Archive of Our Own

Melodies of Sadness

“Can I, uh…get you some tea?”

Fyodor looked up from his laptop, blinking once, as if drawn unexpectedly from deep thought. Sigma shifted his feet and glanced away, embarrassed and a little intimidated. Fyodor was rarely around, and when he was, he tended not to stay long; he was like a shadow, unpredictable and half-seen, dancing in and out of awareness. He rarely spoke to Sigma, and Sigma could only recall perhaps one other time he had taken the initiative to speak to Fyodor himself.

“Oh,” Fyodor said at last, like it had taken him a moment to register that an offer had been made. “Da, some tea would be very nice.” He smiled as though in afterthought, and then returned his attention to the screen.

Sigma nodded and moved away, maybe a little too hastily, retreating to the kitchen. Retreat, yes. It felt like running away. He heard the typing resume in the next room.

Whatever Fyodor was doing Sigma couldn’t hazard to guess—didn’t want to know—but he had been sitting there on the sofa quite absorbed for almost an hour now. Nikolai and Fukuchi were out in the casino. Sigma had been keeping an eye on things over surveillance video from here in his living quarters. At first, he had been absolutely terrified about what might happen out there, until he realized that, as wildly uncontrollable as the two of them could be—especially together—they were not stupid enough to draw too much attention to themselves. Fukuchi was a known figure, famous across the world, so it behooved him to keep a low profile in most circumstances. Fyodor had sternly reminded him of that, and Fukuchi had accepted the chastisement with abashed sincerity.

“Try not to drink too much or be too loud, Genichirou, okay? For me?”

The for me, tacked onto the end almost in afterthought, had gotten Fukuchi misty-eyed. “Of course, Fedya! You know I would never let you down.”

“Won’t you join us, Dos-kun?” Nikolai had chimed in. He had forsaken his usual get-up for a more inconspicuous suit, and it looked distinctly strange on him, especially with the short-brimmed hat.

“I do not gamble,” Fyodor had replied. His tone was mild, but something had flashed in his dark violet eyes, something that sent a chill down Sigma’s spine. Sigma had learned not long after he had been given this casino that gambling was a sin, though he had only the vaguest comprehension of what that meant—or, more importantly, what that meant for Fyodor. Nikolai giggled, eyeing Fyodor slyly beneath the brim of his hat, and Sigma suspected he was taunting Fyodor.

“A shame,” he tittered, and was gone in a dramatic flourish of his suit jacket. Fukuchi, not entirely oblivious to what had just happened if the tense posture of his shoulders was any indication, gave Fyodor a soft, genuinely affectionate smile and took off after the other man.  

Sigma put the tea on, listening distractedly to the sounds of typing in the other room. It stopped for a second, resumed, stopped again, and then proceeded at a faster pace. After a moment’s consideration, Sigma opened one of the overhead cabinets and took out a package of butter cookies. He put some on a plate, feeling a little foolish, and set the plate aside to bring out with the tea. He didn’t know if Fyodor liked butter cookies. Fukuchi was willing to devour just about anything and Nikolai loved pirozhki almost as much as he loved making cryptically poetic observations about birds, but Sigma had no idea what Fyodor liked.

The Sky Casino served as a base of sorts for the Decay of Angels; the Casino was effectively a sovereign country of its own, under the jurisdiction of no international government, and that made it the safest place in the world for a terrorist organization to gather. They had a second base in Japan, in a country house Fukuchi owned (under a pseudonym, of course). Even so, it was rare for all four of them to be together like this. Mostly it was Nikolai who hung around, popping into rooms unannounced and scaring years off of Sigma’s life every time. Fukuchi came here sometimes, too, but Sigma didn’t mind that so much. Although he was a little weird and he could be quite disruptive when he drank too much—which was often—Fukuchi was easily the most normal person in this organization. He liked to talk to Sigma, too, and he liked to play poker even though he was abysmal at it. He was funny, and he showed genuine concern for how Sigma was doing. If it wasn’t for…what they were, and what they were doing, Sigma might have enjoyed his company.

Fyodor wasn’t so bad, either, really. He was…well. He was quiet. Polite. Pleasant, even. He never came too close to Sigma, always keeping a distance between them that felt to Sigma as great as the distance between this floating casino and the ground—one wrong step and a person would plunge down and down and down. Fyodor played the cello and the violin, and he played beautifully. He was otherworldly, in a way, snow-white skin and raven hair, his eyes the color of wild violets. Like something out of a fairytale. He moved with unthinking grace, the heavy boots he wore hardly making a sound with his steps.

But he was frightening. His mind was as quick and as sharp as a blade, and his eyes seemed to see everything, to observe every minute shift in expression or movement of the body. He knew a person’s thoughts before they formed. He understood people in ways that were impossible for Sigma to comprehend. People were like puppets to him. He held their strings in his delicate fingers, and they never knew. Sigma could only thank God or gods or whatever was out there on behalf of his clients that Fyodor did not gamble. If he did, he wouldn’t have any need of Fukuchi’s fortune or the revenue from this casino.

Sometimes, Sigma thought he might be able to like Fyodor. He didn’t mind it when Fyodor was around. There was something almost comforting about his presence. Wherever he went, it was like a kind of stillness followed him, as if the whole world paused. But Sigma knew he couldn’t get too close, and not just because Fyodor appeared determined to keep a physical distance between them. Whoever Fyodor really was, whatever Fyodor was really after, he was dangerous. He was Death, quiet and ghostly and without compassion.

The shrill whistle of the tea kettle startled Sigma out of his thoughts. He turned off the stove and poured a cup, realizing that he had not asked Fyodor if he wanted anything in his tea and feeling like a fool again, but just as he was putting the kettle back down, he heard a heavy thud from the other room.

He rushed out of the kitchen. A startled, frightened noise escaped him. Fyodor was on the floor, unconscious. The laptop was on the table. The dull glow of its screen winked out as it went into sleep mode. It looked as if Fyodor had gotten up and had perhaps been headed to the kitchen when he collapsed.  

“Fyo—Fyodor?” Sigma took a jerky step towards the other man, but then stopped. He didn’t know what to do. Could he touch Fyodor? Fyodor’s Ability—he killed people with a touch. Sigma had never seen it, but that was what Fukuchi had told him, and no one knew how it worked. Fyodor had never touched him, in the three years since he had found Sigma. If Sigma tried to lift him off the floor, would he die? He knew Fyodor’s health wasn’t good, but Fyodor had never passed out before. God, what should he do?

Wait—he had Fukuchi’s number. Fukuchi would know what to do, Fukuchi could help—

He almost dropped his phone, fumbling it out of his pocket. His hands were shaking so badly it took him three tries to get the number right. Fukuchi picked up on the second ring, but it felt like eternity to Sigma before he heard the other man’s gruff, faintly concerned voice.

“Sigma-kun? What is it?”

“Fukuchi-san, please come back to the room, quickly! It’s Fyodor! He—”

Fukuchi cut him off. “I’ll be right there.” A click, and he was gone.

Sigma stood there, his feet rooted to the spot. Normally, it would have taken about twenty minutes for a man to reach Sigma’s living quarters in the heart of the casino if he was rushing, but Fukuchi was no normal man, and it was less than half that time before the door flew open and the older man walked in. His expression was serious, lines of worry furrowing his brow. He had taken off his suit jacket and discarded his tie at some point, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone, and he looked disheveled and like he had been having much too good a time, but the aura around him was tense and authoritative. Although he had clearly been drinking, his stride was steady and his words were not slurred.

“What happened? He passed out?”

“I—I guess so,” Sigma stammered. “I was in the kitchen, and I heard a noise and came out and he was just—on the floor.”

Fukuchi nodded shortly. He kneeled next to Fyodor, a flicker of something like sadness crossing his features as he looked down at the younger man’s unconscious form. He reached for Fyodor, but Sigma cried out a warning, horrified. “Wait! You can’t—”

Fukuchi looked up at Sigma and smiled reassuringly. “It’s all right. Fyodor’s Ability doesn’t work that way. Watch.”

He placed a hand on Fyodor’s shoulder. Sigma stepped back, wide-eyed. Nothing happened. Fukuchi lifted his hand, unharmed.

“See?” he said. “I don’t know any more about Fedya’s Ability than you do, but this isn’t the first time he’s fainted around me, and he hasn’t killed me yet.” His smile was strained. “Even if he did, I don’t tend to stay dead for long.”

Sigma had no idea what that meant, but he nodded dumbly. He watched as Fukuchi gently turned Fyodor over and gathered him in his arms, bridal-style. The size difference between them was not that extreme; Fukuchi had a few inches and perhaps twenty pounds on Fyodor. Nonetheless, he carried the other man’s dead weight as if he was as light as a feather. Sigma followed him into the spare bedroom Fyodor had been using. Fukuchi carefully lowered Fyodor onto the bed, cradling his head to be sure it didn’t bump.

“There we go, Fedya,” he murmured. To Sigma, he said, “He’ll wake up soon. This happens sometimes.”

“I…didn’t know,” Sigma said. He sat down on the chair at the desk, his shoulders slumping in sudden exhaustion. His heart was beating too fast. He took a breath, trying to calm himself. Fukuchi wasn’t acting as if this was something to panic over, so he needed to stop panicking and get himself under control.

Perhaps Fukuchi noticed, because he walked over and squeezed Sigma’s shoulder. His hand was big and calloused and undeniably strong despite the lines of age. The touch calmed Sigma, a little. He looked up into Fukuchi’s face, crinkled around the eyes and mouth with his smile, and wondered if Fukuchi Ouchi had been a good man once.

“All right there, kiddo?”

Sigma took another deep breath and managed a smile in return. “I’m okay. I just…didn’t know.” There’s so much I don’t know. So much no one ever tells me.

Fukuchi perched on the edge of the desk, his hand still on Sigma’s shoulder. “It’s because of the anemia.”

“Anemia?”

At the uncomprehending look on Sigma’s face, Fukuchi said, “Ah, do you not know what that is? It’s a blood disorder. Fedya has a pretty severe case of it. He gets so tired and dizzy sometimes. Not that you’d ever notice; he hides it well. But he barely sleeps, and he barely eats, and it only makes his health worse. Sometimes he passes out like this. I’ll bet he hasn’t eaten properly or had a wink of sleep in days.” His voice was tight with worry and what might have been frustration. “I wish he would take care of himself. If I could be with him more often…but I have to play my part, too.”

He sighed, and he sounded tired. Helpless. It seemed incongruous to him. Sigma didn’t know what to say, so for a time there was silence in the room.

He looked at Fyodor. Jet-black tresses fanned out across the pillow. His face was pinched, as if he was in pain, but it was slight, just a faint line across his pallid brow that was barely noticeable beneath his hair. His lips were parted slightly. His breathing had steadied. Perhaps he had drifted into sleep.

“You’ve…uh, known him for a long time, haven’t you?”

Fukuchi inclined his head. “Thirteen years—or maybe fourteen. We met during the War. He was just a kid then. Younger than you.” Memory darkened his expression. “I was in hell. Fyodor found me there, and he pulled me out.”

He turned his gaze to where Fyodor slept and he softened, warmth and affection in his eyes. “He saved me, in a lot of ways. I owe him everything I am. I only hope I can return the favor by completing this plan he made for me to achieve my goal.”

Silence fell again. Sigma looked away, from Fukuchi and from Fyodor, and looked down at his hands. It occurred to him that his Ability acted through touch, and so did, as far as he knew or could tell, Fyodor’s. It was a strange thought.

He was just a kid then. Younger than you.

But I don’t know how old I am. I don’t know anything about him, really, and I don’t know anything about myself. Why is he here? Why am I here? He found you, Fukuchi-san, and he found me, too. He saved you, and he saved me. He gave you a plan, he gave you a weapon, and he gave me this casino. And Nikolai—he found Nikolai, too, and he gave Nikolai a purpose. But why?

It was like they were all moons trapped in the gravitational pull of a sun that burned cold and dark. They revolved around Fyodor, carried along to wherever he was leading, like the dead dancing mindlessly as Death played his tune of danse macabre. But where was he leading them? What did he want?

Sigma had never dared to touch Fyodor, not only for fear of Fyodor’s Ability, but for fear of his own. There were too many questions he had never asked, too many questions he desperately wanted the answers to, questions he feared to have the answers to.  

Fukuchi stood up, patting Sigma companionably on the back. “I’m going to put in an order for some food from the kitchens for when Fedya wakes up. I’d better check on Kolya, too. He’s been left unsupervised for way too long.”

Sigma started, realizing that it had been at least twenty minutes that Nikolai had been out there on the casino floor, completely left to his own devices. Oh, God. There might not be a casino left at this point.

“Would you stay with him until he wakes?”

Sigma blinked, shaking away those dire thoughts. “Y-Yes. Of course.”

Fukuchi beamed at him, and Sigma had to glance away, blushing slightly. “Thank you, Sigma. Wait—how does Fyodor say it? Spasibo. I think that’s it. Ah, Fedya’s always saying I’m terrible at Russian. He says I’m terrible at everything, though. He’s probably right.”

“‘Spasibo’ is right,” Sigma told him.

Fukuchi’s grin broadened. “Have you eaten yet?”

Sigma shook his head. “Not since this morning.”

“I’ll get you something, too, then. I’m in the mood for some salmon. That sound good?”

“Uh—sure. Thank you.”

“Spasibo.”

Sigma couldn’t quite help a little smile. “Spasibo,” he agreed.

Fukuchi gripped his shoulder briefly. On his way out the door, he paused by the bed. A tender brush of fingertips pushed back the hair from Fyodor’s face and smoothed the faint crease across his brow. “Call me when he wakes.”

-

Seconds unfolded slowly with the rhythmic rise and fall of Fyodor’s breath. The dim light of the desk lamp submerged him in a shallow lagoon of shadows in which he seemed to sleep uneasy. Sigma sat on its shore, ensconced in the circle of the lamp’s yellowish glow. Barriers between the two of them, thin and insubstantial, but as always, it felt to Sigma like a threshold he could not cross over.

His gaze wandered with his thoughts. The cello case was propped up in the corner on the other side of the bed, Fyodor’s heavy black mantle hanging from the headboard. A couple books were stacked neatly on the desk. His ushanka was folded beside the books. Wherever Fukuchi and Nikolai stayed, they left disasters in their wake, everything scattered everywhere, but Fyodor’s space was always immaculate and uncluttered, and once he was gone things were as ordered as if they had never been touched. As if he had never been there at all.

A quiet rustling jerked him from the semi-doze he had begun to drift into. Fyodor shifted beneath the covers, turning his head in Sigma’s direction. He did not wake. His brow was furrowed again, ever so slightly. Sigma wondered if he was dreaming.

What would he dream of? Of the future, the world he sought to create? Of a past he never spoke of, that even Fukuchi knew little about? Perhaps his dreams were like Sigma’s, formless and without meaning, more sensations than images, because he had no memories to cherish or to haunt him, no future to look to, nothing but a name he had given himself and a casino that had been given to him in exchange for his soul.

Sometimes, Sigma thought he dreamed of Fyodor. Not of Fyodor himself, precisely; he dreamed of snow, falling in thick sheets that blotted out everything else, a blizzard that did not end. There were times, lying somewhere in the valley between sleep and awake, when he thought that if he could only see through the snow, if he could just tread his way through the blizzard until it ceased, he would see the truth, finally—the truth about himself, and about Fyodor.

He shook his head and rubbed his face, trying to force his scattered thoughts into some kind of focus. He remembered the tea and the cookies he had left in the kitchen, and, after a moment’s debate, he got up and headed out to retrieve them. He paused by the bed, as Fukuchi had done. He wanted to reach out, as Fukuchi had also, and brush away the hair tumbling into Fyodor’s face, perhaps smooth away those faint lines of distress or pain or whatever disturbed the sleep his overwrought body had imposed on him against his conscious will. But his hand lingered in midair, fear and uncertainty holding him motionless until he let it fall back to his side. He left the room.

-

He halted in the doorway, so abruptly a small amount of tea sloshed over the cup in his left hand and the butter cookies skidded perilously to the edge of the plate balanced in his right. His eyes widened, as if he had just been slapped.

Fyodor was still asleep, but he was not alone in the room. Nikolai sat on the desk chair Sigma had been sitting in minutes ago. He had taken off his hat; it sat on the desk next to Fyodor’s ushanka. He leaned forward, his elbows balanced on his knees. He did not look up when Sigma entered; his eyes were locked on Fyodor, and they blazed. His face, half in shadow, was a grinning mask, avid and hypnotized.

“Nikolai.” The name escaped him in a breathless rush. “What are you doing here?”

“Dos-kun fainted again, didn’t he? I thought so. Fuku-kun ran back here like the place was on fire.” Nikolai laughed, a sound jagged and faintly musical like the tinkling of falling icicles, and Sigma shivered.

“Fukuchi was going to look for you,” Sigma said.

“Do you think he’ll find me?” Nikolai cackled. “Tell him to ask for the King of Spain, he’ll know him by his brand new coat!”

He went on cackling, almost as if to himself, but he never took his eyes off Fyodor.

Sigma had no idea what he was talking about, and really didn’t want to ask. He stepped into the room, cautious as if not to disturb a wild animal, and maneuvered himself so he was standing in between Nikolai and the bed. He placed his teacup and plate onto the nightstand. He noted, distractedly, that there was a black box on the nightstand he had never seen before, closed with a silver latch but apparently unlocked. Then his attention focused entirely on Nikolai again.

“He’s…resting,” Sigma started, haltingly. “You should go back out to the casino floor, find Fukuchi-san. He was going to get food, too.”

Suddenly, Nikolai’s eyes, one silver-purple, one emerald, shifted to Sigma. “Fuku-kun is always scolding him that he should take better care of himself. He doesn’t listen, of course. Do you know why? Can you guess?”

Reluctant, wary of where this was going, Sigma shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“He wants to die, of course!”

Sigma reeled, as much from the manic glee in Nikolai’s voice as from the revelation itself—although it was not, in truth, much of a revelation at all. He did not know what the endgame of this plan was beyond getting the Book, but he could guess. “That doesn’t—”

Make any sense was what he was about to say, but the words caught in his throat, as if on a thorn.

Nikolai stood up, and his face transformed; the mask fell away, exposing a man beneath who was haunted and sorrowful and too old for his years. Or perhaps that was just another mask. “That’s why he understands, why he sees me so clear. We are the same.”

Gooseflesh prickled Sigma’s forearms. He knew what part Nikolai was supposed to play in the Decay of Angels plan, as much as he knew his own part.

“He’s going to kill you, too.”

Sigma crossed his arms over his chest, a protective gesture, or perhaps a defiant one. “I know,” he said, soft, but steady.

Again Nikolai shifted completely, the façade of agony and weariness splintering into savage delight. He threw his hands up and performed a perfect pirouette and Sigma drew back at the abrupt movement, almost falling over the bed and onto Fyodor. Instinctively, he held out his arms, as if to shield the sleeping man behind him from that cruel grin, those blazing eyes.

“What a wonderful answer! What a delightful contradiction you are! The common man walks willingly to his doom!”

In an instant, their faces were inches apart, and mismatched eyes seemed to devour him, to swallow the whole world.

Nikolai’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Why? The crowd is dying to know.”

Waiting with breathless anticipation. Sigma wondered if this was how Nikolai had always seen life, as one endless performance in front of harsh unfriendly faces that demanded the play go exactly as they expected.

“I am the manager of this casino,” he replied, speaking low as well. “I will give my life for it if I need to.”

Nikolai stared into his face, still and unblinking as if he had turned to stone. At last he stepped away, straightening to his full height—several inches taller than Sigma—and turned to retrieve his borrowed hat from the desk. His hair was not braided, as it usually was, but pulled back in a loose tail that lay in a long white cascade over his right shoulder. Even dressed in a plain, unassuming suit, he stood out: a tall, remarkably handsome young man with strange and captivating eyes that glowed catlike in the darkness. He was an entertainer of prodigious talent; whether in the theater or the magic show, it was as if he had been born for the stage. Sigma wondered when Nikolai had started to feel like a bird in a gilded cage, singing with clipped wings for the pleasure of cruel and faceless masters. Perhaps he had always felt that way.

Nikolai regarded him, and his smile was weary, his expression solemn. “You are not like us, Sigma-kun. You do not belong here.”

I don’t belong anywhere, Sigma thought, but he said nothing. With a flourish of his coat, Nikolai was gone, disappearing in the blink of an eye into a spatial window that closed in his wake with a hollow rush of air filling the space he had just occupied.      

-

Sigma sat down heavily on the bed, letting out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. Then he remembered the bed was currently occupied and he scrambled back to his feet, but Fyodor had not stirred.

He’s going to kill you, too.

Of course Sigma had known. When he had fulfilled his purpose in this plan, that would be the end of this short, confusing, tumultuous life he had lived. One last time, he was to serve as a tool for someone else, and one last time, he was to be discarded when he was no longer of use. He understood that perfectly well. Maybe Nikolai was right that he was a contradiction. For the chance to live, he walked willingly to death.

But he really had never had a choice. Fyodor had come to him cloaked in the light of a desert dawn, savior and tempter, and Sigma had followed him knowing there would be no turning back. There was nothing behind him to return to, anyway.

Sometimes, he closed his eyes and just let himself feel her, his casino, feel the titanic hum of machinery that kept her alive and afloat. She had a soul; he felt it thrum in his veins, entwined intrinsically to his own. She was his, and he was hers. They were the same, disparate and detached, adrift in the clouds far beyond the normal world of people. To protect her, life and choice were small sacrifices.  

Sigma opened his eyes, and his gaze fell on the black box he had noticed on the nightstand earlier. He took a step closer to inspect it, curious. He flipped the silver latch and opened it. There was a book inside. It was old, bound in leather that was cracked and faded with age. Across the cover the words Holy Bible were embossed in gold lettering.   

He drew in a sharp intake of breath. He knew what this book was, but this was the first time he had actually seen one in person. Very carefully, he picked it up. It was an impressive tome, heavy and thick. The pages were yellowed and dog-eared, and one almost fell out when he opened to a point more than halfway in. He could read Russian fairly well, and, balancing the book gingerly in both arms, he murmured aloud the first few lines he saw.

“‘These words spake Jesus, and lifted up his eyes to heaven, and said, Father, the hour is come; glorify thy Son, that thy Son also may glorify thee: As thou hast given him power over all flesh, that he should give eternal life to as many as thou hast given him. And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent. I have glorified thee on the earth—’”

“‘—I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do.’”

Sigma jumped, startled, and nearly dropped the book. Fyodor’s eyes were open and watching him, shadowed in the dimness.

“‘And now, O Father,’” Fyodor continued, his voice low but clear, “‘glorify thou me with thine own self with the glorify which I had with thee before the world was.’ John 17:1-5.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Sigma stammered, hastily closing the Bible and nearly dropping it again in the process, “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s all right.” Fyodor sat up, his lips pursing slightly as if it took some effort or pained him. “Just be careful. It’s very old, and as you can tell it’s seen better days. I’ve had it for a long time. Here, hand it to me.”

Sigma did so, careful to avoid their hands brushing. He blushed when he realized Fyodor was probably aware of what he was doing, but Fyodor gave no indication he thought anything of it.

He set the Bible across his lap with reverent care, tucking the loose page fully back into its place. Sigma shuffled his feet awkwardly, feeling suddenly as if he had been trespassing.

“You…said you’ve had it for a long time?”

“Since another life,” Fyodor said, distant and pensive. His collar was rumpled and half-flattened, his hair tousled from sleep. The muted quality of the light softened the angular lines of his features, and his slightly disheveled appearance made him look younger. He couldn’t have been very old, certainly not much older than Nikolai, but it was hard to guess just how old he could be; there was an ageless impression about the contours of his visage, about the smooth white skin, the curve of full lips, about those deep, violet eyes, marred only by the heavy marks of exhaustion beneath them. Sigma had not known him for very long, but something about him seemed changeless, as if he had always been this way, as if he had always been. Sigma had a somewhat diffuse concept of existence, of beginning and end, of progression and regression, because of how little he knew of his own origin, and he could not quite explain the vague sense he had that Fyodor was not like Nikolai, or Fukuchi, or the numerous guests that occupied this casino. He had the same vague sense about himself, but he could not explain that, either.

Another life. Was he talking about his life before he had met Fukuchi? Before…all this? Despite the intense curiosity this statement piqued, Sigma did not ask.

“This book has been through much,” Fyodor continued, as if half-speaking to himself. “It has passed from hand to hand, and each has tried to use it for their own purposes. As a shield, as a weapon. Many have caused grief, and many of those came to grief themselves—as it is written. At last it came to my hands.”

Like me, Sigma thought.

Fyodor looked up at him and smiled. “I take it I fainted.”

Sigma tensed a little. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry about that.” He sighed and rubbed at his temple. “It doesn’t happen often, but…well, you know I am not in the best of health.”

He did not always look sick, although Sigma understood that he was ill—he was too pale, too thin, hollowed cheeks and tired eyes. Maybe it was the way he carried himself that obscured these obvious physical marks, the ease and grace with which he moved, the undeniable strength belied by his slender frame. The sense of power that shrouded him, mysterious and unspeakable. That sense of timelessness, of detachment, of otherness. He was like a ghost, a walking apparition of death and darkness, and it made it hard to see this fragility, incongruous and startling.

Sigma tried to speak, but it took him a moment to find his voice. Disparate images of this man in front of him clashed in his mind, ideas of who Fyodor was, what Fyodor was, that did not make sense in connection with one another, and it left him confused and unbalanced. “Fukuchi-san told me that this has happened before. He said it’s because of your anemia, and because you don’t eat or sleep enough. Or, um, at all.”

Fyodor waved a dismissive hand. “Genichirou is one to talk. He has more alcohol than blood in his veins. He once had to buy me a new computer because he decided the one I had would make a good surrogate for a toilet. If I had a rouble for every time he’s passed out on me, I could just buy off all the nations of the world.”

Fukuchi had, in fact, passed out drunk a few times around Sigma. Nikolai once drew on his face with permanent marker while he was out cold. When he woke up and saw what Nikolai had done, Fukuchi had laughed so hard he nigh on passed out again. His subordinates did that to him occasionally, he told Sigma. Sigma remembered muttering something about the lot of them being children. That had only made Fukuchi laugh harder.

“When did you last eat?” he asked, cautiously.

Fyodor shifted and didn’t respond. He did not look pleased by the question. He was almost…pouting?

“Not that long ago,” he said at last, with unmistakable defensiveness.

Sigma regarded him skeptically. “How long is ‘not that long?’ And what did you have?”

“I had—” He had to stop and think about it, which Sigma did not take for a good sign. “Rice balls. I think.”

“You think,” Sigma echoed flatly. “Well, okay. When did you have these rice balls you think you had? Yesterday?”

A long pause.

“…No.” He was definitely pouting.

“Two days ago?”

An even longer pause.

“…No?”

“It’s been more than two days since you’ve eaten anything?” Sigma was appalled. “No wonder you fainted! Fukuchi-san is getting you some food, but until he comes back, I should get you something, um…” He looked around and saw his plate of cookies, sitting forgotten on the nightstand by the box in which the Bible had been. “Oh! Here, have these. I can go get you some more, too.”

Fyodor made no move to take the plate from Sigma at first, but finally relented when Sigma practically shoved it into his hands. He inspected the cookies somewhat dubiously, like he had never seen a cookie before, but he ate one. The shift in his expression told Sigma he liked it, and that seemed to deflate him as much as Sigma’s chastisements.

Sigma let out a sigh of relief and sat down on the edge of the bed, careful not to be too close. “How can you go that long without eating anything?” he asked, totally flummoxed. “You must be starving!”

Fyodor just shrugged. Sigma shook his head, incredulous.

“Do you make a habit of going days without eating? Honestly! It’s a wonder you don’t pass out more often.”

“Consciousness is man’s greatest misfortune,” Fyodor said cryptically, around a mouthful of butter cookie. “Though he loves it and will not exchange it for anything.”

“Whatever that means,” Sigma muttered. A flicker of amusement passed over Fyodor’s expression.

A brief, not uncomfortable silence descended over the room. Sigma folded his hands in his lap, feeling a bit awkward again, keenly aware that they were closer now than they had ever been before. And here was another discordant image of Fyodor, an idea of him that did not fit with what else Sigma knew, or thought he knew: that Fyodor was beautiful, sitting there in the flat glow of the desk lamp and eating cookies, looking slightly ruffled from having just woken up and maybe still a little sleepy. It was not the first time Sigma had thought him beautiful, but it felt different this time, it felt strange. He could feel his cheeks getting hot and was miserably sure Fyodor knew exactly what he was thinking.

Searching for a distraction, his gaze settled on the Bible lying across Fyodor’s lap again, still open to the page Sigma had been reading. “Where did you get it?” he asked.

“Someone gave it to me,” Fyodor said, his voice curiously expressionless.

“Who?”

Fyodor was quiet for a beat. “It doesn’t matter. She’s been dead a long time.”

Perhaps belatedly, it occurred to Sigma that this might not be a road he should be going down. He changed the subject. “Could I…uh…”

“You’d like to read it?”

Sheepish, Sigma scratched the back of his neck, avoiding Fyodor’s gaze. “I mean, if you’d trust me to—” I want to know who you really are. And he had the feeling, vague but somehow certain, that that Book would give him answers to questions he could not ask, even if he did not completely understand them.

Fyodor hummed, thoughtful. “I trust you.”

Casual, like it should be obvious. Sigma’s heart skipped a beat…but he deflated somewhat when it occurred to him that if Fyodor had implicit trust in him, it was probably because the man could read his thoughts like they were projected on his forehead in glaring neon.

Fyodor looked down at his Bible in contemplation for a minute or two, thumb and forefinger curled beneath his sharp chin. He flipped back several pages and paused, smoothing down the paper that had been crinkled by age and exposure. He offered the book back to Sigma. “Here, why don’t you read to me a little?”

Sigma made no move at first to take the book, stunned by this entirely unexpected suggestion. “You want me to…read to you?”

“Yes.” Fyodor tilted his head to the side slightly, a reassuring smile on his full lips. “You were reading aloud earlier. I like the sound of your voice.”

Sigma lifted hands that felt numb and almost too weak to support the weight of the book that was placed in them. He set the Bible on his lap, seeing Fyodor’s smile even as he lowered his gaze, as if the image of it had been burned onto his vision like a sunspot. He was totally dazzled by that smile, and by those words. He cradled the Bible like it was the most precious thing in the world, like it was a living thing. And in a strange way it almost felt like it was alive, a powerful kind of vitality he could sense in the pressure of its weight, in the crinkled and yellowed pages, in the cracked and worn leather, in the black ink of the words, words that were much older than either of them, words as old and timeless as the desert sands that were the first sight he remembered.

He took a deep breath. “Where…do you want me to start?”

“Chapter eleven.” Fyodor leaned back against the headboard, his slender, elegant hands folded in his lap atop the covers.

Sigma found where the chapter began and took in another deep breath, shifting and straightening his shoulders. He was eager to read, but strangely reluctant, too; he felt he had been trusted with something, something that was essential to Fyodor, and more than that, something was essentially Fyodor’s, some secret thing he had kept with him perhaps all through his life. He had had a glimpse earlier, when he had discovered this book in its box and opened it, but that had been a trespass, unwitting though it was. Now he had been invited, and it was terrifying to think that maybe Fyodor knew exactly why he wanted to read more. That Fyodor was purposefully letting him in, letting Sigma know him, in his own way.  

Sigma began, “‘Now a certain man was sick, named Lazarus, of Bethany, the town of Mary and her sister Martha. (It was that Mary which anointed the Lord with ointment, and wiped his feet with her hair, whose brother Lazarus was sick.)’”

When he started his voice was small, diffident, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. As he read on, however, he gained confidence, found his cadence, unconsciously beginning to imitate the solemn, distinct tone with which Fyodor had recited later verses of this same Gospel. He even became excited, fascinated by what he was reading, although he did not quite understand the meaning or the significance of what was happening. He understood that there was significance, immense significance, and he became so absorbed that it was as if he was watching the scene unfold before him.

“‘Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. But I know, that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee.

“‘Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again. Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in the resurrection at the last day. Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: And whosover liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?’”

Sigma echoed Martha’s confirmation of her belief as if it were his own, his face serious and pinched with concentration. Fyodor’s expression was unchanged, but his eyes were bright, almost feverish.

“‘Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled, and said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto him, Lord, come and see. Jesus wept. Then said the Jews, Behold how he loved him! And some of them said, Could not this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should not have died?’

“‘Jesus therefore again groaning in himself cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days. Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee, that, if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God? Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me. And I knew that thou hearest me always: but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me.’

“‘And when he had thus spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.’”

Sigma stopped there and lifted his eyes almost in a daze. He looked at Fyodor. “He…that man…He raised someone from the dead?”

“It was a miracle,” Fyodor said. Calm, but a fervent light danced in his brilliant violet eyes. “The greatest of all miracles. The Hand of God, to stir faith in the doubtful and hope in the hopeless.” He spread his hands, palms turned toward Sigma, and spoke with a serene triumph, steadfast and unquestioning in belief. “In God, Life and Death are as one. The resurrection of one of the faithful to show the power of God, before the Resurrection that follows later, after the ultimate act of sacrifice and of faith.”

“I don’t understand,” Sigma said, growing shy again in a mixture of confusion and awe, both of what he had just read and of Fyodor. But he kept what Fyodor had said held close, turned the words over carefully in his mind, committed them to memory.

“Very few do, though there are many who claim to. Perhaps you will, once you’ve read more.”  

Sigma passed the Bible back to Fyodor. His chest felt tight. His head was spinning, trying to catch on fractured emotions and scattered thoughts. Later that night, he would sit up, trying to put together all these pieces of information to form a coherent picture of Fyodor the person in the same way he did with his clients, and when he at last fell asleep he dreamed of this moment, of the light in Fyodor’s eyes that burned like sunlight as a stone was rolled away from the mouth of a cave in which a dead man lay.

Fyodor closed the Bible and placed it back in its box on the nightstand. “You read better in English, don’t you?”

Sigma nodded, not bothering to ask how he knew that.

Fyodor gestured towards the desk. “There’s an English translation in that pile of books. It’s an easier to read translation, too. No ‘thee’ or ‘thou’ or ‘thine.’ It’s probably better suited for you.”

Sigma went over to the desk. Under a biography on the lives and works of famous composers—was Fyodor interested in music history? That seemed very like him—there was a hardcover book with Holy Bible embossed on its cover. It was smaller than the impressive tome Fyodor had, and clearly much newer. He picked it up. It didn’t feel as heavy in his hands as Fyodor’s. Something about it was…less intimidating.

“I…can borrow this?”

“You can have it, if you like. I have many copies.”

A gift? For him?

“You’re…giving this to me?”

“If you’d like to have it.” There was an odd, barely discernible change in the inflection of Fyodor’s voice.

Sigma picked up the Bible in both hands and clutched it to his chest, as he might have with the casino itself had he been able. His. “Thank you. Oh! I mean—spasibo.” He stumbled a little on the pronunciation, trying to match the smooth tones of Fyodor’s accent.

“Pozhaluysta,” Fyodor responded, sounding mildly amused. “When did Genichirou say he’d be back?”

“Oh!” Sigma jumped, remembering that he was supposed to have called Fukuchi when Fyodor woke up. He tucked the Bible under one arm—unwilling to put it down just yet—and fumbled out his phone. Fukuchi answered at once, and nearly blew out Sigma’s poor eardrums when he heard the news.

“Food’s almost ready; I’ll be there in ten. Do not let him get out of bed, hear me? Under no circumstances is the patient to leave that bed until he has eaten! Tie him down if you have to! Knock him out again if it comes to that! Understood, cadet?”

“I think knocking him out might defeat the purpose,” Sigma pointed out weakly. Then he squared his shoulders, turning serious. “Yes, sir! Count on me! Sir!”

Fukuchi hung up. Sigma turned, starting to tell Fyodor that Fukuchi-san would be here soon—and then he stopped.

The bed was empty. “The patient” was nowhere to be seen.

-

Sigma sprinted down the short hall into the main living quarters. He found Fyodor in the kitchen, busying himself with heating up the tea Sigma had made earlier and munching on cookies from the box left open on the counter.

“Fyodor!” Sigma was a little out of breath, more from the sudden onrush of panic than from the brief bout of frantic running. “What are you—how did you even—Fukuchi-san said you’re supposed to stay in bed,” he finished lamely.

Fyodor waved a dismissive hand. “I’m fine.”

“You just passed out!” Sigma all but squawked, clutching the Bible to his chest with all the shocked and furious affront of a middle-aged Victorian woman. “You haven’t eaten in days! You are not fine!”

“I’m eating right now,” Fyodor pointed out, stuffing another butter cookie into his mouth. “I don’t even feel dizzy.” He reached to open an overhead cabinet, but swayed on his feet and needed to brace himself against the counter. He blinked. “Well. Maybe a little dizzy.”

Sigma moved towards him, one hand raised as if to take his arm or something, but he stopped when he realized what he was doing. Both hands returned to the Bible he still held.

“You should sit down, at least,” he suggested meekly. “I can get you tea. Fukuchi-san said he’d be here in a few minutes.”

“Oh, stop acting like such a mother hen, Sigma. You’re starting to sound like Genichirou.”

Sigma exhaled and let his shoulders slump, defeated. He walked up to where Fyodor was standing—careful to keep a distance between them—and set the book on the counter, checking first to make sure there was no moisture or food residue that might damage the cover. He opened the cabinet Fyodor had been reaching for and took out what he assumed Fyodor had wanted, a teacup and saucer.

“Oh, thank you.” Fyodor’s smile was small and distracted, but warm, and it caused something equally warm—but equally small and tentative—to bloom in Sigma’s chest. He backed away hastily, lowering his head so his hair fell over his face, hopefully concealing that he was blushing.

He could feel Fyodor’s gaze on him, appraising. “Are you afraid of me, Sigma?”

The question was so unexpected that Sigma was at first unsure what he heard. “No!” he cried, denial the instinctual response. “I don’t, I mean—” He stopped himself and glanced up at Fyodor from under the protective veil of his hair, wary, uncertain. “I don’t…know. You…” He made a helpless gesture, as if to capture the words he could not find from the air that filled the space separating them.

Fyodor tilted his head, an oddly boyish gesture, and folded his arms across his chest, leaning on the counter. His expression was unreadable. Strands of raven hair tumbled into his eyes and brushed across his nose. Again, Sigma thought about brushing them away, the softness of pallid skin beneath his fingertips. He wondered if that would be his death, at the end of all this. A touch of Fyodor’s hand, an instant of the contact they both had always taken care to avoid. Maybe that would be better than how those others might have killed him—bullets, knives, beaten and left to the mercies of the desert. A kind of intimacy Fyodor would give him in no other way. In that moment, perhaps, Sigma would have time to use his Ability and see what Fyodor really thought of him, why Fyodor chose him.

He settled for honesty, because he could not lie to Fyodor as Fyodor could lie to him. “I know what you want of me. I know—” that you’re going to kill me. He took a deep breath and was dismayed to hear how it hitched. He was too emotional, too brittle; he always was. With the right push, he knew he would shatter, and he feared he was much, much too close to that point. He felt small, exposed, his chest ripped open and everything inside him laid bare before those dark eyes. “I’m not afraid. I just wish I understood.”

“Understood what?”

“You.”

Because you’re at the center of all of this. This—all of this—is about you.

For a beat, the only sound was the pounding of his heart. He raised his head, but he did not dare look at Fyodor directly. Now that he was no longer holding the Bible, he had nothing to occupy his hands, so he cupped his elbows, almost shrinking in on himself.

“Sigma,” Fyodor said, soft as a breath, and then he stepped forward. He did not come any closer, but a hand raised to Sigma’s face, not touching him, just hovering there, palm turned inward as if to cradle Sigma’s cheek. “Melodies of sadness surround you; I can hear them so clear.”

“I hear them from you, too,” Sigma said. And in that moment, he could; the barest impression, like the susurration of wind through the skeletal limbs of trees in the dead of a winter night. Perhaps what Fyodor heard was different; the whisper of rolling sands, the gasp of a first breath in a vast wasteland. And here, maybe, was something Sigma could understand. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re as alone as I am.”

The shriek of the kettle informed them the tea was ready at the same moment that commotion outside the door informed them Fukuchi was back. Sigma nearly jumped out of his skin, uttering a little shriek of his own in surprise. Fyodor turned off the stove and set the tea kettle on the counter, and Sigma was so preoccupied with the sudden onrush of noise all around him that he did not notice Fyodor close the distance between them in one fluid motion. The hand that had only hovered near him now cupped his cheek, tilting his chin up. Fyodor’s lips were soft and dry on his own. Barely the suggestion of a kiss, feather-light and fleeting, and if it were not for the flashes of knowledge that passed into Sigma’s mind through the conduit of his Ability he might have been able to convince himself he had imagined it.

Sigma stared, wide-eyed, mouth parted in a tiny o. Fyodor’s hand withdrew. Sigma wanted to catch it, to pull him back, but all the strength seemed to have retreated from his limbs. He would have collapsed to the floor if the counter had not been there to fall back onto.

What he wanted to know most from Fyodor was twofold: he wanted to know what Fyodor was really after, why he was doing all of this, and he wanted to know what Fyodor thought of him. These two things, these two desires, had been intricately linked together in his mind since he had first been brought into the Decay of Angels, and so when his Ability activated it sought out the answers to both questions.

Sometimes, the information he received from another person came in images—the picture of a person, a place, a thing. Sometimes it came in bits and pieces of data like a computer code, meaningless until it was put together in a larger context. Sometimes it came like a transfer of thoughts, an echo in his head of a voice that was not his own. This was one of those times, and the two thoughts that he heard, in Fyodor’s voice, were:

I’m tired, so tired, Lord, let me finish the work You gave me to do, let me rest, let me die—

And:

I don’t want you to die.

The door flung open with a resounding bang! and Fukuchi rushed in, pushing a serving cart laden with food and drink. The glasses tottered precariously, and at the speed he was moving, it was a wonder nothing had spilled. Nikolai sauntered in at his heels, holding onto his hat and looking like he was finding all of this delightfully entertaining.

“FEDYA!” Fukuchi bellowed when he saw Fyodor. “WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE BUDDHA ARE YOU DOING OUT OF BED?”

“Is that salmon?” Fyodor asked, eyeing the plates on the serving tray with mild interest.

“Salmon, and I told them to pile up the greens! All the greens! Anything with iron in it! Also plenty of water, and there’s some wine for when you’ve gotten some food in you. Now would you care to explain WHY YOU ARE NOT IN BED?”

Nikolai sidled up beside Fyodor and leaned in close enough to whisper almost in his ear, “You look like you’re about to collapse, Dos-kun. Y vas vse khorosho?”

“Ya v poryadke,” Fyodor replied easily.

Nikolai giggled, hiding his mouth behind one gloved hand. “Ya tak ne dumayu!”

Fyodor breezed past both him and Fukuchi, picked up a plate and a set of utensils rolled into a cloth napkin, and settled down onto the couch. His laptop was still on the table, its screen still open; he turned it back on as he started to eat. Fukuchi sat two glasses of water down on the table and sat down next to him with a plate of his own, still giving Fyodor the third degree about being up when he should be resting. Fyodor paid him little mind.

“You look awfully shaken, Sigma-kun.”

Sigma started. Nikolai was looking at him, smiling, hands clasped behind his back.

“Vse khorosho,” Sigma said, weakly.

Nikolai’s smile broadened into an impish grin. Fukuchi hollered, good-natured now, “Hey! Grab some grub and get over here, you two!”

Nikolai’s gaze lingered on Sigma a moment longer before he capered away into the living room. After Fukuchi called out to him a second time, Sigma found the strength to move again, and he joined them, bringing the tea.

He ended up sitting next to Nikolai on the opposite side of the table to Fyodor and Fukuchi, not so much because he chose to, more because Nikolai tugged him forcefully down beside him, almost causing Sigma to drop his plate. He watched Fyodor, trying not to be too obvious about it. The ghost of warmth lingered on his lips, and in his mind he heard those words, over and over: I don’t want you to die. A melody of sadness, weaving around him in sweetly melancholic, haunting tones. 

Fyodor, focused on his food and on dutifully ignoring Fukuchi, did not look his way.

And maybe it was strange, Sigma thought, to feel that he was alone, that either of them were. Nikolai kept crowding into his space, trying to steal food off his plate even though he had barely touched his own. Fukuchi shrugged off his suit jacket and wrapped it around Fyodor’s thin shoulders, his lecture shifting to a reminder that he needed to keep warm—“What if you catch a chill, Fedya?”—his arm lingering around Fyodor in a kind of loose half-embrace. All four of them were here—although there were supposed to be five members in this organization, Sigma knew—and there was so much noise. But it felt hollow. It wasn’t real. It was like a scene in a movie, a pretense of normalcy, except that he was watching himself play the part, helpless to do anything else.

His life was not his own and never had been. He wondered if it was the same for Fyodor.

I don’t want you to die, either, he thought, and maybe Fyodor understood—maybe that had been the information that Sigma had shared in turn.