Chapter Text
Alyosha
A common billboard you see while driving around town is advertisements about not texting and driving. Law firms, city statements, independent hospitals all get in on the common saying. Not like it didn’t hold any weight, even a little toddler would know that texting and driving was a horrible idea, just that the people who were meant to look at the billboards were usually on their phones.
People like Alyosha.
“I told you, Vody, Tugarin’s going to be staying at the pet hotel or whatever the fuck they call it. Besides, after the last time, I definitely don’t trust you to watch over him for more than a few hours, let alone three days.” He knows yelling into the microphone for text-to-speech doesn’t usually work, but Alyosha’s too frustrated at that moment to let the fact clock into his mind. As expected, the reply comes instantly.
“I’m offeri it fr free bruv!! Te pot thing was one timeee” *sad-sigh.gif* Vodyanitsa, a rising singer and one of Alyosha’s closest friends, sends the message with a texting style mimicking elementary schoolers. Alyosha, being unable to comprehend it, sighs annoyedly and sets his phone to the side.
Stepping on the gas and illegally speeding around the surrounding cars while the sunset creates a perfect, picturesque backdrop, Alyosha turns up the music playing in the background. It’s something out of a movie, ignoring the fact that he’s driving more dangerously than most movies would allow to be shown.
It’s electric, the atmosphere and mood coexisting so harmoniously.
He lets himself get into the vibes, drifting around a turn as another driver honks their horn at him with a bit more anger than he’d normally tolerate. Luckily for them, Alyosha’s in a good mood.
Running through red lights with the sun shining off his license plate, he drives around until he finds a good place to get off the main road. Alyosha honors the neighbors, turning his music down and slowing his speed to a more legal one.
The backstreets, with flowering plum trees that glowed ever so slightly in the fading daylight, hold a quiet energy so different to that of the highway. If Alyosha had a different reason for being here, he’d have gotten out of the car and bought a drink to sip on and sat on a park bench.
Instead, he parks his car in an alleyway and grabs his knife, an old douk-douk of which he favored above the rest of his somewhat limited arsenal. Using the shadows created by the streetlights, he slinks around until he finally finds the house he’s looking for.
It’s a pretty average thing for the neighborhood. There’s nothing too special about it either, ignoring the few political signs plastered on the windows. The outer wall has a few cracks, with old ivy vines making its home where it can find room. A wind chime hangs above the door, softly serenading a tune into the night. Instead of admiring the house in its simplicity, Alyosha climbs onto the dumpster in the back, using it to jump up to the window above.
He had spent weeks cataloguing and breaking down his target’s habits and patterns. Luckily for him, pedophiles are surprisingly predictable, especially convicted ones. He knew from his observation that the window would be open at this time of day, letting the house air out a bit. The target would likely be bathing right now, meaning his guard was down.
Alyosha crept through the house, controlling everything down to his breathing. The sound of an old guy singing some older song fills the air, paired with running water. Alyosha was right, as expected. He slides open the door to the bathroom, careful to not alert the target. Every step closer is more of a risk, and another step closer to his goal.
The moment the target realizes someone else is there too, he whirls around to search the room. Alyosha strikes before he can orient himself, driving his sharp knife straight through his throat. Blood instantly gushes out of the wound, his windpipe collapsing around the sharpened blade. He’s dead before he knows it. Alyosha watches the body slump to the floor, and checks for a pulse. It’s slow enough that it won’t leave a chance for the target to be resuscitated. Satisfied, he runs his knife under the warm water to clean it. He’ll have to sterilize it and sharpen it again, but that’s irrelevant now. Another successful kill is all that matters.
And just like that, it’s over. Alyosha decides to leave the body- he didn’t touch it, and he was careful to not touch anything without his gloves. There isn’t any DNA to be found. And considering that this target was a convicted pedophile, Alyosha couldn’t imagine the police caring that much about his body.
He shuts the washroom door, letting the body die its death as he climbs out of the house again and returns to his car. Only when he’s driven out an hour does he let himself take a breath of relief, the adrenaline of the kill finally wearing off.
The night sky and occasional light pole serve as his only companions as he drives, not bothering to turn on the radio since the idea of any sound beyond the cars wheels on the road sickens him. While Alyosha doesn’t really believe there’s a huge risk of getting pulled over, he still wants to be able to prepare in case of the worst.
He sits in silence, letting his mind wander until there’s nothing left to think about. Eventually, he pulls into the city, joining the few other cars on the road until he finds himself on the street of his apartment building.
It’s not a crazy extravagant feat of architecture, and it’s falling apart on one side after a particularly bad earthquake. But Alyosha lives on the opposite end of the building, so he doesn’t feel the compelling need to give half a shit. A few posters are stuck to the wall next to the keypad, advertising something that no one cared about.
Alyosha enters the code, his fingers moving on autopilot. He steps into the elevator next to the door, and hits the button to go to his floor. The moment the doors shut, he slides down against the wall, leaning on the metal bar to support his exhausted body.
In the back of his mind, time stretches infinitely, the few seconds blending into hours. He has long stopped feeling anything after his kills beyond adrenaline, and even that sweet, sweet rush has started to wear off faster recently. Alyosha sighs into his hands, rubbing circles into his face to try and bring feeling back into the muscles.
They seem to shred apart like paper instead.
He steps out of the elevator and into his apartment, expecting his dog Tugarin to be right in the entrance. Alyosha stops when he realizes there’s nothing. A flash of panic runs through his chest, lungs constricting.
”Tugarin?” His dog was usually always right there when he got in. Alyosha knew he was later than usual, but it couldn’t be so bad as to…
He runs through his apartment, not bothering to slide his shoes off at the entrance. He almost trips on something, but he doesn’t care. He can’t care. All that matters is—
Tugarin. There he is.
”Why. The actual hell. Are you on the dining room table?” Alyosha walks over to his dog, a 100lb husky standing in the middle of his table as if he belonged up there. He did not. An empty plate of something that used to be a half eaten meal rests beside one of the dog's paws. Tugarin wags his tail, barking happily at Alyosha and spinning around. Alyosha cringes, waving at Tugarin to quiet down.
“Shush. I don’t need the landlord on my ass again, bud.” He sighs, sitting down at the table. Tugarin jumps off, sitting down beside him and leaning his head on Alyosha’s lap. An absentminded hand comes down to pet him, earning another happy tail wag.
God, was Alyosha always this nervous?
“I have to clock in early, too. Damn you, scaring me like that. I won’t be able to sleep at all now…” Alyosha gently moves Tugarin’s head, standing up and stretching. Sleep sounded like the only good thing in the world, and nothing was going to stop him from getting it.
This is Alyosha Dmitriyevich. By day, he’s a sad 29-year-old man working minimum wage at Shitface’s Grocery & Get. By night, he’s still a sad 29-year-old man, but he’s also a serial killer. He watches his targets, akin to stalking, though he says it’s not because stalking is out of romance in his mind. And when his targets have fallen into a day-to-day trance in repeating the same things over and over again, he strikes them dead.
And he’s never been caught.
Alyosha doesn’t kill for money though. Nor does he kill for righteousness. He kills for emotion. You see, Alyosha has Alexithymia, or emotional blindness for those who don’t understand the science-y terms. (Alyosha himself had to look it up multiple times, being a sad 29-year-old man.) Alyosha can’t feel emotions well, nor can he understand others’.
But when one is dying, the emotions on their face are always the clearest, like water going through a filter. Even if they’re negative, fearful, hateful, Alyosha doesn't care. He can understand them for once, and the feeling is incredible.
The adrenaline breaks through his apathy, and that’s all that matters to him.
Adrenaline doesn’t last forever though, hence the “serial” part of serial killer. And Alyosha refuses to get caught.
You can’t kill in prison.
—
The video footage glows onto his face, and he watches the way an animal watches prey. Not in a weird way, obviously, he would never do anything like that to anyone. Mitya laughs off the thought, unsure if it was his or not to begin with.
Alyosha Dmitriyevich, a diamond in the rough, the object of his obsession. He has been for months. A beautiful, strong, cunning man who held the place of saint in Mitya’s boring, repetitive life.
But Mitya can be cunning too. And he’s waited so, so long to actually talk to him. So why not talk on his beloved’s terms? Beloved-to-be, anyways.
Alyosha would come to him. And Mitya would let him. And then they’d be happy, living in a rose colored fantasy forever.
They say ashes to ashes and dust to dust, but who is Mitya if not one to try and change fate to favor his own wishes?