Work Text:
i.
Bloody petals, at the edge of the tub, at the edge of the whole world. Sticking to the white linoleum of the floor, a trail of love, or it could be one of destruction. Love.
The word left a bad aftertaste in his mouth, like licorice, a strange element, which couldn't be described. Along with the bloody petals, it made for an unpleasant experience. Not that the other man was any more pleasant.
He didn’t dwell on it longer, afraid the time spent feeling sorry for himself, would not only raise questions, but also concerns. Unlikely, though not impossible. Will it happen, he might just kill himself. Before any more of those damned petals forced themselves out of his throat, to remind Nikolai of how vulnerable he was.
Getting off the floor was a struggle, walking was a nightmare. His lungs constricted painfully, at each step he took, making his head fuzzy and his eyes blurry. Nikolai had to call Sigma, he should have had done that earlier, but he knew the manager would panic. And so, he would call Dostoyevsky. Fydor.
Seeing him would mean to stop postponing the inevitable, ripping off the bandaid which had held him together all this time. Fydor wasn’t a good man, that he wasn’t. Nikolai wished, despite of all the bad in him, that he had a heart. Another impossible thing, the very foolish wish of a dying man.
Hyacinths. Purple, as his eyes were.
Nikolai had been coughing them for months by now, surely his lungs were exhausted. Of breathing life, into a person who wanted to die. Free as a bird. Perhaps in death he will be, like he had always dreamt of. One could only hope.
ii.
A letter, to go see him. Fydor. So, after he fainted, Sigma must have called him, he could imagine without hearing it, the panic in his voice, and informed the devil. Crime and punishment.
For if it wasn't a crime to love, it had to be a punishment, bestowed upon those who had abandoned their morality. Nikolai didn't believe in God, but maybe he should have expected, that not even him could save a sick soul.Hanahaki.
Fydor opened the door tentatively, as if he didn't know what to do with such a Nikolai, who didn’t speak nor behave like he had always done. A tad strangely, borderline mad. He remained silent until the Russian approached the table he sat at, and even after a few minutes, no one dared speak. If he started speaking, he feared he wouldn't be able to stop.
"Sigma said you were unwell, that your condition this past few months had been taking a turn for the worst. But I wish to hear it from you, Gogol."
Gogol. He was afraid a new wave of emotions, a sharper pain in his chest, would make him throw up again. Purple flowers, the color of his eyes, of his world, of the nightsky. The color of misfortune.
"Fy-Dostoyevsky, nothing is amiss. Maybe it was just that I didn't sleep much these days, because our plan needed utmost attendance."
The words didn’t fit quite well in his mouth, too heavy, another burden he will have to carry from then on. Their plan had to be finished, before he died, a last gift to his beloved. A parting gift, from a man who never knew love, but desired it more than any political power that The Decay of Angels sought.
"If nothing is wrong, than you shall get back your little petal, Nikolai."
A single purple petal, stained by blood, in the center of a pale opened palm. What is hell? The suffering of being unable to love, and even more so, to be unlovable.
Fydor. He leaned forward, catching him off guard, vulnerable and open, and cupped his face in between soft hands. Hands of a writer, of a strategist, which held his face as if he would flee at any given moment. Possibly, Nikolai would have done so, if only his legs weren't useless and shaky.
"Hanahaki."
"Fydor-
"I am aware of what it implies, though I do not know for certain how it can be cured. They said it is the curse of a broken soul, of a person who's love isn't reciprocated."
His fingers brushed past his jaw, up to his scared eye, before drawing him closer, until their noses touch, and Nikolai forgets how to breath. It's alright, Fydor forgot too. The first kiss is unceremoniously given, but as inexperienced as they are it is pleasant.
I have loved you, like only a dying person could have done, made you my temple, painted your face all over my life. Love. A curse, a blessing and a shivering flame, that is fed by you. Sincerely it is frightening how much power you hold over me, Fydor. And I, for one, enjoy it.
iii.
Later, that night, when it was past of what was considered an acceptable hour to fall asleep, Nikolai realised he had been right. Fydor smelt like purple hyacinths, but tasted like them too. A sweet fragrance mixing with his cigarettes, and the stronger taste of vodka. Not very strong, subtle, yet unlike other smells or tastes. Unique.
Nikolai smiled softly after an eternity, tugging closer to him another person. Fydor looked peaceful asleep, the image of an angel, despite him being a fallen one. He draped his arms around the other's waist, taking in the newfound liberty of being able to breath. For what was the first time in months, he fell asleep without waking up once, grateful for the heart beating next to his own.
Countless as the grains of the sea are human passions.-Nikolai Gogol