Set me as a seal upon thine heart, As a seal upon thine arm: for love as strong as death.
As seal upon the already battered, deteriorating pieces of flesh he called his lungs. Years spent living in decrepit buildings constructed out of materials long since banned. Years of residing alongside old factories that produced more poisonous waste than viable products. Merely having been born with an already poor constitution. And it was the metaphorical representation of the secrets buried in his heart that was going to be the end of him. For love as strong as death. For love is death.
It started with a small flurry of blemished vestal rose petals. A rotten memento for the first time he realized he missed the Pierrot who'd managed to joke his way in without notice. They weren't together for long periods of time, but the clown remained a blaze of light through the lingering gray seasons. Then spring would come and his transient spirit would carry him off with the breeze.
Yet year after year the leaves would turn. The temperatures would start to fall, and he'd find the grinning fool waiting for him to come home. Even after he'd started moving from place to place building his organization out of the remains of the ones he helped orchestrate the destruction of. The thought to ask how the fool knew never crossed his mind. He'd long since started gaining a reputation in the underworld as some kind of demon. It was only a matter of time until someone inevitably found a way to track him down.
As his heavenly fortunate would have it another demon came calling. Though one under the veneer of an angel. Over the course of time, his clown had grown into a storybook prince. Long platinum hair that shun in the dark. Tall, hearty figure still draped in clothing large enough to obscure it. And a smile that could charm most merchants from their wares seconds.
However, the fairytale takes a turn once it gets to his eyes. Mismatched icy blue and molten gold bisected by a faded scar down the middle. Their fellow countrymen being a superstitious lot leaving him with little choice but to cover one side less one try to exorcise him again.
Jealousy is cruel as the grave.
It was around then that the rose petals turned to brilliant sunflower petals contaminated with bits of bile. No, he wasn't jealous in the traditional sense of knowing he could never begin to compare to the fool physically. It was more jealousy that said fool would have a happy life without him in the long run. His already frail body only seems to get worse through his own disinterest in taking care of it. But there were more urgent matters to attend to than resting. The rare night spent tangled with his wayward fool almost made up for the habit. Almost. He had a mission to accomplish above all else including those damned petals and the hollowness in his chest when he wakes up to an empty bed.
But a clown cannot be a prince. He would never be jealous of the fool's unearthly appearance. He might be rather weak looking, but that has been nothing if not a blessing in disguise. People found it easy to let their guard down around him if he played into that perceived weakness. His dear fool though always seemed to have something off about him. Given enough time around him and the most oblivious person would pick up on it.
The coals thereof are coals of fire, Which hath a most vehement flame.
In the case of his devoted servant Goncharov, the hatred was immediate. Jealousy and distaste for the fool who dared draped himself over his master written over his entire form. Pulling a tight, polite smile while stifling a violent reaction when the fool continued to test his limits by calling him Vanya. Far too familiar for someone who came from the impersonal household of a fallen oligarch.
He'd won Ivan Goncharov physically in a straightforward game of poker. His former master bore a haughty disposition but a dull mind. A mixture that hadn't bode well for the man's riches. Leaving him with too much debt to have been gambling to begin with but he offered his servant in desperation. That desperation only served to make his eventual downfall that much quicker. He'd won Goncharov over mentally by allowing the wretched soul the off time he required when he needed. The melancholic man had more off days than not. Having a perpetually manic clown stroll in and out of their hideout didn't help.
Even the more laxed members of The Rats in the House of Dead found the fool off, though. Pushkin for example regularly came in complaining about the various tricks his dear jester loved to pull. Most of them were harmless and never got in the way of everyday operations, though. The brawny redhead didn't seem to care much about them unless they took a more crazed turn. One would think a man who chose to join him instead of suffering through hard labor a second time would be used to such people.
Alexander Pushkin. A rather stereotypical criminal he'd picked up in a scheme to get rid of a local gang. An unorganized group of brutes with little sense of direction that eventually ended up on his radar for robbing a nearby parish. Without a competent leader they were easy to ensnare in a setup for the authorities to apprehend them. Pushkin and one of his colleagues, however, possessed some kind of survival instinct. Almost managing to escape the old box of a building.
But he'd been watching to make sure everything went according to plan. Crime and Punishment saw the crony to his rightful judgement. While Pushkin got down and begged for his life. They didn't require more muscle, at least not in the bodily sense. As luck would have it, Pushkin had been born with an ability like him and Goncharov. Like the fool.
They're all sinners who would find redemption in bringing balance back to the world by riding the world of abilities once and for all.
He formed the Rats under that belief though the fool wasn't subservient to him. No, instead, he'd gone off and found someone they'd both end up conceding too. If only because it meant broader access to resources and the world at large. Or in the case of the fool a chance to prove his freewill against the laws of man.
By all means, there was something off about his dear jester. A sense of madness not unlike that of the unfortunate hatter. Losing themselves as an unconscious side effect of their passions.
About the time he allowed himself to process the implications of that the sunflower petals began mixing with discolored lily blossoms. Bile and blood tainting a variety of radiant colors.
It's Fukuchi, the man he'd allowed to reside over him as leader of the Decay of Angels that finally explained what was happening to him. He brushed off the symptoms as nothing more than his anemia getting worse due to inadequate care. Sure there were old wives tales about love and flowers passed around their homeland but nothing anyone with an ounce of intelligence would put any weight in. But Kamui was a foreigner and a highly decorated commander at that. A man of his caliber wouldn't spout the same nonsense, right? Being a man of reason himself made it hard to accept such a thing was possible.
For dust you are and to dust you will return. From his ashes a garden proclaiming his love like the coming of spring. There were flowers sprouting in his chest. Rose thorns carving their way through his bronchi as they reach for the light of day. Sunflower petals create blockages in his esophagus as they pile up. Lily stems coming to life in the darkness of his lungs. All because his heart got the best of him. Yet he knew Nikolai would never return his feelings. The clown would have withered faster than the flowers if he'd tried to tie him down like that. He'd just have to survive long enough to find the book.
He loathed the feeling of pity the older man gave him after the explanation. Someone who spent their nights lurking in bars trying to forget himself maintained no right to judge.
Though there was a silver lining in their boss' visit. An invitation to go meet another ability user in Japan. One with an exceedingly striking ability that could come in handy in the future. He'd have the perfect chance to test it too.
Multiple times, as he discovered a kindred spirit in The Pale Qilin and spent quite some time with him. Finally having someone who understood that gnawing sense of apathy that came whenever things were going too well. Whenever the battle stopped feeling worth the effort. Shibusawa hadn't been the only one either. They'd come across another in the form of a bandaged mafia boss. Dazai Osamu, an odd individual whose antics reminded him of the clown's more than once. Leading him to excuse himself from the situation to hack up bile in a dirty alleyway each time.
Shibusawa or what remained of him gave him odd looks for it as the Dragon's Head conflict came to an end. He disregarded them and convinced the remnant to wonder. To put his ability to use ridding the world of ability users outside of Yokohama, outside of Japan in general. While he went back to his organisation in Russia.
Awaiting him in his office when he returned, a self-satisfied clown with his feet propped up on his desk and cane twirling between fingers. The sight of that beaming grin made the thorns scratch at his insides but he didn't care. He'd live to see their plan through and warm himself under that ridiculous cloak until the fool left again.
How presumptuous of him to assume God's plans.
A few weeks later, he was abandoned again. Parting with the clown this time brought a new flower past his lips. He remembers stumbling back inside in time for his body revolted against him. Convulsing and spitting out matching crimson liquid and rose blooms. Barely aware of Goncharov hauling him into the bathroom without question once he found him covered in splatters of blood and petals.
The rest of the night remains a blurry haze of flowers, blood, and a worried Ivan rubbing circles in his back and periodically going to fetch water. What he does remember is realizing he was going to die because of this. He would die before their plans to uncover the book truly started to take effect. He would die before achieving his life's purpose of making a more balanced world without gifted. Worst of all he would die without be able to resent Nikolai for it. He learned long ago; above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. But it couldn't cover his gravest sin. That of being mortal, being just as humanly selfish as everyone else.
Fedya loved his beloved clown, his dear prince, his fallen angel, his Kolya because in his heart Fyodor placed Nikolai above all else he'd fallen from grace. That miserable thought made the scratches in his throat burn.
Before long he came to miss that burning sensation. Despite the increase in volume, when it came to the life spilling out of him, his chest remained hollow. Like his soul had been taken when he realized he'd given it to someone who didn't desire him for anything else but a bed mate. Which of them really was the fool?
He remembers idly repeating prayers over each knot of his chotki while taking a break at his desk. Empty as he felt he tried to make sure the Rats would hold together after he passed and the Decay would be able to move without him. He might not see the end but they would. Maybe he'd see them again in the new world they'd create.
When Nikolai came knocking on his door. Which was odd in itself as the clown usually came barging in; locked or unlocked door. With a bounce in his step, he walked over to the desk and bending down to lean over it. Inclining his head into Fyodor's work space with an obnoxiously raised eyebrow.
"You know Vanya's right. You look terrible," Nikolai said before pulling back with that look lopsided grin spread wide across his face.
"I'm delighted to hear you and Goncharov are finally getting along," he replied, tucking his chotki back under his shirt and reaching for his papers. He'd rather not spend the rest of the night reorganizing everything.
Nikolai threw himself back and replied with an overdone gasp, "I'm wounded! We've always gotten along!"
Then it was his turn to quirk an eyebrow causing the clown to laugh and add.
"At least when it comes to you."
"I'm fine. If that's all you need, I've got work to do," he replied, fixing him with as steady a glare as he could. Free hand reaching for the short dagger he kept under his desk. Out of impulse he slipped into his sleeve.
"You look like Vanya dug you out of the grave an hour ago," Nikolai said with a slight frown tugging out at his usual smile. "I know you're sickly Dos but-"
He couldn't take the concerned tone or the soft expression usually saved for late nights together, so Fyodor cuts him off, "I am fine."
Nikolai walked around the desk with a hand out for him, "humor me then."
"You're the clown. You should be able to entertain yourself," He deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest protectively. The action reminded him of why his health was the way it is to begin with.
Instead of backing down Nikolai reached out for both his arms. Grabbing hold of both and forcing him onto his feet.
For a split second Fyodor worried about his ability going off out of shock. As always it refused to kill the clown. Nikola just smiled while he attempted to pry him away from the desk.
Yet the minor action broke something inside of him. All the anguish he was withholding came out in one swift motion of his hand and the dagger he'd stored away. Taking the taller man by surprise, he managed to shove Nikolai into the wall with the knife pressed firmly against his neck. That visible golden eye wide in shock as he tried to figure out what was happening to him.
"Dos-"
Fyodor cut him off by trying to press the blade harder into his neck. Had it been anyone else he'd have slit their throat and gone with his day like it was nothing. Like the fool he was, Fyodor couldn't do anything but shake.
"Fedya?" Nikolai asked, staring down at him with concern and a hint of curiosity. Like he wanted to see if Fyodor would go all the way. It made him want to scream, but he'd never been one to raise his voice even in times like this. He knew prayers would go unheard no matter how much faith he had, though. He'd fallen long ago.
He brought his hands down in order to lace them together with the clown's. Forcing the dagger into Nikolai's hands before bringing it back up and pointing directly at his own heart. He was dying because of him anyway, why not speed up the process?
"Wh-" For once the clown couldn't think of how to respond. He stared at him wide eyed and frozen.
Fyodor tried to smile as lovingly as he could while continuing to press the blade into his chest. "You're always saying how I'm the only one who truly understands you."
Nikolai nodded, still unsure how to react so he continued, "Why not have that include the desire to be free?"
What if death is the answer to love's mysteries?
"What are you- Fedya what's going on?!" Nikolai cried, finally breaking out of his stupor and jumping away. Hitting a nearby bookshelf but paying it no mind. The blade clattering against the ground between them the reply he got for a while.
Fyodor looked at Nikolai, taking in his dear jester. Then sighed the clown wasn't a prince and this wasn't a fairytale. Yet he was still the monster. The rest of his thought cut off: Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away. His was about to come flooding out in a river of blood. That sudden revelation grew into a sense of horror that quickly spread through his veins in the blink of an eye. What did he just do? Why would he something so impulsive?
The telltale itch made him want to rip out his throat to get away from it all.
Regardless of the crisis going on inside him Nikolai took a couple of cautious steps in his direction. "Are you alright?"
"Get out!" He yelled, forcing his rampaging emotion back into the box buried under the petals in his chest. He'd lost control and refused to let it last. "Get out or I'll show you the effects Crime and Punishment first hand!"
He didn't know how to explain what was happening to Nikolai. Let alone why.
Yet the part of him that gave life to the flowers in his lungs didn't want to experience rejection from the clown. As long as he was left in the dark Fyodor would always have that sliver of hope.
Nikolai huffed but backed away from him anyway. Flinging his arms up as he stormed, "Fine but I'm getting Vanya to keep an eye on you!"
Goncharov found him on the floor again. This time with blood dripping out of his mouth like the folklore creature Bram was supposed to be. It might have been the blood loss or general loss of his sanity but he found the mental image hilarious. His laughter disturbed Ivan as the man visibly flinched when he returned with a change of clothes. He was going to end up as mad as his dear jester wasn't he?
That night Goncharov and Gogol engaged in a violent argument. Something loud enough to carry through the hallways but not loud enough for him to make anything out. Considering the clown was gone in the morning he made his own conclusions.
Somehow from then on the rose blooms and lilies started coming up less and less until they disappeared altogether. He still looked like death but his general health had gone from nearing death to long-term illness. It was an odd turn of events but a welcome one. It meant he wouldn't be dying any time soon and could pursue their plans as he initially intended.
As if on cue Kamui requested he meet up with Gogol to acquire the last member of the Decay of Angels in China. The unfortunate fellow had been brought out of the desert and was having trouble navigating around on his own.
While he made plans for Sigma to stay in at a hotel in the meantime, Gogol popped into the Rats' base unannounced like usual. As usual his heart skipped a beat upon looking at his dear jester, but he managed to contain himself better this time.
"Hello Gogol," he greeted with a pleasant smile from his desk. The formality seemed to take some of the bravo out of Gogol who deflated for a second. He recovered quickly waltzing right around the desk and up to him.
"Hello my dear Fedya,"he said with an equally pleasant smile that scarcely lasted a few seconds before it turned fanged. "I think I figured out what happened last time I was here."
"Oh?" he went to say more but Gogol put a finger up to his lips to silence him.
"You said you desired freedom," the clown started explaining but stopped to move the finger in front of his face. He used it to caress the side of Fyodor's face. With an almost loving expression he continued. "I'll grant you that freedom. I will release you from the brainwashing we call feelings just like you asked."
oooo
Or he's always been mad
* Bleed Well - HIM "If death is the answer to loves mysteries."
TTYL I'm tired but I figured I start putting a few more stories up on here and I love this one so lol.
