Fyolai ~ Shortfic + oneshot "I think I can love you"
This is the first writing thing I have ever posted here ._.
im sorry i wrote this in 30 mins it makes absolutely no sense UwU
No NSFW (Sadge /j) BUT some TWs apply: Mentions of past trauma, mentions of gore, mentions of death.
WC: 1833 (Ik its short im sorrryyyyyyy)
THERE WILL BE SOME RUSSIAN IN THIS STORY BC I LITERALLY CAN'T WRITE FYOLAI W/ OUT USING MY LANGUAGE (I HC them using both formal and familiar "you" so shhhhhhh) Just trust that it isn't that important to the story translate it if u want~
"I think I can love you."
~
‘Love’ was a word that Fyodor didn’t understand. It was overused. The Greeks had some greater idea of love, with words for different types. As for now, present day, love could be used for anything from appreciation, to desire, to lust, to joy. Love, the emotion, was perhaps the hardest to understand. Fyodor had never felt love for another person. His mother always told him how much ‘love’ she felt for his father. He heard teenagers talking about loving this boy, or this girl. Love was not an emotion he was capable of feeling.
It had been this way for decades. No matter how many people claimed to love him, he turned them all away. Looking back, there was one person he had accepted into his life.
One person who he allowed himself to befriend.
But that wasn’t love. That was tolerance.
Loving Nikolai Gogol was not a possibility in the slightest.
“Dos-kunnnnnnn~” Nikolai whined over his shoulder. “Stop pacing!”
“Вы сука- quiet, Nikolai.” Fyodor waved the man’s words away. “I’m thinking.”
“But it’s midnight!”
“And this is exactly why I was hesitant to share a room with you.”
Second of course is that he would likely kill me in my sleep…
Death at least seemed like an upgrade from life. Nikolai had expressed his urge to kill Fyodor before. It wouldn’t be long before he attempted again.
“Fine then. I’ll sing myself to sleep~”
“No-”
‘Спи, младенец мой прекрасный,
Баюшки-баю.
Тихо смотрит месяц ясный
В колыбель твою.
Стану сказывать я сказки,
Песенку спою;
Ты ж дремли, закрывши глазки,
Баюшки-баю.’
“Stop it.”
Nikolai continued his odd rendition of Cossack.
По камням струится Терек,
Плещет мутный вал;
Злой чечен ползет на берег,
Точит свой кинжал;
Но отец твой старый воин,
Закален в бою:
Спи, малютка, будь спокоен,
Баюшки-баю~
He ended his song on a long note, slightly changing the meaning of the sound. Nikolai’s voice wasn’t exactly professional, but it was soothing. More soothing than Fyodor would have liked it to be.
The Cossack was one of the only memories from his childhood. Its notes were seared into his brain, along with the voice of his mother singing it every night. She would say, ‘Спи, федецчка, будь спокоен, Баюшки-баю.’ for the last line, a smile on her face.
That smile was now gone.
The new grin he saw every day belonged to a man. A man dressed in white and black with multicolored eyes.
“Dos-kunnnnnnnnnnnnnnn~ come to bed nowwww~”
“Not after that, clown.”
“Come onnnn, you know you love me~”
For some reason, the joke broke his stoic demeanor.
“Like I could ever love someone, let alone you!”
The night was spent restless, memories of that desecrated church, the worshippers coughing up blood, Fyodor standing at the altar with a face lacking emotion. They deserved to die, and yet he still had horrific dreams about it every night. Dreams where Nikolai was in the crowd, where the blood covering his well-worn ushanka was not his, but that of the boy in white.
In these dreams, Nikolai was the only person left standing, crimson dripping from his nose, mouth, and eyes. He would smile, and say something. The words were always unintelligible, his throat filling with blood.
Crime and Punishment didn’t only affect the criminal like its name suggested. Anybody who ingested the poison flowing through the veins of Fyodor Dostoyevsky could be brought down with a wave of a hand. Including the people he cared for.
Today, the dreams changed.
He sat in the first pew, carefully counting and recounting the 33 buttons on the Priest’s coat. Likely made of pure gold. The eyes of the worshippers around him were glazed over, their minds lost and withered to a spell. Everything was methodical and repeated.
Like usual, Fyodor opened the bible in front of him to recite along with the Priest.
“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
The same line. Romans 8:38-39. At the same time as usual, Holy Communion was announced. Fyodor stood up and volunteered to help. A single drop of his blood was added to the wine chalice. The wine and bread was passed around.
Once the Priest drank, Fyodor activated his ability, standing behind the altar. A shriek rang out from the back pew, and people began to clutch their throats as blood poured from their lips. The man beside him coughed up the foul red liquid. The plan had succeeded, yet Fyodor felt no joy. There was no happiness or sadness from killing. It was simply meant to be.
A boy stumbled out from the dark space behind the pews. A boy dressed in white, with multicolored eyes. Blood dripped from his face and onto the floor.
“Nikolai?” Fyodor asked, horror seeping into his expression.
Nikolai smiled, crimson welling up like tears. Or maybe they were tears, stained red. They ran down his cheeks from his eyes. He appeared to be crying.
“What did you do? Did you take the poison?” The dark haired boy ran down the steps, clutching his wooden cross.
Nikolai nodded.
“No.” Fyodor grabbed Nikolai’s hands, shaking them, “You didn’t.”
Nikolai smiled again. But this time, instead of failing to speak his final words, they escaped from his throat.
“I love you Fedya. I always will.”
Fyodor awoke to moonlight streaming across the floor upon which he laid. He had refused to share the only bed in the room with Nikolai after his outburst. Why the inn couldn’t supply them with a double room, he didn’t know. His anger was silly. The word love shouldn’t trigger such a reaction out of a grown man. It shouldn’t be a product of his nightmares.
And yet here he was, trembling from a dream already fading away. The voice of child-Nikolai echoing in his ears.
I love you Fedya, I always will.
How tempted he was to say he loved him back. A temptation that he had never felt an inkling of before. Did the dream change because of what Nikolai had said just before he fell asleep? No. He wasn’t able to love. He wasn’t able to love Nikolai, and he never would. His longing was an illusion. An illusion where the only cure was denial.
Denial led to spending the rest of the night lying awake on the floor until the first light. His eyes closed, the glow from the sun placating his nightmares.
“Dos-kun? Wake up~ you’re shivering.”
Nikolai hovered over Fyodor’s half-conscious form, waving his hand in front of his eyes.
“Are you sick?” He pressed his fingers to the man’s forehead, murmuring at the heat spreading into the tips, through his gloves. “Seems so.”
“Nnnnhh… stop…” Fyodor whispered. He didn’t get sick, yet it was hard to deny the lethargy that spread through his joints as he lay on the floor. “I’m not sick… Nikolai-”
“Shhhhh.” The white clothed man swiped the pad of his thumb across the other’s lips, effectively silencing the feeble protests. “Let me care for you.”
Nikolai was acting rather differently from usual, but Fyodor was much too exhausted to question it. Placing a damp cloth on his forehead after transporting him to the single bed, Nikolai rested his hand on the other’s.
Warm and cold, yin and yang. Their hands fit like they were made for eachother. And as Fyodor drifted in and out of sleep, his grip on the other became tighter.
“Don’t let go of me.”
Nikolai’s face contorted in surprise, but he sat back down nevertheless. Fyodor was his reason for living, and making him feel comforted and happy was his ultimate goal. The only thing left was to get Fyodor to tell him he loved him. He must love him. He had to. Nikolai loved him, so why wouldn’t Fyodor love him back? Wasn’t that how it worked? It seemed that way on the television. If the main female loved the main male, then he loved her back automatically. Female and male…
Fyodor slept through the day, mumbling odd prayers and lines from the bible in his delirium. Nikolai couldn’t pick out many words, as he seemed to be reverting back to his northern Russian dialect, softer spoken.
Until he recognized one:
“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Followed by a name:
“Don’t die, Kolya”
No. Fyodor claimed he had forgotten that. Claimed he had left the event in the past. He gripped the sick man’s hand tighter, willing their skin to meld together, to switch bodies and end his suffering. Nikolai knew the nightmares personally. If Fyodor, his Fedya, was still experiencing them now, how long had they been plaguing him?
“Fedya, wake up” The man tried to shake the other awake. “Please wake up. Nothing will hurt you. I’m here.”
No response.
“Please. I promise I'm here. I’m not dead.”
One word left Fyodor’s lips, “...Что?”
The language of their childhood that they rarely spoke in conversation anymore. They used it to talk in secret, not uttering more than a few words. Occasionally to annoy the other (Nikolai’s singing). But never personally, too many memories surfaced.
The song.
It elicited a reaction before, but would it work again?
“Я здесь, Федя. Я здесь”
‘Спи, младенец мой прекрасный,
Баюшки-баю.
Тихо смотрит месяц ясный
В колыбель твою.
Стану сказывать я сказки,
Песенку спою;
Ты ж дремли, закрывши глазки,
Баюшки-баю.’
His voice broke slightly when he saw Fyodor’s eyes flutter.
По камням струится Терек,
Плещет мутный вал;
Злой чечен ползет на берег,
Точит свой кинжал;
Но отец твой старый воин,
Закален в бою:
“Колыа?” Fyodor whispered.
Finally:
Спи, малютка, будь спокоен,
Баюшки-баю~
Nikolai smiled genuinely at the sick man in his lap, “Все кончено. Я здесь. И я-”
“Вы что?”
“Мне так жаль. Я чертовски сильно люблю тебя, и мне так жаль, что я заставил тебя это сделать. Я причинил тебе боль и-”
“Вы любите меня?”
Oh fuck. He did not mean to say that, “...Да.”
“Oh god.” Back to English.
“What?”
“Kolya. I think I love you too. I think I can love you.” He hiccupped as a sob broke from his throat, “Don’t leave me, I don’t want you to die.”
Nikolai didn’t know whether this was delusion from illness or serious, but he allowed himself to hope. A single tear escaped his eyelashes and fell onto Fyodor’s chest, right on top of his heart.
“Are you serious?”
“... Yes. Fuck, I’m not sick.” tears continued to flow down his cheeks.
Nikolai cried too, “You are.”
“Don’t leave me again… please”
“I won’t. Never again.”
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for your maligustus au i wounder if augustus sings when gristle is not around to remind him of the good times?
Yet again... You hit me in the right spot with this one. I even looked up Russian lullabies for this, since... It felt right. (Though I did think of using an anti-war song instead. Or another lullaby about a wolf. But I think this fits best.)
TW: Discussion of physical abuse.
It's his own tiny rebellion every time he does it. Music has never been his strong suit, never his best talent, and he knows it. Now, his voice is unsteady, and his eyes are closed as water drips from pipes that were broken in the last attempt at escape. It still wasn't enough. It never could be enough. He knows better than to try again. His back is still sore. His arms still bear welts and bruises.
But he still opens his mouth to sing.
Some might call him dramatic. Many could or would. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care.
“По камням струится Терек, Плещет мутный вал…”
(“Over the rocky bed flows the Terek River, and splashes the dark wave,” his mind translates. He’s used to Russian. His mother made sure he knew the language. She sang to him at night. Or was that Nona? He’s unsure when it was. Was it both?)
“Злой чечен ползет на берег, Точит свой кинжал…”
(“A sly Chechen crawls over the bank, sharpening his dagger.” The Chechens, people from the Chechen Republic. They aren’t dangerous anymore. Not in America. He rarely even hears about those people here. But he cannot change the words he barely recalls.)
“Но отец твой старый воин, Закален в бою…”
(“But your father is an experienced warrior; trained in battles--” Oh, how he wishes it isn’t true. He knows it is becoming his fate. But he cannot change that fate-- He cannot even escape.)
“Спи, малютка, будь спокоен… Баюшки-баю.”
(“Sleep, my little one, be peaceful… Lullaby, a-bye.”)
His voice falters when he hears something by the door, and he quickly lowers his head again, closing his eyes even tighter in the hopes that no one will hear.
Please, don’t be Gristol. Please, don’t have heard me--
There is only silence.
Silence is uncomfortable.
He restarts his song, singing imaginary children to sleep as he remembers rocking little Queepie in his crib, or holding Mirtala late at night, or comforting Razputin after a hard day, or tending to Frazie’s woes with a soft hand, or sitting with Dion by a tiny fire. They all drift away with ease, but he doesn’t.
He can’t sleep.
The pain is too much.
You’re doing this to protect them.
And so he sings nonetheless.
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To jedna z pierwszych piosenek, jakie powstały od początku inwazji Rosji na Ukrainę 24 lutego. Poświęcona jest pierwszym dniom starć i przede wszystkim bohaterom wyspy Węży (Ostriw Zmijinyj), którzy na groźbę ostrzelania uprzejmie wskazali kierunek rosyjskim okrętom wojennym. Obrońcy wyspy zostali wzięci do niewoli i ich los jest obecnie nieznany.
Tłumaczenie piosenki, która swoją drogą jest po rosyjsku:
Кто-то, конечно, хороший, но он не готов | Ktoś jest na pewno dobry, ale niegotowy
сесть в автозак, а кому и Голгофа - не плаха. | trafić do aresztu, a dla kogoś nawet Golgota nie jest szafotem
Разница в принципах, в принципе, только пять слов: | Różnicą w wartościach, właściwie, jest tylko pięć słów:
Русский военный корабль, иди нахуй. | Rosyjski wojenny okręt, idź się pieprzyć.
Голос из трубки спокоен, прерывист и глух: | Głos ze słuchawki spokojny, przerywany i głuchy:
"Мама, я в шапке, взяла документы, нет страха". | “Mamo, mam czapkę, wzięłam dokumenty, nie boję się”.
Дочка сегодня заснула в метро на полу. | Córka zasnęła dziś w metrze na podłodze.
Русский военный корабль, иди нахуй. | Rosyjski wojenny okręt, idź się pieprzyć.
Если действительно хочешь для нашей земли | Jeśli rzeczywiście chcesz dla naszej ziemi
что-то хорошее - вон огород перепахан. | czegoś dobrego - tu masz ogródek zaorany.
Зерна в карман положи, чтоб они проросли. | Ziarno w kieszeń włóż, żeby ono wyrosło *wypowiedź Ukrainki skierowana do rosyjskiego żołnierza
Русский военный корабль, иди нахуй. | Rosyjski wojenny okręt, idź się pieprzyć.
Здесь возле арты чечен, беларус и казах, | Tu przy wyrzutni Czeczeniec, Białorusin i Kazach,
Тут верят в Будду и Ктулху, в Христа и Аллаха. | Tu wierzą w Buddę, w Cthulhu, w Chrystusa i Allacha.
Новые фрески распишем на новых церквях: | Nowe freski namalujemy na nowych świątyniach:
"Русский военный корабль, иди нахуй". | “Rosyjski wojenny okręt, idź się pieprzyć”.
Этой империи нужен и Киев, и Крым. | Dla tej imperii potrzebny i Kijów, i Krym.
Может быть я никогда не дождусь её краха, | Może ja nigdy nie ujrzę jej upadku,
Но, будь уверен, мой правнук при встрече с твоим | Ale, bądź pewny, gdy mój prawnuk spotka twojego
Скажет: ты русский? | Spyta: ty Rosjanin?
Окей. Иди нахуй. | OK, Idź się pieprzyć.
Я русский военный корабль. Предлагаю сложить оружие и сдаться во избежание коровопролития и неоправданных жертв. В противном случае по вам будет нанесен бомбовый удар. | Ja, rosyjski wojenny okręt. Proponuję złożyć broń i poddać się, aby uniknąć przelania krwi i niepotrzebnych ofiar. W przeciwnym razie zostaniecie zbombardowani.
Русский военный корабль, иди нахуй. | Rosyjski wojenny okręt, idź się pieprzyć.
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