Bad Kind of Butterflies ♧ DazaiXReaderXDOA

20. Riddles of a Clown

For the first time since you've met him, you can hear Nikolai Gogol's heart. Better yet, you understand it. You can't pin-point the exact moment it changed, but somewhere in between now and the second his hand touched your face, your eyes locking on him with the golden sun reflecting in his grey/blue eyes, when your breathing hitched and the warmth of his body made your whole face burn up...you felt the click in your mind.

You feel him.

He'll do anything for freedom, not of his body, but of his mind, his soul, his heart. His mind is darker than the depths of the ocean, thoughts more tangled than a ball of yarn long forgotten. To say the least, he is the definition of absolute free will...or, he would be...if it weren't for the other side of him. Nikolai...you've made yourself to be a monster, but you aren't that. Though you fear nothing, the only thing that hurts you more than the thought of being chained, more than being made inferior, is your own emotions. You do feel. I know that now...and you hate it.

"Answer you? But don't you love quizzes and riddles?" You speak up, a hand softly playing with his braid that had fallen over his shoulder, your gentle hold on it keeping you both close together.

"Take a guess. What do I want? Why are you so intent on knowing? I've been a good girl to God; you know that, I see it in your face. He tells you about me, and it pains you. I can hear it, I can hear the differences in your rhythm when I talk...so no, Kolya. You answer me."

Though silence wraps you and Gogol as soon as you finish talking, the air around you two is anything but. His eyes glow as soon as you bite back with attitude, his smile forming into a smirk, more genuine emotion on his face than you've ever seen before.

"Oh crumbs, how clever my Myshka has gotten! Has Dos taught you that too? Is this what he means by obedience? You know what to say when you need to say it, you are influenced by everything around you...yet I see something no one else will. Your mind is yelling at you to free yourself. We are not so different..." Gogol whispers eyeing your hand on his braid, his eyes softening for a moment as his gaze lands on you once again, reaching up to gently caress your face, pleased when you don't flinch away.

Before he continues talking, Gogol takes his card-like mask off of his right eye, making it disappear in his overcoat, the sudden unveiling of his whole face causing a surge of anticipation in you, his eyes searching you, calculating every word he's about to say, preparing the script like in a play, and choosing the right tones. You know it's all going through his mind, but you only feel his breath on you sweetly.

"You want to know why? Well there is no real logic behind any of it. You're like a young bird, and I want you to fly too. I'm not sure why myself, but insanity is a funny thing, hm? You're everything they want a woman to be, while all the same...you have everything for me to be drawn to you. You let Dos drive you in to subordination, yet you fight your own instincts, knowing his understanding is dangerous. You don't fear me, but this is the first time you've been able to keep up with my theatrics. You want someone to tell you what I can tell you, and you know you'll only find the answers from me. So yes, you do want to feel the sweet end of death as it takes away all the torture tying. You do want me to take you by the hand and show you how to dance with death, waiting for the right time to decide how to free yourself of that feeling...you want it all, Myshka, and that's what is so funny about you. You can't have everything! We are no different at all! We want to know what true life is after freedom!" Nikolai pulls away only as he laugh at his own answer, the craze in his mannerisms most noticeable as the whole sky seems to change with his movements, your heart beating like heavy drums without a tempo, loudly, mixing up with his heart as you believe every word that's come out of him, butterflies in your chest fluttering like they never have with anyone else. After what he's said, you want to keep all of him for you, you want to keep this feeling this clown has stirred deep in you, and you want him to keep going.

He knows how to play games as well as Fyodor...but it's different, so different.

I want to hear more, I want to feel more. These butterflies in me playing with my tell-tale heart...he owns them.

Is this new? Have I always felt this? When did this become more..? What do I lose if we keep this to ourselves?

"Kolya." You say his nickname more desperately than you mean to, his heavenly laughter dying out as he sees the look on your face, face flushed, eyes wide, still trying to process his answer.

"Have I won, [f/n]? Is that what your face is telling me?" Gogol asks, taking both of your hands in his, looking at you hopefully, any trace of the soft genuine emotion he had been showing before gone and replaced with sadistic amusement.

He wants to see me squirm.

He wants to know he has just as much control as his friend, whether he knows it or not...it's what his heart says.

"You've..."

He's a riddle inside many more. All the mapping out I've done...his thoughts...it's ever changing. It's...beautiful.

Yes. You've won for now, Gogol.

But why do I feel like I've got to hide this? With the sky as my witness, why do I want to keep these bad kind of butterflies to myself?

There's a pause in your sentence, your tongue tripping over itself as you suddenly find yourself at a loss for words. You try to look away from him, taking one step away from the window and closer to him, hair messy, blush all over your cheeks. Your eyes shake with a fear that you couldn't truly call fear at all.

He's playing with your desire, and you know it.

"Finish the sentence, Myshka." Nikolai demands, holding your head back to face him, keeping your eyes on him and him only. Kisses of the sun dancing in his eyes like a flame lit up the further you sink into his hands.

"You've won, Gogol. You've won your riddles and games." You gasp, light pain erupting at your jaw as his gold in your tightens. Leaning in, Nikolai stops just above your lips. You can't see him, your eyes fluttering between open and closed the closer you feel him, but you know he's smiling, you know his silver hair has fallen around his face and clung around his sharp jaw of fair skin elegantly, his braid sitting over his shoulder where you left it.

Why won't he do anything?

You open your eyes fully, and as soon as you do, you feel Nikolai Gogol's lips crashing on to yours, your head pushed back, your hands taken and pushed against the window too as his tight grip falls to your wrists, your shock that he enjoys creating so much consumed by the wildfire that this man conjured in you with anticipation, all time lost as you feel pleasurable pain throb at all the places that have hit the glass.

I want you.

I want to satisfy our curiosity of each other.

In this empty room with only me and you...we both want to feel numb, don't we?

Maybe it's a mistake. It probably is...

I just know I have to make it.

-

"What is stronger in us - passion or habit?" -Nikolai Gogol