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Nikolai didn’t truly believe in the Decay of Angel’s cause, or any cause, really. Yes, he sat at the meeting table, poked at Sigma enough to get a reaction, and did whatever was requested of him, whether that be mass homicide or putting on a performance worthy of multiple standing ovations.
But it was all busy work, something to fill his days before he decided to jump off of a building while waiting for his main goal to come to fruition.
What goal would that be except for killing the man he would consider his closest friend? Sure, there was the Decay of Angel’s goal, with the blah blah of erasing all ability users and finding the book.
He didn’t care about their page or the book. In fact, he hated how much control it granted, even if it could be used to his benefit. If he had his way, he would watch Decay of Angels find the book, then light a match underneath it, just to watch their expressions morph. He could only imagine the despair on Fukuchi’s face, and that would almost make it worth it. But Nikolai didn’t care about Fukuchi, even if he could occasionally pique his interest, and the book was barely something he wanted to get involved with.
The only reason he was involved was because of his unwanted savior. Also the small fact of trying to rid himself of pure, untamed boredom. Nikolai wanted to feel something for himself for the first time in his livelihood, and now he was presented with an opportunity on a silver platter.
Jesus gifted Judas with companionship and love, even when he knew Judas would betray him. He hand-picked Judas, and the son of God was thanked with a deadly smooch.
Of course, in this situation, he would be Judas, and Fyodor would be Jesus. Fyodor, the holy man who unlocked Nikolai’s cage in exchange for his service in the name of creating a world God would approve of. Then Nikolai, ever faithful, not to the Lord, but to His son, until that would be brought to a predetermined end. Jesus was aware that Judas would end his life, but they still ate at the same dinner table.
God was only Fyodor’s reason. Nikolai hadn’t believed in God in a long time; if he ever did, he couldn’t fully recall it, perhaps by choice, perhaps not. He refused to think his actions were already written out and some all-knowing entity had full control over him, even after death.
Fyodor did everything for God, and now Nikolai did everything for Fyodor, because what else did Nikolai have? That control, the urge to devote every thought to that man, is why Nikolai had to slaughter him. Fyodor unlocked his cage, yes, but Nikolai could never leave it while Fyodor stood guard outside the bars.
The day he decided Fyodor needed to die wasn’t a special day. He did have something in the works, a lovely performance worthy of his friend, but that day he woke up, looked at himself in the mirror as he was braiding his hair, and thought, ‘I think he should die today.’ By the time he placed his card over his unscarred eye, he had a plan half formed and a smile on his face.
He was aware of where Fyodor would be, but he wouldn’t be there until the sun had set. It was boring, having to wait, but it also gave him time to fine-tune his impulsive kill.
Of course, he didn’t actually think much about his murder plan. It was better that way, to catch both of them off kilter. Nikolai somehow ended up in a park, one that hosted him because of the heavy downpour. His black and white striped umbrella offered him protection from the tears of the gray sky.
Despite what someone who knew him might have expected, he was not there to stir up trouble. No, from under his umbrella, he sat silently on a bench, observing. The rain sang a rhythm as it hit the pavement, washing away the chalk drawings of children from a previous time. The light breeze that didn’t match the weight of the water made the branches sway.
Hidden in those tree branches, Nikolai could spot a small flock perched. They were taking shelter from the assault on nature, waiting until it would be safe enough to fly away.
It would be a while. The rain was supposed to get worse as the sun set, possibly flooding the area. Nikolai looked at the flock, trapped in the leaves by the storm. Nikolai snapped his umbrella closed and walked out of the park with the rain consuming him.
He stayed outside late enough that by the time Fyodor arrived, Nikolai’s hair was still damp and drying out of its usual braid, his overcoat was still drying on a chair in the kitchen, and his red gloves had been discarded on the counter.
Fyodor found him lounging on the couch in the apartment Fyodor currently took refuge in, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. It was plain white and smooth, nothing to get excited about, but a good area to stare at while he spaced out.
“Is there a reason for your visit?” He asked with politeness they both knew was fake.
“There is.” He didn’t look away from the ceiling. Fyodor just hummed in acknowledgement, and Nikolai heard him moving about. By the time Nikolai sat up, Fyodor had sat down in the sofa-chair, drinking a cup of tea that was most likely earlier prepared by a lobotomized fool, and reading a book with a red cover as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Even though only one of them was always dressed like a clown, Fyodor was always putting on an act of nonchalance.
Nikolai grinned and sat up to face him. “I see you’re having a relaxing evening.”
Fyodor didn’t look up as he flipped to the next page. “Indeed. You appear tired, and you were outside for a while. Did you have any work to do?”
“Nope, today was a day off from playing politics! What’s your book about?”
Behind his cup, Fyodor’s lips curled up slightly. This was a routine that happened often between the two of them. “A travelling conman has an affair with a restaurant owner's wife, a passionate one filled with lust and violence, while they attempt to kill him in order to be together.”
“So it’s a relationship of sexual bloodlust?” Nikolai was always fascinated by those relationships. It wasn’t hard to find stories about violent love, but truly having it in real life was a challenge.
“Correct. The woman begs often for the conman to hurt her while they are making love.”
“Is there a reason given?” Nikolai knew there didn’t need to be a reason. Sometimes people just like to be hurt sexually.
“Not one given thus far in the novel, although I have my speculations.” Fyodor finally looked up at Nikolai, face calm but eyes as piercing as a bullet. “But frankly, does a reason need to be given?”
“No, I suppose not. Realistically, pain and pleasure aren’t too far alike for humans, even if some would rather not admit it.” Nikolai laughed, clearly not one of those people. He was a lot of things, but he was more open about himself than people would want to give him credit for.
“That’s true, but you’re making it sound like it’s all natural instinct to want to have some type of pain during intimacy.” Fyodor slipped a bookmark between the pages and placed the closed book on his lap. Nikolai’s chest fluttered at having Fyodor’s full attention. “But some people think that it’s something learned. If someone is often hurt during moments that are associated with love, they will begin to associate that hurt with the pleasure of those moments. Likewise, if you grow up seeing violence between couples, a child would grow to assume to love someone would be having the urge to inflict pain.”
“Maybe that could influence some people.” Nikolai admitted as he stood up, cracking his neck, stiff from being on the couch so long. “What about me, Fyodor? Do you think there is a reason for me, or do I not need one?”
Fyodor looked up at gleaming eyes that saw through him. “Oh, there is one for you, my friend. But you don’t need to be aware of it.” Fyodor waved his free hand dismissively as he was talking to a child asking a complicated question. “Albeit your motives aren’t always seeking out desire.”
“Really? What do you think I’m seeking then?”
The last drop of tea was drained, and Fyodor placed the cup down on its saucer with a clink. “When you don’t seek pleasure, you reach out for death.”
Nikolai laughed. “I thought you were smarter than that!” He playfully scolded his friend, wagging a finger at him. “Death is one of the main motives for my pleasure! With how many bodies you’ve personally had me drop, you, out of everyone, should be aware of that.”
“The killing that you do here isn’t for your pleasure.” He leaned forward in his chair, resting his head on his hands. “It’s because I ask you to do it, so if anything, it’s something you do for my pleasure.”
“Can’t two people enjoy the same thing?” Nikolai wasn’t quite enjoying the turn the conversation took, because it felt like he might ruin Fyodor’s surprise with one wrong word. “If I didn’t get anything out of it, why would I bother with it?”
Fyodor’s grin widened, his eyes narrowed. “Yes, why would you? Obviously, you must have something you get from helping me. Do you know what it is?”
Nikolai shrugged, smiling with teeth. “I’m not quite sure, if we’re being honest. But I have a way to find out!” He let the knife slip from his sleeve and fall into his hand as he leaped up from the couch onto Fyodor.
The chair fell back with them; however, Nikolai and Fyodor rolled over it until Nikolai had the knife pressed against Fyodor’s throat.
“Ah, a knife.” Nikolai could feel Fyodor’s heartbeat this close, and it was as steady as ever. Even trapped, he wouldn’t express a trace amount of alarm. “It carries a certain intimacy, doesn’t it?”
That’s why Nikolai chose it, and both men were aware of that. “Yes, it certainly does. And from the book you chose to read, it almost sounds like you knew what I planned! Did you have an inkling that I would sink my fangs into you this evening?”
“How could I, when even you didn’t know what you planned until this morning?”
“Ah, my best friend is so smart!” Nikolai’s free hand gently squeezed Fyodor’s throat, as if to award praise. “If I could, I would applaud you! But alas, my hands are a little preoccupied at that moment.”
Fyodor stared up at him through half-lidded eyes accompanied by a grin sharp enough to cut. “Is it really the end? I wouldn’t have expected it so soon.”
“That’s why I did it today! The element of surprise isn’t something you’re well acquainted with, so I decided to give you a taste; think of it as your last meal.”
“I’ll admit, I didn’t wake up today thinking it would be my last. After all, you said you would assist me with my plans, but I should have known better than to think you wouldn’t chase your own whims first and foremost.” Fyodor chuckled, and Nikolai knew there was more to it, a joke he wasn’t let in on and probably would never be in his lifetime.
It was that admission that Nikolai craved, being able to knock Fyodor down onto equal, unknown ground with him. And on this new ground, Nikolai had dug his beloved friend's grave.
“Well,” Nikolai pressed the knife hard enough to draw blood from the pale neck. “I know you’ll want your last words, so now is the time before the curtains are drawn.”
“Oh.” Fyodor’s amusement wiped off his face, an eyebrow raised as he frowned. “Is this all there is?”
Nikolai pouted and tilted his head to the side. “What do you mean? Am I forgetting something?” He had the knife and Fyodor trapped between him and a dark wooden floor; what else did he need?
With a sigh, Fyodor smiled again, but it was weaker this time, false in a way Nikolai was supposed to pick up on. “No, no, no, you’re fine. It’s just, I expected more from you.”
Despite being the one with a trail of blood falling onto the floor, Fyodor was still in charge. With those words, Nikolai realized he failed to change that. “Like what? I’m always open to suggestions.”
“Now, I don’t want to influence your decisions; I know you’re not a fan of outside influence. I just thought that you, a magnificent jester, determined to prove his free will, would have a more grandiose performance for your audience.” He glanced down at the blade to his neck, then at the tossed chair. “This is perfectly fine for someone’s everyday, second-degree murder plot, but a bit of a dull ending to an otherwise intriguing tale. It doesn’t read like something you would write.”
His hand holding the knife was trembling now. Nikolai had been gripping the handle at an odd angle, one that he knew would produce a lovely line across Fyodor’s neck, but it had made his wrist stiff because he was holding it longer than he bargained. The subtle shaking ripped open more of Fyodor’s skin, and if he desired, Nikolai could make even more blood spill with a flick of his wrist.
“I see.” He said quietly, talking to himself like Fyodor wasn’t pinned under him. “So which ending do I want? The guaranteed proof of my own actions, even if underwhelming, would still achieve my ideal. But—” He didn’t even need to say it, because as soon as Fyodor spoke, something switched in Nikolai’s mind, and he knew today wouldn’t be when his friend would dive six feet.
But above all else, Nikolai was and would always be a performer until the end of the line. “I can’t resist trying to get a perfect ending! Perfectionism is a horrible character flaw of mine, I know!” He tossed the knife to the side without looking, and its tip sank into the drywall. He threw himself backwards and grabbed Fyodor’s hands, effectively switching their positions. Fyodor planked over him, arms straightened to avoid dropping onto Nikolai.
With a hand to his forehead, Nikolai sighed. “Must you have such a way with the words, Fedya? If you weren’t so damn convincing, I would have slit your throat.” He groaned in annoyance. “Now I won’t know how your blood mixes with the wooden floor colors! Sure, I could just get red paint, but it just wouldn’t be the same.”
Fyodor smirked, his hair falling in his face as he stared down at Nikolai. “I didn’t convince you of anything. I just said what you were thinking.”
“Shhh!” Nikolai slapped the other man’s mouth. “You can’t give everything away, not until the final act! You’ll act surprised and horrified when the time comes, won’t you?”
Ignoring the ramblings of a madman and pulling away, Fyodor sat down next to the jester, and Nikolai missed the weight on top of him. Just below his black hair, Fyodor put a hand on his neck and grimaced at the feeling.
“Really?” He showed off the large red stain on his hand, and Nikolai lit up like a lightbulb. If both of their hearts decided to keep on pumping, Nikolai might as well have some fun with it.
“My apologies.” Nikolai pushed himself up onto his knees. “I caused the mess; I’ll do the polite thing and clean it up for you.” He grabbed Fyodor’s pale, cold wrist and stuck his tongue onto his bloody palm, lapping up the red. How could he be this cold and not be a corpse? Nikolai wanted so badly to know how it felt to hold his friend's truly lifeless hand instead.
His face stayed as still as a statue, but Nikolai felt the shorter man’s pulse rise. When Fyodor’s palm was clean, excluding the saliva, Nikolai’s free arm looped around Fyodor’s back and pushed him into his lap so Nikolai could easily access his neck.
The bleeding had mostly stopped by that point; the knife didn’t leave any deep cuts, but it was enough to paint a picture on the canvas. Nikolai was astonished that Fyodor hadn’t pushed him away or at least reprimanded him, but he was also close enough to hear the deep breaths Fyodor was trying to stifle.
They stayed like that for a while, and the licking had turned into Nikolai sucking the wounds, even letting his teeth bite down, not enough to break the skin anymore, but just to feel the flesh in his mouth. He was slobbering like a dog, replacing the knife bites with his own marks. Someone could have mistaken Nikolai for a vampire, a monochrome creature searching for nourishment and thrills.
With a wet pop, Nikolai detached himself, even licking his lips clean for a finishing touch. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head. He turned his back to the man still on the floor and grabbed his discarded pieces of clothing, tugging his jacket on as he walked towards the door.
“I have to go, Fyodor! I have so many wonderful ideas of how I could try to kill you next time, and I just have to start writing them down. Have a good evening!”
Nikolai refused to look back to see how Fyodor had looked being left on the hard floor, maybe to see if he had sucked hard enough to leave a bruise like he wanted. He wasn’t sure if he could restrain himself from yanking the knife out of the wall if he had looked back. A free man will always drink more than his fill, after all.