lines its underside – sparse and blond, yet clearly visible. Dark purple rings Nikolai’s visible eye, similar to the bruises that persistently embed themselves into Fyodor’s skin.
His shoulderblades are hunched as he removes his hat and coat at the doorway, pressing in two sharp points against his waistcoat – as if wings will sprout from them at any moment. Nikolai’s movements are erratic; he flits around the shop like a trapped hummingbird, bouncing between the coat rack and Fyodor’s side in small bursts of energy that disappear as quickly as they are brought on.
He’s a ticking time bomb. A bud ready to bloom. Fyodor wants to pick at his petals until nothing remains, to soak them in thick, warm ichor until they dye themselves red.
He puts Nikolai out of his misery, finally speaking up again.
“Please, have a seat. I’ll be right with you.”
A soft breath – perhaps of relief – warms the cold air between them. Nikolai flutters over to the chair, visible eye immediately darting to the half-wilted hydrangeas that decorate the base of the mirror in front of him. Fyodor pays it no mind as he kneels at the chair’s base, turning the crank to lift the seat up higher to accommodate for Nikolai’s long limbs. From this angle, it feels like Fyodor is kneeling at an unfamiliar altar, presenting an offering to a god whose intentions are yet to be discovered.
Once Nikolai is seated, Fyodor circles behind him, feeling a pleasant tingle of giddiness at the rush that comes with the control of standing above a barber’s chair. It’s an unspoken vow of trust, an unwritten contract bound in flesh and blood, one that is his to honor – his to break, if he wishes it.
It summons the urge to cut Nikolai, to examine the inside of a stranger as delicately as Nikolai presents it to him – to quantify Nikolai’s purity, as brushed and breakable as frosted glass.
Not yet.
Composing himself, Fyodor takes a deep breath and inhales the scent of Nikolai’s cologne, clean and slightly sweet. Fyodor wills a demure smile to his lips, but he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes; it’s clear he’s not as good of an actor as the performer sitting before him.
“Any specific style in mind, sir?” Fyodor asks, leaning forward to meet Nikolai’s visible eye in the mirror. Something akin to fear – no, anticipation – flashes within it, swirling with a mix of volatile emotion. It tells Fyodor something he already knew, something that came from weeks and weeks of observing the clown through a warped window, through the smallest glances exchanged between them while navigating the crowds on cobblestone sidestreets.
Fyodor’s mind connects the pieces, vignettes of Nikolai playing in his head. The performances by his window, the piercing gazes they’ve shared, the sickly-sweetness of Nikolai’s voice upon their formal introduction –
Nikolai Gogol knows.
Nikolai Gogol is testing him.
“Whatever you’d think would look best, sir ,” Nikolai chirps out in reply, tilting his head and flashing a smile. It’s dazzling – it’s rehearsed .
Fyodor plays along, eyes crinkling at their edges. “Very well. By all means, make yourself comfortable.”
Fyodor wraps the cape around Nikolai’s neck and ties it loosely around the nape. His fingers brush against the skin, suppressing a chuckle when it prickles under his touch.
He reaches into his apron to find an elastic band, reaching back to tie his own hair out of his face before removing his shears, freshly cleaned and sharpened, from their casing. Nikolai is his first customer of the day; since opening the shop’s doors in the early morning, Fyodor has been itching to use them.
Without much fanfare, Fyodor gets started on the cut. He takes tufts of Nikolai’s hair and snips diagonally, sharpening the layers that have long since grown out. Nikolai’s tresses are thick between his fingers, seemingly never-ending as he thins them, tufts of flaxen hair falling to the floor like sparse snowflakes. Unsurprisingly, the clown’s hair grows in all different directions; it’s enough to summon a chuckle from Fyodor’s lips.
“What’s the matter?” Nikolai asks.
“Oh, nothing,” Fyodor placates, snipping pointedly at a soft curl.
Nikolai’s lower lip juts out in a petulant pout. “Don’t leave me in the dark, sir. Please, enlighten me!”
Fyodor can’t help the smile that tugs at his mouth at the sight of Nikolai huffing in the mirror. “Your cowlicks. They’re everywhere.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. It’s good practice.” It’s meant to be a gentle tease, passive small talk, but Nikolai’s face grows visibly flustered. He opens his mouth, shuts it, and opens it again, before ultimately deciding to keep quiet. Fyodor’s smile is lingering on his lips.
After taking a bit of bulk off the crown and side sections, Fyodor sets his sights to the back of Nikolai’s head. He trims the lingering hairs that tickle the base of Nikolai’s neck, carefully brushing away the stray hairs that fail to fall away. Fyodor notices the shiver that rattles Nikolai’s slender frame.
Fyodor steps back in front of the chair, bending down a short distance to be at eye-level with those overgrown bangs. Nikolai’s visible eye ticks to meet his, lips curving into a small smile. It’s different than the one Fyodor knows; this one, paired with their newfound closeness, feels far too intimate. Nikolai’s true name, inscribed in flourishes of messy cursive on Fyodor’s ribs, pulses in his chest. He must be letting it show on his face, because Nikolai lets out a giggle that breaks the heavy silence between them.
“A barber who takes his time… you’re as good as they say, sir!”
Fyodor’s jaw sets. He blinks away the red spots that speckle the corners of his vision, the primal desire to lunge forward and sink his shears into Nikolai’s windpipe – to ensure that lilting voice never speaks so softly again.
Instead, Fyodor’s free hand reaches forward, thumb and index finger grasping Nikolai’s fuzzy chin and tilting it upwards.
“Look at me.”
Like magic, it quiets him; Nikolai’s face dusts with pretty pink again, like petals on freshly-fallen snow. Fyodor observes the curve of his nose, long and crooked – it conjures memories of home that he’d rather forget. Nikolai’s eye flutters closed when Fyodor angles his shears, light eyelashes kissing the tops of his cheeks.
Fyodor tilts the shears upwards, carefully thinning out the hair that flops messily over Nikolai’s forehead. Slowly but surely, the eye hidden beneath his bangs comes into view; when Nikolai finally opens it, it’s a rare blue – the color of clear skies on a frigid winter day. Snow-blind, he tears his gaze away from it, focusing instead on evening out the asymmetrical growth of Nikolai’s bangs.
When Fyodor finally finishes cutting, Nikolai’s eyes are on full display, mismatched gaze watching his every move. Fyodor steps aside to let Nikolai examine himself in the mirror, and the other man looks starstruck.
“They were right about you,” Nikolai breathes, surging forward towards the mirror to fluff his bangs with one hand. In a split second, his voice crescendos into a gleeful trill that borders on hysterical. “I look fantastic! ”
The praise falls warmly but harshly on Fyodor’s ears – like he’s feeling the sun on his skin for the first time after months spent suffocating in the London smog. Responses this enthusiastic are few and far between – the husbands and fathers he serves don’t provide him so much as a “thank you” after receiving their service.
That is, if they live to tell the tale.
“We aren’t done yet,” he murmurs to Nikolai, who immediately settles back into the chair. “You wanted a shave, yes?”
Nikolai’s eyes illuminate then, like he’s remembered something important. He nods vigorously, fingers gripping the armrests of the seat hard enough to turn his knuckles white.
Fyodor smiles at the endearing irony. He can’t help but find it cute that the proctor himself has forgotten his own pop quiz.
Nikolai watches intently as Fyodor takes his time preparing the cream, coarse brush bristles swirling against the wet bar to create a smooth lather. He takes Nikolai’s face between his fingers again, gently maneuvering it to apply an even layer over the soft, malleable skin. Nikolai smiles when Fyodor brushes the foam beneath his chin and over his neck, wriggling slightly in place.
“Is something wrong?” Fyodor tilts his head.
“It tickles!” Nikolai lets out a high-pitched giggle, but it sounds disingenuous – forced. There’s something lurking beneath the surface, something far less innocent than Nikolai is letting on.
He’s getting impatient.
“You’d best not be squeamish for the shave,” Fyodor warns as he sets down the brush and approaches Nikolai. The veneer of politeness Fyodor was wearing must’ve faded by now, because Nikolai shivers again, completely unprompted.
Fyodor knows better than to assume it’s out of fear.
Nikolai only tenses further when he sees Fyodor unsheathe his folding razor from his apron. Perhaps he’d expected it to be rusted, or bloodied, but the thing looks brand-new – it’s Fyodor’s gift, after all. A blade that can take a life as easily as it can remove hair.
Fyodor lifts the razor towards the window, the blade’s sharp edge glinting slightly in the light. His fingers hold it steady, despite the static that tingles in his body whenever he wields it. It’s a weapon, it’s a gift, it’s what will make Fyodor’s ambitions into a reality –
It’s what makes him the Northern Demon.
When he hovers its edge over the hollow of Nikolai’s cheekbone, his instructions are simple.
“Stay very still.” One wrong move, and you’re done for.
“Of course,” Nikolai sighs, eyes drifting closed as he finalizes his decision to put his life into Fyodor’s hands.
The razor slides smoothly through the lather, tiny white-blond hairs disappearing in the foam that collects on the blade. When Fyodor pulls it away to wipe it off, Nikolai’s body visibly relaxes.
Fyodor’s second stroke is slower, gauging Nikolai’s reaction. He’s leaning into the touch of the blade, tilting his head ever -so-slightly upwards as it glides over his skin. There’s a small catch of breath, a faint quirk of the lips, the telltale pointing of feet in curly-toed shoes.
It’s all the information Fyodor needs. Nikolai is teetering on a tightrope, walking the line between pleasure and destruction, and he’s enjoying every step of it.
It’s certainly new to Fyodor, but not unwelcome. He’s never been one to deny service to anyone – whether they leave the shop at the end of their appointment is a different story entirely.
He moves in smaller strokes over Nikolai’s sideburns, cleaning up any stray hairs until the skin is bare and soft. Nikolai’s exhales trail warm, soft air over Fyodor’s fingertips, ticklish and saccharine as he repeats the process on the other cheek. Nikolai’s reactions to the blade on skin are akin to being embraced, as if the blade is a kiss from a lover.
All that remains is the foam on Nikolai’s neck, ending right beneath his throat.
Fyodor can’t take back the way his voice drops to a purr, barely audible. He can’t help the way his fingers heat up with a familiar urge, a bloodthirst that cutting Nikolai could easily satisfy.
“Tilt your head back.”
“Yes, sir,” Nikolai breathes, barely above a whisper. It’s so sweet , heating up the air between them to just the right temperature, and Fyodor thinks his teeth might rot out of his mouth then and there.
Nikolai’s head moves back all too eagerly, putting the full expanse of pale, foamy, freckled skin on display. Fyodor lets out a hum of approval at the way Nikolai’s vulnerability is exposed; the way grown men become completely helpless beneath his blade is something Fyodor will never grow tired of. However, this is the first time he’s encountered someone who has anticipated a razor-induced death.
It’s what he wants, and it’s what Nikolai wants. What’s stopping him?
The edge of Fyodor’s blade hovers over the line of foam that begins at the middle seam of Nikolai’s neck. He’s not even touching him yet, but Nikolai’s skin is already erupting in goosebumps. It almost makes Fyodor want to wait a little longer, just to see how much Nikolai will react without so much as Fyodor laying a finger on him –
“ Please, Fedya.”
Clearly, he doesn’t need to.
The use of the nickname barely makes Fyodor bat an eyelash. Coming from Nikolai, it almost feels more natural than the suffix of “ sir ” – the form of address used by the corrupt men who write their own death sentences. Compared to them, Nikolai is something else entirely; something far closer to Fyodor himself.
The blade begins its slow ascent, starting from beneath Nikolai’s throat and making its way up to the point beneath his jaw in one long sweep. The reaction is almost instantaneous; although Nikolai stays still – as instructed, Fyodor notes, taking the other man’s penchant for obedience into account – and refrains from making any loud or sudden sounds, there’s no denying the whimper that escapes his lips at the contact. Fyodor nearly stops when he hears it, blade stuttering ever-so-slightly over fragile skin.
The cream on Nikolai’s neck disappears easily, revealing doe-soft flesh beneath. No blood rises to the surface, but Fyodor can see the veins beneath Nikolai’s freckled skin, twitching from the labor of pumping what must be sweet, thick ichor. Fyodor’s mouth waters.
Fyodor repeats the process on the opposite side, gathering thick cream beneath the edge of the razor as it slides steadily up to Nikolai’s pulse point. Nikolai whines as soon as the blade disappears, eyes opening to stare up at Fyodor, hazy with a need that a man with even a fraction of Fyodor’s intelligence could detect.
Fyodor stands over him, positioning the blade over where it will make its final stroke – over the center of Nikolai’s throat, all the way to the underside of his chin.
With one final movement, he could grant the little bird the freedom he so craves. It would be so easy, and watching Nikolai receive a death he’s clearly aching for would be a delicious means to an end –
“Breathe, Mykola .” The name falls from Fyodor’s tongue like a prayer. He’s heard the way the clown talks, knows that their languages aren’t quite the same. This name – Mykola Hohol – is the one carved into him for life, a memory that even blood won’t wash away. A walking paradox, chained to vice yet partial to virtue.
Mykola inhales, and the blade moves.
The white foam disappears, making way for red blood that blooms fresh and hot over the pallor of Mykola’s skin. Fyodor watches it trickle in a gentle stream down his throat, dipping beneath his white collar and most definitely collecting in the divots of his collarbones. Mykola’s body tenses, shuddering an exhale before it goes completely limp.
This hasn’t happened before. Fyodor’s lips go dry.
The red that taints the man in white causes a warm feeling to rise in his stomach, and he’s leaning in to inhale the sweetness of Mykola’s skin before his tongue sweeps over the narrow rivulet of crimson that drips beneath Mykola’s chin.
A tiny nick, barely the size of a child’s fingernail.
“My apologies,” Fyodor murmurs against the flesh, closing his eyes and tucking his nose just beneath Mykola’s jaw.
From above, the long fingers of a pale, narrow hand brush slowly through his hair. Mykola is panting, and Fyodor is certain as to why.
“No need, Fedya,” Mykola singsongs, letting out a soft giggle that vibrates pleasantly against Fyodor’s lips. “I suppose I’m just not the Northern Demon’s target demographic.”
Certainly not , Fyodor thinks, letting out a pensive hum as Mykola pulls him upward to bump their foreheads together, but he may be of great use to me nonetheless.