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There was something wrong with Fyodor.
There always had been, in a traditional sense. He didn’t love people, saw them more as things than minds and bodies and emotions. He had few emotions and when he did have them, they were either all-encompassing (rare) or extremely muted (far more common.) To him, the world was a chess game, and he happened to be one of the players. Even in childhood, he knew he was different.
But that wasn’t what was wrong with him, it was just a part of who he was. His non-existent empathy and strange emotional regulation was shared by many people, and that did not make them ‘wrong’. He’d taken his own oddness, and used it to build himself up, build the Decay of the Angels up. It was the ten in their royal flush.
What was wrong , was that all of a sudden, all that empty space where his heart should’ve been was abruptly filled with something in the shape of one Nikolai Gogol.
When it had truly started, he had no clue. This was a sprouting of a tree whose roots had already dug deep inside his insides, wood curling through his intestines and cradling his liver. Long enough ago that the memories blurred together, somewhere in between meeting him and smiling - genuinely smiling - because of him for the first time.
It almost hurt, in a strange, abstract way. The way a life devoid of love starts to ache when a heart beats, the way something empty stings when it stretches to fit something that should’ve always been there.
Fyodor isn’t scared of anything. He’s terrified of Gogol.
“Gogol, open up.” it was late, and the man in question was most likely either asleep, or getting ready for bed. Fyodor was willing to take the chance he was awake. And lo and behold, he was correct.
His fingers tightened on the forms in his hands as he registered several things at once - Nikolai was only in his button-up shirt, exposing the edge of black boxers and showing off plush thighs the colour of marble. His hair was loose, and longer than Fyodor had realised, curling around his ribs and lower back, soft and haloing his face in alabaster. His usual glass eye was gone, and he’d instead chosen to wear a white, medicinal eyepatch. He looked sweet, and tired, and Fyodor found his eyes latching onto a purpling bruise on the inside of his thigh.
“Fyodor.” he said, in quiet surprise. Fyodor watched his pale face flush a delicate pink. Fyodor’s mind was flooded with images of Jehudiel, the angel of merciful love, as the old, cheap lightbulb flickered behind him and cast his head in a golden crown.
He holds out the forms, his hands oddly unsteady, and tears his eyes away from the darkening mark on Nikolai’s thigh. “Give these to Sigma. I want it done by Thursday.” Raphael, healer of all - Sistine, in his skin -
Nikolai’s face lit up, and something about it felt wrong. Gogol has many faces of joy, but he has one that’s particularly worshipful when it comes to fulfilling any of Fyodor’s requests. It looks blank, almost obsessive, and it makes Fyodor feel a little queasy. He’s not sure why, and that’s strange enough to be horrifying. It’s pure subserviance, the way a dog will come crawling back no matter how many times it’s master would kick it down. Gogol might as well have a golden chain clipped to his neck, the end of it wound around Fyodor’s wrist.
“Of course!” Nikolai gushed. He took the forms straight from Fyodor’s hand, and hugged them close to his chest, like they were something precious and not just about the Sky Casino’s finances. “I can go right now, if you want me to!” despite the snow beginning to fall in small flakes from the dark, heavy sky, despite the way his fingernails were purple with bruises from last week, last month, despite the way his eyes screamed in delight to be used , despite, despite, despite.
“No.” Fyodor said automatically, the word jumping from his mouth before he realised he was saying anything at all. “That’s unnecessary. Go when it is convenient to you.”
Nikolai’s expression faltered, and Fyodor understood why. Displeasure was a knife in his heart, anger twisting it, if he so much as breathed in a way that might’ve upset another, he would be calling for a whip so he might drag the harsh, rough leather across his lily-white back, punishing himself for the mere crime of existence.
So Fyodor turned away, away from a slowly glossing eye, and shoulders beginning to slump. “ Spokoynoy nochi .” Goodnight. He called over his shoulder, seeing Nikolai still silhouetted in the light from his room. Outlined like a temptation.
“ I vam togo zhe. ” You as well . Nikolai’s reply was slightly muffled by distance, but once Fyodor heard the sound of a door shutting, he exhaled heavily, hand going to his mouth.
What was that? That strange revulsion to Gogol’s pain, that impossible gravitation towards the mark on his thigh, the impossible urge to reach out and press down, to see the noise he’d make, to put more there with teeth and tongue -
He felt oddly dirty, as he walked through the snow.
Fyodor knew everything about Nikolai. Things that even Nikolai didn’t know. He knows his blood type is A+, he knows that he cares more about star signs than he gives away, he knows he privately hates speaking Russian, because it makes his Ukrainian accent stick out more. He knows Nikolai was once struck so hard across his face by his mother, he’d spat out blood and teeth. He knows that Nikolai learnt to feign sleep when his father came into his room at night.
And he knows that Nikolai was a principal dancer for his ballet academy for years.
He watched as Nikolai jumped and twirled, as he played his cello. Nikolai was like water, flowing effortlessly from move to move, from arabesques into pirouettes, from jete to pas de chat, from chaînés to cabriole like it had simply been hours, not years, since he last practised regularly. The line of his muscles and form like feathers in a breeze, natural and divine.
This was a strange ritual for them both. Fyodor would play his cello to think, to not think, to find simple pleasure in the music, and Nikolai would dance for a multitude of reasons. Mostly, to find a sort of freedom in the movement. He wanted freedom so badly, but wrapped himself in bonds for comfort. Fyodor’s heart hurt whenever he thought about it too much.
Fyodor picked up the tempo, plucking at the strings, and Nikolai pirouetted to face him, smiling brightly, a real smile, at the challenge. He wasted no time at all, throwing his leg up into a graceful, almost painful looking arabesque, before he turned to leap, landing gracefully.
Fyodor felt his bow in his hand, and was suddenly overcome with the urge to surprise Nikolai, to impress him, and to do it genuinely. Not wanting the dog at the altar, wanting the angelic dancer in front of him. He drew out the final notes of the song, before lapsing into a rather new piece that he’d picked up.
Nikolai gaped at him, in shock. “La Syphilde.” he breathed, and Fyodor smiled at him, daring him. Nikolai closed his eyes, his smile dreamy, and held his arms out, and began to walk on pointe, so carefully, so lightly, that it seemed he were flying. He was lead along, fluttering his invisible wings, ethereal, painted in blinding silver and melted gold from the setting sun, his arms extended to the heavens as he slunk around Fyodor’s chair, with all the grace of a butterfly, with a swan on the water.
Fyodor knew the story of La Syphilde. He knew it was Nikolai’s favourite, he knew Nikolai was playing Sylph, and he was the hapless, lovesick Scotsman James, being enchanted.
James killed Sylph in the end. Fyodor played on.
“ Eto moy lyubimyy .” Nikolai whispered, as he twirled, arms extended towards Fyodor, every muscle in his body screaming Sylph’s longing, her beauty, his beauty. This is my favourite .
Fyodor swallowed. “ Ya znayu .” I know . So quiet it was swallowed by the long, straining notes of his cello, of his fingers.
He didn’t say more, as Nikolai danced towards the setting sun, the final notes echoing high and loud in this big, empty room, as Nikolai gave his finale to the fiery sky, and curtseyed delicately.
As he straightened up, he turned and smiled at Fyodor so brightly, it was pointless the sun having set so late, if Nikolai could smile like that.
“How was that?” he asked, slightly out of breath, his chest rising and falling in the golden sun. Fyodor wanted to bite his heart, feel it pulsing under his tongue and teeth.
“ Oslepitel'nyy .” Dazzling . It was close enough to the truth, Fyodor could still see the shape of him bounding around the dancefloor, as if the simple hardwood were a stage, sticking to his vision, pulsing purple and green and isabelline. He’d been dazzled, like he’d stared into the sun too long. He couldn’t find it in himself to look away.
“Thank you.” Nikolai said, and all of the tension he held in the dance bled out of him immediately. “Thank you.” he repeated, lowering himself to sit crosslegged, looking out at the black, shadowy shapes of birds in the kaleidoscope sky.
“That was the female role.” Fyodor noted, after a moment of silence had passed. “Why did you choose to dance Sylph instead of James?”
“I wanted to be a fairy.” Nikolai said, like that explained everything, like that explained how the look of enchantment in his eyes couldn’t have been faked, like how when he danced he became the morning sunlight, the dew in the tall grass sparkling like a carpet of diamonds.
Fyodor felt clumsy and human in comparison, his fingers thick and too short, closing around flesh the colour of starlight, having it dissolve and fall apart in pieces in his cruel grip.
He wanted to tell Nikolai. Tell him that he was ephemeral, ethereal, like he was mist and smoke and silk, slipping through his fingers.
“I see.” is what he says instead.
They’re alone together, on the deck of a rather large ship. Technically, this boat is only meant to be transporting cargo, but they need a way to get into Canada without alerting the immigration services. So a cargo ship was fine.
Nikolai was draped over the side, looking utterly miserable in the mid-morning sun. He barely even reacted when Fyodor approached him, eyes glassy and skin slightly green.
“You look terrible.” Nikolai groaned softly at that, and massaged the space between his brows. His braid was loose, small silver threads hanging in the breeze like cobwebs.
“I feel terrible.” he managed, dipping his head and giving a great sigh. “ Budʹ laska, vbyyte mene…” the Ukrainian was soft, and slightly slurred. He really must be feeling awful. Fyodor’s gut lurched, and he felt a little of the dark, inky blackness he held onto like a lifeline, blur into grey, as he grappled with the sudden emotion filling him from his chest to inside of his very bones. Empathy? No, he himself did not feel terrible simply because someone else did… compassion?
“Is it seasickness?” Fyodor asked carefully. Nikolai gave a weak noise in confirmation. Fyodor moved, and hesitated, his hand hovering over Nikolai’s back.
Touching felt taboo. Touching felt too far. Even through the thin material of his gloves, touching felt intimate and human.
He inhaled, and lowered his hand. Nikolai exhaled shakily at the contact. The vibration of it travelled up Fyodor’s arm, and echoed in his chest.
“You should lie down.” Fyodor said, voice soft enough to be lost in the crashing of waves against the boat’s metal hull, and Nikolai, pliant as ever, moved willingly as Fyodor led him across the deck, and into the small room they’d been given. There were two mattresses, in different corners of the room, but Nikolai collapsed onto Fyodor’s, bringing Fyodor down with him.
Nikolai was a dead weight on him, pinning him down to the soft mattress, his head tucked into Fyodor’s shoulder, sighing contentedly. Fyodor tried not to scream. His body sang with flame, revulsion, vibration, like he was - he was settling. That was what scared him the most.
“Gogol. Get off me.”
Nikolai did not get off him. In fact, he’d fallen asleep. He’d been complaining of illness a few days before, not to Fyodor’s face, but he could tell. He was already sick, and the seasickness had brought him down. The deep bags under his eyes were shadowed, and Fyodor felt something like a wall inside of him break, not with a crash or a bang, but with a simple sigh of defeat.
Fyodor undid the clasps of his cape, and tossed it aside, next taking his hat, and hesitating before the eyepatch.
Nikolai was missing an eye. It wasn’t something they discussed often, because there wasn’t really a reason to. Nikolai either covered his missing eye, or wore his prosthetic. Fyodor had never seen him with his missing eye fully exposed.
Fyodor slipped the eyepatch off, and tugged down Nikolai’s hair. Nikolai would show him that if he wanted to, and that was that.
He would’ve stood to remove Nikolai’s boots, but Nikolai was heavy enough to hold him down, so he closed his eyes, and let the weight comfort him.
Having another person against him was alien, but… good. He liked the sensation of Nikolai’s chest expanding as he inhaled, he liked the odd sensation of having a need met as he ran gloved fingers through Nikolai’s hair, wishing he were brave enough to touch with skin.
Nikolai was against him. Not above, below, or away. Directly next to him, an equal. Angelic in his rest, divine in his soft snores and breath fanning across Fyodor’s own skin.
Angels were servants of God. Fyodor wondered if he truly believed in autotheism anymore.
“We’re drunk.” Fyodor muttered, hands clinging onto Nikolai’s hips for dear life. He’s never done this before, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He was starving for a taste of Nikolai.
“I know.” Nikolai giggles, their small height difference amplified by the way Fyodor has Nikolai pinned to the wall. They’re in a terrible, tiny alley in Madrid, it’s so warm Fyodor could see the heat distort the road to the left of them. He presses his knee in between Nikolai’s thighs and drinks in the surprised, gasping moan he gets in response. He wonders, briefly, if anyone who claimed premarital sex was a sin, had ever seen Nikolai as his good eye clouded in pleasure.
“I’ve never done this.” Fyodor confesses, and it shows. He has no idea what to do, how to show the affection he harbours, how to even selfishly get himself off, so he just presses himself to Nikolai, skin to skin, so close it’s like he’s trying to get inside of Nikolai’s ribs. He wants to kiss his hair, bite his thighs, squeeze his waist with his hands.
“It’s okay,” Nikolai breathes, “I haven’t either. Not with someone like you.” they’re in an approximation of casual clothes, Nikolai with a big, billowy white shirt undone enough that Fyodor can see the slight dip and curve of his pectorals, sinfully tight black jeans that left nothing to the imagination, and a small golden chain around his neck. Fyodor wanted to see him bite it, he wanted to bite under it.
“A man?” he guessed, the black ribbon Nikolai had in his hair shimmering like a river at midnight.
“Someone who wants me.” Nikolai says, before his head rolls back, and a tear snakes out of his good eye. It glimmers in the orange-gold light of streetlamps, and Fyodor has the odd urge to lick it away. He reaches up and does it, the salty taste exploding on his tongue, mingling with wine and seafood.
“You don’t want me.” Nikolai rasps, even as he grinds down on Fyodor pressing his knee up . “Not like a person wanting a person.”
“You don’t know that.” Fyodor mumbles, as he takes a chance, and his hand goes up Nikolai’s shirt, feeling the soft fat of his unflexed muscles, the hard line of his hip, and the hot flush of his cock pressed into his underwear. But Nikolai is right. He doesn’t even know how to want a person like a person.
“What do you want me like, then?” Nikolai asks. Fyodor grabs his cock and kisses him messily. Fyodor wants him like so many things. He doesn’t know how to say any of them.
It’s a bad kiss, Fyodor doesn’t know what he’s doing, Nikolai is gasping and moaning as he desperately jacks his cock, clumsy and too loose and fast. He wraps Nikolai’s braid around his wrist like a rope, and tugs. Nikolai pants, and sobs. He’s beautiful. He’s the most beautiful thing Fyodor has ever seen.
“I’m gonna cum.” He warns, even as his hips buck up needily, and his face is flushed red. “I’m gonna, don’t -”
“Come on then.” Fyodor spits. “I want you. I want you to cum.”
Nikolai lets out a strangled scream as he shakes, and humps against Fyodor’s hand. His hands go to Fyodor’s shoulders, and the memory of the rest of the night is gone, swimming in drunkenness and giggling.
Fyodor often wonders what happiness is. He obviously knows, it’s an emotion. A feeling. But what is it?
He thinks he has an idea, as Nikolai snores quietly, and the early morning sun creeps across the hotel bed. He thinks he can guess, as he sweats a little from too much heat, and blinks away pale wisps of white hair that seem determined to get in his eyes.
“What do you want me like?” Nikolai had asked, tears in his eyes and hope bleeding from his voice like blood from a knife wound.
Fyodor wants Nikolai, and that’s all there is to it.
Faint memories of sex come back to him, as he shifts and smells sweat and booze, of Nikolai screaming his name as he came again and again, Fyodor insistent on his pleasure instead of his own.
Fyodor didn’t know how to love, but he could try. Especially if it meant Nikolai would be in his arms again.