word count: 2371
TW for descriptions of self harm
A few days passed by without much of note happening between the two of them, despite the air of unease that had been surrounding them ever since Osamu had spoken of its father; their interactions had remained strangely normal. Osamu had not brought the subject up since, and Fyodor, strangely enough, didn't feel as if it would be correct for him to do so either; despite the barely audible voice in the back of his mind clamouring and begging for him to investigate, to satisfy its yearning curiosity, he had decided not to broach the topic any further.
Fyodor reluctantly sat up in his bed with a groan; the blanket drawn over him felt as if it were made of lead, and the air around him felt stuffy and near unbreathable as it entered his lungs. His hand quickly went up to cradle his head as it pounded away in his ears. He'd had trouble getting to sleep the night before, having had the most genius idea of starting a new novel right before he would usually sleep, and so he was running on perhaps 2 hours worth of semi-decent sleep at best. Today was certainly not off to a good start for him.
With a deep breath, Fyodor slowly clambered out of his warm bed, making his way out of his room into the hallway, where the air seemed strangely fresher than usual.
He soon found himself sat at the kitchen table once again, his father thankfully having already left out for work once again. "Good morning, Fedya!" Came his mother's voice from the kitchen as she peeked around the doorway. Fyodor gave her a small wave along with a smile before resting his head on the table as he waited for his breakfast from hell to be served. His head continued to throb away as he sat there, wishing he'd never picked up that novel in the first place. He'd managed to make it around to another weekend, so he'd more than likely be able to catch a couple more hours of sleep when he returned, but he'd still have to go out for upkeep duty feeling like nothing more than a living corpse.
He felt himself begin to drift off a little when he was startled awake by the thud of a bowl landing in front of him, yet another bowlful of his mother's wonderful porridge, though on second glance the bowl looked only to be half as full as it were usually "If you'd like some more, just ask Fedya; you look quite tired today. Just make sure you eat as much as you can manage, ok?" His mother told him with a warm smile, which Fyodor returned gratefully, "Of course mother, thank you." He replied before taking a spoonful and slowly posting it into his mouth as she watched. She left the room with a pleased hum, heading upstairs to fetch Akim as Fyodor managed to just about get himself to swallow down another couple of spoonfuls of the lumpy concoction before promptly leaving the table to go and get himself ready.
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His feet felt unsteady beneath him as he made his way through the village, only adding to his growing irritation as he tried his best to ignore the chatter and various loud noises throughout the market as he passed through; each additional sound only made his headache grow worse and worse by the second. He was sure he must have had a foul-looking expression gracing his face in that moment considering not one of the people he'd passed by had tried to bother him whatsoever, for which he was incredibly grateful as he wasn't sure whether he'd be able to keep himself from screaming at anyone who dared to speak to him.
Eventually, Fyodor arrived in front of the stone building, finding the creature's wife sitting in her husband's old chair, fast asleep just as it had always been too. He spotted the keys over on a nearby side table, likely having been left there for him. Grabbing the keys, Fyodor made his way into the back room to collect the bread and water.
As he opened the cupboard to take the bread out, he spotted a note addressed to him. It was attached to a red apple that sat alone on the shelf above the one that the bread rested on. Apparently the woman in the front had wanted to apologise for her husband's wrongdoings in some way and asked him if he could offer half of the fruit to the sinner in repentance. 'It may be a sinner, but still, I don't believe it should have had to go through such a thing' the note read, scribbled in uneven handwriting with a cheap lead pencil. Fyodor stared at the note for a couple of seconds more with unfocused eyes before crumpling it up in his pocket, taking the fruit along with the bread and tankard of water with him as he sluggishly plodded down the stairs to the basement.
He entered the cell and removed Osamu's restraints as he usually did, dropping the items in front of it before deciding he would deal with the bucket when he left for today, promptly sliding down the moss-covered wall to rest on the equally murky stone floor. "You ok over there, Fyodor?" Came Osamu's voice, laced with a little concern, Fyodor offered only a grunt in response as he allowed his burning eyes a small break, letting his eyelids drop down over them, blinding them to the world. He heard it chuckle as he did so, but he couldn't find it within himself to care as he let out a sigh and allowed his head to fall back and rest against the wall.
A few minutes of sitting there later, Fyodor could feel something warm at his side. He instinctively drew nearer to the heat source, bringing his head closer as the soft warmth soothed the painful throbbing in his head. He couldn't find it within himself to care to wonder what it was he was currently leaching heat from; all he knew was that he felt unbelievably comfortable against it, more so than he'd ever felt in a long time. It wasn't long before he could feel sleep beginning to cloud his mind. He could hear a small part of himself saying something or other about needing to leave, but he paid it no attention, allowing himself to be swallowed up in the comforting embrace of the tranquil darkness around him.
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Fyodor awoke to a weight against his shoulder; he wasn't fully sure what it was, but it was deliciously warm against him in the cold air of his surroundings. He moved again closer to the warmth as he tried his best to hang onto the last dregs of sleep that he could, but unfortunately lost in his battle. He slowly opened his eyes, his vision still hazy as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. His vision came more into focus as he did so, allowing him to observe that he was in fact still in the basement, the fact being confirmed by the slight dampness he could feel seeping into his trousers from the damp floor he'd apparently been sitting on.
Only then did Fyodor turn his head to find out what he'd been leaning against moments before, finding Osamu's head lying against his shoulder, his features seeming somehow even more beautiful than they did usually, smoothed out and serene under the spell of sleep. His hand reached out as if to cradle its face before his brain managed to catch up and fully process the situation, quickly jerking his arm back as if he'd just touched something scalding hot. It didn't take him long to come to a conclusion, he needed to get out of there as soon as possible, no matter how much he wished to stay and simply bask in the wonderful warmth that Osamu's sleeping form offered.
He had no idea how long he'd been there. An hour? Two hours? More? He needed to get home quickly. He could worry about him falling asleep on Osamu later. He had no clue whether or not he'd be home before he made it back. All he could do was send silent prayers to the Lord above that he'd make it home, only to discover he'd perhaps only been gone for an hour or so more than he usually was. Or at least that he wasn't gone so long that he'd beat him there.
Carefully, he separated himself from Osamu's sleeping form, fastening the restraints around it while taking as much care as he could manage in his panicked state to not wake it before leaving with the tankard and discarded apple core, taking them to the surface along with the bucket.
He replaced the bucket back in the cell and then swiftly left, making sure to lock the cell behind him, not daring to send a glance back as he quickly made his way back up the stairs. The woman was still fast asleep in her chair by the time he left, and while Fyodor took this as a good sign, he still didn't allow himself to relax until he knew for sure he was in the clear. He made his way through the village at a hurried pace until he finally managed to reach the clocktower in the town centre, letting out a sigh of relief as he found out he'd only been out for around an hour and a half more than usual. He allowed his pace to slow again as he made his way back; his father wouldn't be returning for at least another few hours.
He soon arrived home, greeting his mother as he passed by her on his way in before retreating to the safety of his room.
As soon as the door closed, Fyodor let himself fall to the floor, his hands covering his face. How could he have done something so idiotic? All it would've taken was for the woman to wake up and go down and check on him upon discovering the key was still missing for both him and Osamuto have to be punished. It wasn't Osamu's fault either. He remembered distinctly that it was him who fell asleep first; it had been him who had passed out on Osamu's shoulder and kept it there against him, yet he knows that had they been caught, Osamu would've been punished much more severely than he ever would have.
That's without mentioning the fact that he'd explicitly gone against his Lord's word. While he wasn't really supposed to speak to the sinner, such actions were not expressly forbidden. What he had just done, however, most definitely was. He was supposed to keep his distance from them at all times; his bare skin could never be allowed to even come into contact with one should it sully his carefully protected purity, and yet he'd been just mere inches away from making said contact.
Fyodor stood up from the floor with resolve welling on the surface of his eyes, making his way over to his desk and pulling open its drawer, rummaging around through the various junk he'd thrown in there before he finally found it. Pulling out the silver dagger his father had gifted him on his fifteenth birthday, its blade tucked safely away within its black sheath with his name carved into its smooth surface. He shakily drew the blade from its sheath, placing it down on his bed as he sat down and shrugged off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, leaving his pale skin at the mercy of the few dull beams of sunlight that managed to make their way through his window.
He took up the blade in his right hand and lined it up against the delicate skin of his upper arm as it shook slightly in anticipation. His breathing stopped abruptly as he felt the blade begin to dig in as he began to apply pressure on the handle, the sharp sting only growing more intense as he dragged it across his arm to create a relatively smooth horizontal line. As he pulled the blade away, he felt himself exhale sharply as his eyes remained glued on the mark. Beads of blood welled up on its surface, growing and growing until they eventually gave way to the pull of gravity and began to run down his arm in a slow-flowing stream of crimson. He watched on, entranced, as he put the blade down to rest safely on his lap as his hand moved towards the wound he'd created, his thumb and index finger finding their place on either side of the cut as he pulled the two sides apart, staring on in fascination at the soft flesh he'd exposed as more blood joined the stream he'd created. He then guided his slightly trembling hand back towards the blade, wrapping his shaking fingers around the handle once more. "Just a couple more." He muttered to himself, not entirely sure if it'd been an attempt at self-soothing or just simply him thinking aloud. He took a sharp breath in before returning to the task at hand.
He finally let go of the blade, the instrument clattering to the ground as he admired his work. The symbol of their Lord would forever be a part of him; it would forever be a reminder of the sins he had committed. He shakily made his way back over to the desk and put the blade back into the drawer after replacing its sheath, this time pulling out a tattered notebook, where he flicked it open to the first page and added a fifth wobbly tally mark to his count with the miniature pencil that had came attached to the book. Five times now, he had been forced to repent for his sins like this. He could only hope he wouldn't have to again.
Taking an old shirt he'd pre-cut into strips from his cupboard, Fyodor quickly wrapped the injury in a last-ditch attempt to stop the blood from staining anything before promptly flopping down onto his bed, allowing himself to be pulled into the darkness once again.
It felt so much colder than it had before.