[ it's true they were never truly equal - during their scheme at the government office, nikolai was supposed to actually kill himself in front of the camera, a role he gladly decided to play because it's what fyodor wanted; he never questioned it, it simply seemed like something natural. he ultimately went against fyodor's wishes due to his own nature, but also... because if he died at that time, how would he know how fyodor reacted to it? how would he know if fyodor regretted it? if he missed him? maybe he was playing a prank on nikolai like god asking a devout to kill his children and test his loyalty.
it scared him how easily he accepted his orders, how easily fyodor could take his freedom away. yet nobody else had ever taken the time to get close to him like fyodor did. obviously he's being used, but... is that a bad thing? if he gets to spend more time with fyodor, does it matter? ...it should matter. fyodor obviously sees him as a replaceable pawn, as an inconsequential life form that has one or two good uses in him but that ultimately can be disposed of at the drop of a hat.
and that's where the dilemma starts. ]
Fedya . . .
[ oh, he knows there's no weight to fyodor's words at all. he's just goading him on as usual, but who cares? worrying enough about him to play along, to tell him what he wants to hear, to let him touch him and trust him enough to do this to him, to talk to him so sweetly because he knows that's what nikolai wants— isn't that the same thing he's doing for fyodor, too? and then, isn't that love? ]
Make no mistake, Fedya. I don't hate you. I love you so much I don't know what to do with myself. I want to be the one that ends your life, yet that would link our story together for eternity . . .
[ he pulls his face away from his neck, mouth bloody, looking down at him with a dizzy expression. he brings his hands lovingly towards his neck, wrapping his palms around it to stop the bleeding at the same time as he pushes him down onto the couch, and he begins slowly adding pressure to his grip. ]
No, Fedya, you show me. Let me see how you beg to me.
[ and to make it even harder to get any air, he leans down over his body with all his weight, planting a bloody kiss directly on his mouth, open and deep, pushing his tongue inside so he can taste his own blood. ]
( what wouldn't nikolai do, to be free of his cage? nothing — but, ah, who wouldn't want to be free of the chains of emotion and guilt that bind us? his desperation to discard all that's earthly makes him comically easy to manipulate and goad — it's unfortunate, really, that he fell into fyodor's hands; that he fell for fyodor, having found some sort of understanding in the other, even though fyodor himself has never struggled with any of kolya's problems. emotions? feelings? guilt? no such things exist, when you're the god's chosen one — if he'd ever felt them, he's long since forgotten, turning into the perfect instrument of death.
but, ah — he's an instrument of perfection, too. of quelling the chaos — both around the world and within nikolai's heart.
to hear that he's loved — to hear that he's revered; it shouldn't matter, but in a way, it does. to know, full-well, nikolai means every word; he might be confused about the meaning of love, of what it means to love and what to expect, but his earnest honesty is plain to fyodor, and endears him to kolya in a way that makes him want to entrap the other forever.
a gilded cage, just for him to dance as fyodor commands — for all eternity. longer, even. )
It'll always be your choice. ( what to do with himself — but also, it won't be.
still, fyodor leans back as nikolai pushes him down onto the couch, feeling the sting in his neck and the burning sensation of a piercing wound, squeezed now with the other's long fingers. he gasps — and his eyes widen, as if panicked, though it's always hard to say whether he is or isn't surprised. he's an excellent actor, after all — and he allows himself this; a natural reaction, body tensing and expression falling, both hands wrapping around nikolai's wrists, as if he were in actual distress. )
Kolya, I can't — ( breathe, he wants to say, but — the taste of his own blood and the pressure of nikolai's tongue pushing into his mouth successfuly stop him from doing so, the other's weight pinning him down to the couch. is this what it's like, to be entirely helpless? he could free himself, if he were willing to kill nikolai — but he isn't.
not now.
instead, he returns the kiss; his own, fading heartbeat continues to thrum quietly in his ears, and he stirs, when his lungs begin to burn, vision blurring. his fingers remain coiled around kolya's wrists, but his grip fades, as the remnants of oxygen escape his mouth, small, choked sounds exhaled against nikolai's lips. )
[ the intoxicating taste of fyodor's blood provides the perfect flavor to their kiss, made even sweeter by fyodor responding to it. he feels a chill run down his spine - a sign of elation; a physical manifestation of something from the other, something he so desperately wants to name for fyodor but can't. fyodor has to decide what it is, he always makes the decisions for both and this shouldn't be any different. nikolai chooses to ignore his orders if his brain tells him there's more fun to be had through a different path, but for the most part, it wants to obey fyodor despite his personal gripe.
sometimes, though… sometimes, he wishes his feelings were properly returned so he could see the point of no return and finally end this. for now, wordless affirmation - actions that look like affection but could really be anything, is enough to keep him in a death grip. fyodor's schrödinger’s feelings. a horrible, perfect balance.
still, nikolai is also human. he presses a leg between fyodor's, deepening the kiss fervently as his own body begins to react to his friend gasping for air, fingers digging deeper into the soft flesh of his throat, stopping all air and blood flow. he hums into his mouth, pushing his tongue inside deeper, hissing when fyodor's grip on his wrists increases.
he continues on for a few more seconds even after fyodor lets go, and when he doesn't move anymore, he finally softens the hold on his neck, allowing him to breathe again, pulling away from his lips to let him take in air. ]
. . . Haah. [ he looks down at his bloody face, breathing heavy, face fully flushed. ] This look suits you, Fedya.
( fyodor's an excellent liar — that much, nikolai knows.
still, for some reason — and this reason is unknown even to him, really — he refuses to lie to kolya about love. a personal preference, maybe — it'd be all too easy to simply go with the flow and falsely admit whatever feelings nikolai wants out of him, but — ah. where's the fun in that? to put the other at ease is hardly fyodor's goal, in any of this; if anything, keeping him on constant edge, constantly yearning for that final validation and never receiving it — isn't that just the most cruel torture of all?
and still, he's so good to him, regardless.
he can feel nikolai's thigh pressing between his own — the way his body tenses and goes slack, as air escapes lungs, a burning, desperate sensation blooming within his chest. it's all controlled, but — it feels new, still, to let go in any capacity, and the excitement of that can't be denied. he's undoubtedly flushed, pale skin tinted pink as his eyes shine something near-manic.
once he's free to breathe, he gasps — his vision blurs, black splotches where nikolai should be, and it takes him a moment to re-focus again, throat hoarse. he'll bruise, where nikolai squeezed — any sort of impact tends to leave long-lasting marks on an anemic body. )
It suits you, too. ( that excited, near-feral look nikolai gets, when things go his way. fyodor smiles; reaches up to... unbutton a few buttons of his shirt... scandalously so. it's warm, though; he's rarely one to say that. ) I'm beginning to think this side of you should be reserved for me alone.
( hum. )
What do you think, Kolya? How far are you willing to go to defile me?
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no subject
it scared him how easily he accepted his orders, how easily fyodor could take his freedom away. yet nobody else had ever taken the time to get close to him like fyodor did. obviously he's being used, but... is that a bad thing? if he gets to spend more time with fyodor, does it matter? ...it should matter. fyodor obviously sees him as a replaceable pawn, as an inconsequential life form that has one or two good uses in him but that ultimately can be disposed of at the drop of a hat.
and that's where the dilemma starts. ]
Fedya . . .
[ oh, he knows there's no weight to fyodor's words at all. he's just goading him on as usual, but who cares? worrying enough about him to play along, to tell him what he wants to hear, to let him touch him and trust him enough to do this to him, to talk to him so sweetly because he knows that's what nikolai wants— isn't that the same thing he's doing for fyodor, too? and then, isn't that love? ]
Make no mistake, Fedya. I don't hate you. I love you so much I don't know what to do with myself. I want to be the one that ends your life, yet that would link our story together for eternity . . .
[ he pulls his face away from his neck, mouth bloody, looking down at him with a dizzy expression. he brings his hands lovingly towards his neck, wrapping his palms around it to stop the bleeding at the same time as he pushes him down onto the couch, and he begins slowly adding pressure to his grip. ]
No, Fedya, you show me. Let me see how you beg to me.
[ and to make it even harder to get any air, he leans down over his body with all his weight, planting a bloody kiss directly on his mouth, open and deep, pushing his tongue inside so he can taste his own blood. ]
no subject
but, ah — he's an instrument of perfection, too. of quelling the chaos — both around the world and within nikolai's heart.
to hear that he's loved — to hear that he's revered; it shouldn't matter, but in a way, it does. to know, full-well, nikolai means every word; he might be confused about the meaning of love, of what it means to love and what to expect, but his earnest honesty is plain to fyodor, and endears him to kolya in a way that makes him want to entrap the other forever.
a gilded cage, just for him to dance as fyodor commands — for all eternity. longer, even. )
It'll always be your choice. ( what to do with himself — but also, it won't be.
still, fyodor leans back as nikolai pushes him down onto the couch, feeling the sting in his neck and the burning sensation of a piercing wound, squeezed now with the other's long fingers. he gasps — and his eyes widen, as if panicked, though it's always hard to say whether he is or isn't surprised. he's an excellent actor, after all — and he allows himself this; a natural reaction, body tensing and expression falling, both hands wrapping around nikolai's wrists, as if he were in actual distress. )
Kolya, I can't — ( breathe, he wants to say, but — the taste of his own blood and the pressure of nikolai's tongue pushing into his mouth successfuly stop him from doing so, the other's weight pinning him down to the couch. is this what it's like, to be entirely helpless? he could free himself, if he were willing to kill nikolai — but he isn't.
not now.
instead, he returns the kiss; his own, fading heartbeat continues to thrum quietly in his ears, and he stirs, when his lungs begin to burn, vision blurring. his fingers remain coiled around kolya's wrists, but his grip fades, as the remnants of oxygen escape his mouth, small, choked sounds exhaled against nikolai's lips. )
no subject
sometimes, though… sometimes, he wishes his feelings were properly returned so he could see the point of no return and finally end this. for now, wordless affirmation - actions that look like affection but could really be anything, is enough to keep him in a death grip. fyodor's schrödinger’s feelings. a horrible, perfect balance.
still, nikolai is also human. he presses a leg between fyodor's, deepening the kiss fervently as his own body begins to react to his friend gasping for air, fingers digging deeper into the soft flesh of his throat, stopping all air and blood flow. he hums into his mouth, pushing his tongue inside deeper, hissing when fyodor's grip on his wrists increases.
he continues on for a few more seconds even after fyodor lets go, and when he doesn't move anymore, he finally softens the hold on his neck, allowing him to breathe again, pulling away from his lips to let him take in air. ]
. . . Haah. [ he looks down at his bloody face, breathing heavy, face fully flushed. ] This look suits you, Fedya.
no subject
still, for some reason — and this reason is unknown even to him, really — he refuses to lie to kolya about love. a personal preference, maybe — it'd be all too easy to simply go with the flow and falsely admit whatever feelings nikolai wants out of him, but — ah. where's the fun in that? to put the other at ease is hardly fyodor's goal, in any of this; if anything, keeping him on constant edge, constantly yearning for that final validation and never receiving it — isn't that just the most cruel torture of all?
and still, he's so good to him, regardless.
he can feel nikolai's thigh pressing between his own — the way his body tenses and goes slack, as air escapes lungs, a burning, desperate sensation blooming within his chest. it's all controlled, but — it feels new, still, to let go in any capacity, and the excitement of that can't be denied. he's undoubtedly flushed, pale skin tinted pink as his eyes shine something near-manic.
once he's free to breathe, he gasps — his vision blurs, black splotches where nikolai should be, and it takes him a moment to re-focus again, throat hoarse. he'll bruise, where nikolai squeezed — any sort of impact tends to leave long-lasting marks on an anemic body. )
It suits you, too. ( that excited, near-feral look nikolai gets, when things go his way. fyodor smiles; reaches up to... unbutton a few buttons of his shirt... scandalously so. it's warm, though; he's rarely one to say that. ) I'm beginning to think this side of you should be reserved for me alone.
( hum. )
What do you think, Kolya? How far are you willing to go to defile me?