Chapter Text
It was Friday and late at night. Koba did not know how late exactly, since he has deliberately avoided checking any clocks ever since he went on this walk. However, he was sure that it was late enough for his security to be furious when he arrives to the dacha. And not only the security. He would undoubtedly hear complaints about this during the next politburo meeting.
Ugh.
He knew why they insisted on these protective measures and he could not blame them for it. But his understanding did not negate the need for a bit of freedom from time to time. Though, maybe this "time to time" has been occurring too frequent during the last few months. Koba sighed before inhaling the cold night air deeply. There was something about this, something about the scent of late night after rain, that calmed him in a way that nothing (except for smoking) did. Some claimed that the night was too quiet and seemingly lifeless, which made it unsettling. That was never true for Koba. There was no bright light or annoying heat to overwhelm him and it was so peaceful and lovely. This was why he disliked summer. Not only did he have to switch out his usual outfit because of the weather but also the lengthening of the day robbed him of the precious, soothing darkness that night offered.
Speaking of smoking, he was craving a cigar. He was supposed to have one right as he finished dining in his study but that did not happen, as his cigar case turned out to be empty. This disruption of routine upset him. It was stupid to have such a reaction, as he could have easily requested for a cigar to be brought to him (it was not like all tobacco disappeared from the face of the earth) but he found himself simply unable to. His inner balance was particularly brittle today and this tiny inconvenience was enough to push him into the too-familiar state of overexcitability of senses. Talking to someone to get a cigar was too much. The once comfortable temperature inside the study was too much. Suddenly, he was too aware of the fullness of his stomach. The existence of his own physical form was too much. He had to get out. In a way, it was a miracle that he managed to hold onto the control for so long, he thought (or more like vaguely imagined in a form that was far from words) as he grabbed his coat and rushed outside. He did not remember how he got past the fence gate or the guards. He only remembered finally coming back to his senses about twenty minutes of walk away from the Kuntsevo dacha. At that point, he was alone and glad for it.
His legs instinctively carried him in the general direction of the city center. In the direction of a certain cemetery, to be precise. He has not been there for a few weeks. One could call that an improvement, since he was there every Sunday just three months ago. It took a while to get there. A while which he refused to measure. He did not want to be aware of time in a moment like this. The graphic concreteness of a clearly stated time period felt too vulgar and rough against him. He felt exposed. Not only that. He felt raw. Yes, that was the word. The disruption in the routine also caused a disruption in his thought process and the control he managed to establish over his mind was torn away from him by this one unforeseen event. Just like that. Just near the end of the week. Just when he thought he was doing so well. Everything was good — or as good as it could be given the circumstances — and then it was not and he could not predict it, he could not prepare for it, he could not stand it! Not having a smoke would have been fine if only he had known that it would happen and internally prepared for it. His head was still pulsing from the way he got overwhelmed earlier. His hands were sweaty. Bad. But once he wiped them into his clothes they became dry and his fingers started feeling tight, as if the skin was too small for them. Even worse. It was the painful, behind-the-eyeballs kind of pulsing that got worse when you moved or strained you eyes and that signified an oncoming migraine. A sensation which Koba was disgustingly familiar with. Very bad. Very. Bad. He wanted to reach for the imaginary ends of his skin and pull at them to rip that whole thing off of himself. He wanted to bring his hands up to his face, shove his fingers into his eyes and tear them out just to get rid of the headache.
But he could not. And that was the worst of it all.
Instead, he sped up. In these moments, it was best when he was able to think about something else and get his consciousness to detach from his body. Some physical activity often helped with that, for some strange reason. Koba had a personal theory that this reason was the repetitiveness of certain types of movements performed. If he could allow his body to go through the motions by itself, then his mind could disconnect and wander free of all those miserable sensations. Walking was extra effective in achieving this. He needed something to think about, otherwise this had no chance of success, but there were so many topics that he wanted to avoid. What would a normal person think about? This was (and always has been) a question that creeped into his mind a lot. Unfortunately, the obvious first answer was mostly either "a normal person would not get into a situation like this" or "a normal person would not need to ask what to do, as they would know it already by the virtue of being a normal person" or both. In the end, he ended up choosing to think about words, as they fell under linguistics and linguistics fell under the category of interests and he concluded that one's interests were a normal enough topic to think about.
His relationship to words was about as complicated as the rest of him. According to his mother, he started speaking early enough to be considered quicker than others but not so early that it would fall into the "miracle child" area. What he was truly exceptional at was reading. He absorbed books at a pace that surprised even his teacher, which lead to him progressing to more complex works very quickly. And yet he never felt like it was enough. Through the books he learned words. So many words, especially the difficult ones, with very particular meanings and long-winded definitions. But he kept being misunderstood. He expressed as elaborately and concretely as he possibly could. And others still found a way of misinterpreting him. It was infuriating.
He was vaguely aware of passing by some people. They probably recognised him — it was difficult not to, since he has not changed his outward appearance much in quite a few years. Maybe they tried to speak to him. Who knows. He was way too disconnected to notice.
He meant exactly what he said and only what he said. The people he spoke to insisted on finding some nefarious intent. His voice was too flat — obviously, he must not have been sincere. He gestured so strangely. No one actually moves their hands so stiffly! Naturally, he was mocking them. He did not even look into their eyes, such a rude child he was! His parents should be harsher in disciplining him.
Ugh.
How he had despised some of those people. Luckily, he never had to see them again since leaving Gori. Later in his life, he kept being misunderstood, however people did not dare be so condescending to him anymore. There was truly no one more acceptable to be horrible to than children. It made him mad every time he thought about it. The burn of anger in his stomach did kick his consciousness back into his body but it also worked amazingly in distracting him from the migraine. He realised he had stopped walking and upon looking around, he found that he was in front of the entrance to Novodevichy cemetery. Ah. The walk here took less time than he had expected, but maybe he had just gotten too distracted. Realising how stupid his surprised staring at the cemetery gate must look to the world around, he quickly started moving again.
He really should have brought her flowers. A normal person would have brought flowers and she was more than deserving of it. Very bad. More than very bad. It reminded him of his bastard of a father. Of the way he would disregard common courtesy when it came to his wife. He did not let himself continue that sting of consciousness. He would not spit upon lovely Nadya's memory by invoking this man and his actions so close to her dead body. Surely, he could find a replacement thought.
Nadya's grave has not changed one bit since his last visit. Naturally. Such a pointless matter to think about. Of course it was the same. What did you expect? he told himself internally, feeling mad again. Bad replacement thought. He sighed, clasping his hands behind his back.
He missed Nadya, he really did. Their relationship was messy and toxic at times and sometimes there were moments when he used to wish that he had not married her, but that was only ever in the heat of the moment and he never said it out loud. She was precious to him. She was unpredictable at times, but she was a stable presence, which was made safe through constancy. She was the closest he could ever hope to get to a normal family. And now she… was not. Well, to say "now" was quite strange by this point. It has been a year and almost five months without her and it was true that he was getting better, but he despised it so, so much. There mere idea of improving was revolting to him. How dare he? How dare he even think about doing better when it is his fault that she was dead? It was his temper. It is always his horrible temper, when it came to her. There was something in the effect that she had on him during their arguments, which made him lose his mind. As if his carefully held reins of control simply vanished. And it always scared him. And that was why he always got so angry.
Improving was unimaginably scary. Suffering was also scary, but suffering was familiar. Improving was foreign. If he was to admit he likes it, it would mean admitting the belief that it is okay for him to feel better. Or worse — that he might even be deserving of it. Disgusting. Bad. Wrong. Normal people, meaning everyone else, deserved things. Nice things, even.
Suddenly it dawned upon him just how familiar this feeling was and it disgusted him even more. The cold, hard emptiness that each dead loved one left behind inside him, he was… used to it. It hurt so much, as it always did, but now it was familiar and that fact rendered it safe. He was not less destroyed by it in any way and yet he found himself wishing that it would never leave. That it would transform into some viscose dark matter and seep into his bones and hurt him forever, with every heartbeat and every breath as a reminder of what could have been, what he could have had if only he was like other people. If only he was normal.
Even the first time (he felt his throat tighten upon reminding himself of that "first time"), with Kato, it was extremely hard to let himself get into a state where he could work again. However, back then he had a revolution to do and… (it was at this very moment that Koba realised he was approaching a highly dangerous territory, which would be unwise to get into, but subsequently he also realised that it was too late now) and… Ilyich. Koba felt as though his throat and chest became even tighter if it even was possible. He did not allow himself to think about Ilyich too often, as it always shattered any semblance of control he thought he had. And now, suddenly, he was reminded of him, completely unprepared. It was like feeling everything and nothing at the same time. For a split second, he was reminded of all the beautiful, strong and competent that was represented in Ilyich and also of the horrible, horrible pain of his passing. A memory crept into his mind. Warm, lazy afternoon. Sunlight on fresh green grass. Shade under a tree. Ilyich turning around to face him, laughing. He. Getting all hot and shy from the tiniest bit of attention. He remembered that moment very vividly, but it only flashed behind his eyelids for a moment before he pressed his nails into his palms and forced himself to suppress it. He was almost successful, almost. By other words, he was completely successful until-
"Зайчик¹."
The memory was so clear, so alive inside him that for the duration of one blink of an eye, he felt as though Ilyich was standing right behind him. Like he was whispering. Like he was leaning in to tease him with the pet name, his breath hot and oh-so-delightful against Koba's ear. He pushed this misstep of his imagination away as soon as he could but it was too late. He turned away from Nadya's grave and started pacing around in an attempt to calm his racing heart. This was not supposed to happen. He came here to dig around a bit in a fresh wound and through the clumsiness of his mind ended up opening an old one, which he considered dealt with. And now they were both bleeding. And his hands were sweaty (again!), just like his neck and back. Bad. Bad! Being sweaty was disgusting. It made everything stick to the skin and disrupted the overall temperature of the body by making parts of it cold while the rest kept warm. His insides froze with panic. He was losing control again. So soon after the cigar inconvenience. Today was beyond awful. And the cemetery was an even more awful and unsafe place to be vulnerable at. He just had to prevent himself from losing it completely. Fine. Breathe in, breathe out. He wiped his hands into his trouser repeatedly, to the point that the rough fabric began feeling painful against his palms. He did not dare turn around to look back at Nadya's grave. No. What he needed now was to not think about or be reminded of what just happened. Instead, he stepped closer to the gravestone that was closest to him and tried to focus on reading the letters etched onto it. The space behind his eyes was pulsing again, but he made himself read the gilded text:
Here is buried the body of Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol.
Born 20th of March of the year 1809. Died 21st of February of the year 1852.
What a coincidence. Today marked exactly 125 years since his birth. He was familiar with Gogol, of course. Although only briefly, as Nikolai Vasilyevich's close friend Pushkin was way more interesting linguistics-wise. Now that he thought about it, Gogol's body (and by extension the gravestone) must have been moved to the cemetery quite recently². Recently for someone as utterly dead as the writer was, at least. Yes, he vaguely remembered reading a bit about it in the newspaper. That could have been... two years ago? Three? Something like that.
There was still an anxious, cold, tight feeling squeezing his guts, but Koba was calmer now. Once again, the distraction worked amazingly, as always. It was a tendency of his to get overwhelmed by the sensory inputs provided by his body, which caused him to panic. However, he found that if he could get more comfortable and channel his attention somewhere else, he would calm down. If left unattended, these states of overwhelm would progress to overexcitability of senses. And sometimes, if he already wasn't feeling good, the overexcitability of senses would begin right away, just like it happened earlier with the cigar. An involuntary shiver ran through him and he realised just how cold it had gotten. Well, no, he corrected himself. It was not the surroundings that changed in temperature. It was him. He was too still and the wind started getting to him. Well, he thought, a sign to leave, as some could believe. He dared to look over his shoulder at Nadya's grave again and his heart clenched. For a brief moment, he pondered saying something. For the thousandth time, in the same position. About to leave and feeling the need to say something to tie everything to get. As if he could possibly say anything to cover up the hole inside him. Inside the world. And, just like always, his beloved words failed him and he left in shame.
It was well past midnight when Koba started bathing. He was a bit frustrated, as this meant his usual sleeping time was completely thrown off. At the same time, he had no one to blame but himself. He spent a lot of time sitting on the bathroom floor before he forced himself to finally get into the bathtub. The shift from completely dry to completely wet was always unpleasant, despite knowing that he would get used to it. By the time he had dried himself off and gotten into his nightwear, the room was very humid and slightly foggy from the hot water. He walked over to the other end of the room with the intent of adjusting him damp hair in the mirror after wiping the reflective surface with a towel. A very normal person thing to do, in his opinion. Unfortunately, it stopped being very normal when he felt as though the sparse fog in the room was moving and concentrating in one place, somewhere above his right shoulder. He blinked a few times in quick sequence and tried to look over his shoulder, but he saw nothing. This strange phenomenon seemed to only exist in the mirror. Surely, this was caused by his tired eyes deceiving him. Surely, this was just another figment of his imagination, like the incident at the cemetery today. He was too sensitive today, which lead to him just seeing things, right? It would all be okay in the morning, right? He rubbed his eyes and decided to clip his nails instead. He told himself that it was because they were getting too long, but he knew he was actually doing it to avoid the mirror. Whatever on earth was happening it felt too much like losing control. And that would be the third time today. And he could not have that, could he?
The scissors closed and the piece of the nail fell off with a snap. You just need to sleep. Snap. There is a perfectly rational explanation for this. Snap. Explanations even. Snap. You. Are. Seeing. Things. Snap. He carefully held his gaze down until he was done. Then he dared to look at the mirror again and froze. From the place, where there was only concentrated fog just a few moments ago, a pair of eyes was staring at him. And not only eyes. The eyes had a nose between them and a face attached to them which was framed by hair and held up by a neck and shoulders and… the head and shoulders were about where it ended. There was a very alive (Koba concluded that based off of the blinking of those eyes) bust of a man looking at him from the mirror. He had a strange feeling that if he looked at that very same place with his own eyes instead of through a mirror, he would not find the man. Another strange thing was that he recognised those features. The round brown eyes. The jaw-length hair. The prominent nose. The small mustache. He has seen all of it. In paintings and in a certain daguerreotype from the 1840s.
He opened his mouth. And then closed it again. It was as if he forgot how to speak entirely. The words that he was usually so preoccupied with were yanked away from his reach by the sheer force of shock and trying to retrieve them felt like moving through a thick, waist-height layer of honey. His mind was so impossibly slow at both coming up with what to say and evaluating it. So slow in fact that he said the first thing that came to mind, just to free himself from the suffocatingly embarrassing act of staring at a stranger (who may or may not actually exist).
"But… you died… ?" It was a stupid thing to say and the way he raised the intonation into a question at the end made it even stupider.
A chuckle, "Yes, I died."
Koba could not stop himself from blurting out, "So you are dead?"
"Yes," Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol (or rather the parts of Nikolai Vasilyevich Gogol that he could see) tilted his head to the side with an amused expression. "Such a bright falcon³, aren't you?"