Chapter Text
“Fedya…” a soft whine broke the silence of the night, and Fyodor’s eyes shot open. His roommate.
Bolting out of bed and throwing open his door, Dostoevsky saw Nikolai standing there, shaking. Unbloody, unbruised, uninjured. Why is he bothering me at this hour?
“Fedya, someone’s outside.” Kolya’s eyes were wide and alight, his head was bowed and he was fidgeting. I see.
Nikolai was perfectly capable of defending himself. He would never shy away from danger, Fyodor knew. He wasn’t doing this for comfort or for assistance, at least not in the natural way.
He was testing Fyodor.
Trying to make him afraid, to see if he’d react with violent action or real concern.
Instead, Fyodor just sighed, his eyelids drooped.
“Nikolai, please. It’s the middle of the night. I’m sure no one is outside our apartment. And if they are, they probably live here. Go to sleep, I beg of you.” His slight accent heightened the audible exhaustion in his voice.
“And if they break in? Will you just let them kill us? You know, you are the most evil man in all the world, if you are willing to let us both die like that, shot in our beds.”
“I will call the police. Or you can just send them off with your little magic trick.” He waved a hand at Kolya, whose fearful trembling had ceased and whose eyes had narrowed upon being discovered as a liar, even if not called out.
“My ability is not for recreational use. It is heavily regulated, I think if I used it, even in self-defense, the courts would never allow me to walk free.” He sighed in despair, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re so lucky you don’t have an ability. No one telling you how to behave or watching your every move.” He said it all so casually, his expression big and dramatic, but Kolya’s eyes were calculating, his brain clearly analyzing any reaction Fyodor would have.
“Yes, yes, Gogol. You were blessed by Him at birth, your life must be very hard.” He closed his eyes solemnly, knowing his words would fool any but Kolya.
“Why must you bring God into every conversation, Fedya? It’s not He who gave me this power, same way it’s not He who withheld one from you.”
It seems I won’t be getting nearly enough sleep. Fyodor hadn’t, really, ever since he started sharing that damn apartment with Nikolai.
Nikolai and Fyodor had been roommates since their first year of college. Now in their second year and planning to go on to two separate ones, they both ranted to their friends about how overjoyed they were to be almost out of sharing a space with that freak.
Kolya was obsessed with trying to insult Dostoevsky’s religion and lack of ability, it really never ended. However, what he was most interested in was, according to him, ‘catching Fyodor in the act!’. The act?
Murder.
Kolya was convinced that his roommate was the serial killer, loose on the city with the use of his ability, and would stop at nothing to prove not only that Fyodor had power, but that he was using it to kill.
A wild perspective to take, in the opinion of all his friends. Nikolai was running around accusing his roommate of heinous crimes with no evidence and no real reasoning, other than he simply believed it to be true. As everyone knows, 21-year-old sociology majors are famous for their sociopathic and violent tendencies. The same way that their psych major counterparts love to persecute and torture them.
Unfortunately, the utter faith that Nikolai had in this idea served only to his own detriment.
Every time they had a guest over, or Fyodor saw an old friend over tea, there would always be a lull in conversation. At that point, the other would lean over, concern brimming their eyes as they covered their mouth, whispering with such fear as though a man more evil than any other were listening.
“I hear that Gogol, your roommate… he is strange, no?”
“Oh, terribly!” Fyodor would so often let the story carry their distress, as they continued.
“He’s obsessed with murder, is he not? I’ve been told that he even goes mad at times, running days without sleep and dancing about the streets, declaring you to be a killer!”
“Yes, yes.” Fyodor would sip his tea, unable to defend any action, instead forced to admit to Kolya’s idiocy.
“It’s so very odd. I’ve worried… well, I’ve worried that he may be like this to try and protect himself. Do you understand what I’m saying?” And Fyodor would always give them wide eyes, shaking his head.
“What are you saying?”
“I fear that Gogol, he may be… his accusations are the work of a desperate man. He’s so knowledgeable of the murders, he’s not social with many, and he’s just so different, is it possible that he’s the one who’s been doing all of this? That he may be that monster, whatever they’re calling the recent killer in the city?” And Dostoyevsky would furrow his eyebrows, make a show of thinking and looking scared, before taking another sip as he shook his head, saying,
“No… there’s no way… Nikolai, as I know him, never could do something so evil. He’s truly a kind man, beyond how he may appear. He treats people without an ability the same way he treats those of a status like his. So genuine a man. Though…” His hand, halfway to the kettle, would freeze. A look of fear would come over him, and a breath would hasten to be taken.
“I suppose… he is out late at night. So often I won’t see him, on nights of the murders… but, truly, I… I believe him.”
It was always such a genuine reaction, one of fear and confusion. As though he’d never before considered it. His roommate, who seemed perhaps more than a little off in his mind, who often spoke of death in such a casual fashion, even going so far as to blame Fyodor for many of the recent ones…
It would only make sense, for Fyodor to be wary. To admit to never before suspecting him, due to his over trusting nature and natural affinity for belief in the good.
But every friend of his would always shake their head, seeing him as only a ticking time bomb for ‘the next victim’, simply a young man too innocent to escape the terror that his roommate posed.
The irony.
Despite the belief that all outsiders held, Fyodor knew it was not something Nikolai had any awareness of.
Always fond of tunnel vision, Kolya knew only of his own thoughts, his strong conviction that the serial killer? Well, it must be Dostoyevsky.
Nikolai had never outright said to Fyodor that he believed he was a murderer. He’d said it many times to his friends, madly ranting in drunken stupor about the monster he shared a roof with. But directly address Fyodor? Oh, no. That would be far too easy. Instead, he constantly tried to push him into ‘slipping up’. To get him to reveal his ability or behave in a way that was just a little too unnatural. Too cold.
However, Fyodor never acted like this. How could he? He was just a college student, with a paper due by next week, forced to live with a man who did things like wake him in the middle of the night to test if he would reveal his true nature.
It was ridiculous.
After about half an hour of Nikolai’s thinly veiled interrogation, Fyodor was allowed to return to his room. As he lay in bed trying to mutate the tiredness into sleep, he could hear Nikolai pacing around the house, likely scribbling in a notebook or muttering to himself about how unfortunate it was for him to not catch Fedya fully off guard.
The sounds continued through the morning, which Fyodor knew because they kept him up the whole time. And he was certain that Nikolai hadn’t slept earlier that day at any point, because he kept formulating questions and tricks to hurdle at Fyodor. None of them were satisfactory. Seriously, does Kolya ever sleep?
Making himself coffee that morning, Fyodor decided that he didn’t care. As long as it kept Nikolai’s brain muddled and stretched. Dostoevsky suspected that that was the only reason the other man hadn’t found his evidence.
“Ko-Nikolai, I am heading to class now. On my way home I’ll pick up some instant food from the store, is there anything you would like?” He’d almost called Nikolai the name of affection. Grateful for catching his mistake, he realized that Gogol, in his hazy state, hadn’t noticed. “Nikolai, you look unwell. Maybe you should skip school today.” He addressed his roommate, who sat half-consumed by the couch, white hair a mess with (likely already cold) coffee sitting unconsumed on a table beside him.
“Mmm I’m sure you think that.” Nikolai’s eyes narrowed even more than they were squinting from his exhaustion.
“Rest. You won’t miss any nefarious deeds of mine tonight.” The only response was a soft groan as Kolya reached for his own coffee, unsuccessfully, and let his arm fall beside him. He stayed up all night often, but this marked almost 48 hours sleepless for him (the night before last, he had gone drinking and then frantically attempted to finish a paper before he had to get to class).
Fyodor’s Wednesday seemed like any other, and to some extent, it was. He had few worries for that day. Tragically, it was a day holding 3 classes, not spaced out nearly enough for him to be comfortable. Oh, whatever. He wouldn’t die from overwork. He was going out of this year eventually.
Both Fyodor and Nikolai were part of the increasingly popular program that allowed young people to take two years in unimpressive colleges, then scholarship or just old-fashioned pay their way into at least two more years of schooling, but in much more prestigious schools. Both Kolya and Fyodor’s schooling career were the result of the first case. They had the smarts to have themselves sponsored into their dream schools, but for different reasons they both hadn’t been allowed to take their first two years in them.
Nikolai, an ability user, was impressive. Everyone wanted to say they had paid for a promising young man with an impressive power to get into his dream college and achieve greatness in his field. However, no one wanted the man attached. The one famous for fighting, lazy on some things and unendingly passionate about others. He behaved how he wanted and called it freedom, others saw it as mannerless and disrespectful. Because of this, the board he applied to pressured him into proving that he could at least behave well for two years, no ability misuse and no dishonorable conduct. Only then would his trial period be over and he would be allowed to attend the college he was desperate for.
Fyodor was different. He had basically everything a person needed to prosper in the academic world. He had perfect grades, was assessed by all teachers and peers to be intelligent, was responsible, respectful, successful. Even in his light social failures, he rarely caused waves and mostly focused on his schoolwork. But this wasn’t enough. Because written on every legal and tedious document ever created for and about Fyodor that every employer, dean, and sponsor would ever see, there were two checkable boxes. There was always that question, listed black on the white sheet of paper, that read “description of ability?”. The second option, the box itself, was accompanied by many empty lines, meant for details to be superimposed. However, it was always the only other option to be selected. A little white box that got checked, the one-word based box, labeled, “Powerless”.
No one wanted to support someone with no ability. There were enough people out there with incredible skills, talents, and abilities. So many, in fact, that there was rarely any money left for people who lacked one. This was why he had to deal with his own first two years of school, to prove that he was special enough without an ability to provide a return on the investors of his future.
He had to get equal, even better grades, results, and general reports from his school than those with abilities. Sponsors were taking a big risk on him, someone marked weak despite his many accomplishments. He had to rise to the top, on his best behavior at all times. Prove that he was just as strong and capable as those who did have the second option marked on their documents, the ones who everyone could identify as ability users through their passport alone. He had to beat them.
Fyodor wasn’t intimidated, though. How could he be? He had something no ability user would ever have.
Control.
One of the biggest things Fyodor had seen Kolya struggle with was the lack of freedom to use his ability. He wasn’t allowed to unless under certain circumstances. He was constantly watched and monitored like an animal that could go rabid at any moment. How restricting it was, like caging a dove.
Fyodor found that the best way to keep his own wings unclipped was by not letting anyone know he had them. He was no dove but instead a rat. A creature, far too insignificant to be controlled but far too interesting to fully ignore.
Also, the murders.
Dostoevsky could go uncaught in his violence and cleansing for a very long time, he suspected. Mainly because no one had ever really stopped to consider him a suspect. He was just some guy, really, in the eyes of the public. Maybe a slightly smarter one than the rest, but nothing special enough to stop and observe.
That being said, until then, Fyodor had done a pretty good job of remaining innocent. Even when suspected, he played up his work ethic and down his ego long enough to be left alone. No one would ever discover him.
Nikolai’s adorable attempts to scare out ‘his true side’ were likely the closest anyone had ever gotten, but not for any good reasons. Fyodor simply worried he’d go insane from the constant irritation that he would tell Kolya, just to get him off his back.
Finishing the last sentence of his essay, Fyodor closed his computer with a dramatic sigh. He was exhausted from writing, though he was certain that he’d sounded at least slightly insane in his latest creation. It was informational, of course. As vile as all writing could be. But his teachers were indifferent enough to let his theatrical but informative tone stick around for the article.
Ridiculous as it was, the reason he was caught, eventually, as many of the greats so often are, was likely going to be the wild way in which he spoke. His downfall would be about ability users. The impassioned and angry way in which he expressed his hatred towards anyone ‘blessed’ by them. How he knew that everything they did was dirty and sinful. How disgusting they were, these human abominations. Without God, what were they? Just monsters.
And that’s all he saw.
That’s why they needed purification.
Dostoevsky was the vessel, of course, through which the Lord had brought his divine punishment. If ability was sin, it needed to be cleansed, no matter the violent manner in which this took place.
The nature of Fyodor’s own lack of ability proved his worth to him. He was given a mission to purify the world. He did not mind getting his own hands dirty in the process, because he was the Lord’s tool.
Of course, he didn’t write this in his essay. The essay was meant to analyze how abilities existing in the world affected different people, and how they had throughout history. What of people who were ostracized for their abilities, compared to those who were treated like gods?
The other essay he had to work on was how religion could fuel bias in the world. How people’s beliefs and behaviors were influenced by what they grew up around and how they chose to continue with their lives.
Going over his essay in his mind, Fyodor ran a thumb over the cross that was so often close to his chest. An intricate, beautiful, silver-black piece, one he’d been given as an heirloom, and meant so much to him. It was likely one-of-a-kind, so he often kept it tucked under his shirt when he went out, praying through the day as he needed.
It was this very cross that dangled around his neck that evening. The sun had set but there were some people still out, as it was winter. The piece of his heart swung back and forth. It represented all he stood for.
And, tragically, it had to watch the death of Shibusawa, a man Fyodor knew from a study group. Holding a powerful ability he was never allowed to use, Shibusawa’s death would leave stains on few people. He was a terribly boring person, only out for himself. Cruel to cats and children, Fyodor prayed over the body like it deserved the salvation his Lord promised.
He ran fingers over the darkening wound, before letting his fingertips reach up, closing the eyelids of the white-haired man. There was no need, his body wouldn’t be found.
A plan that was so nicely executed, there was no room for flaws.
Really, Fyodor could have gotten away with it. But then, Shibusawa was a person impossible to ignore. In fact, the last recorded person to see him alive was, quite unfortunately, an ameture detective who dabbled in suicide.