Archive of Our Own ^beta

Freedom.
That was what Nikolai Gogol desired. His ultimate goal in life, what he wanted to achieve.
He had killed Fyodor, his friend, the one who had captured his freedom. He was free, he had broken the chains that held him.
Yet..
Why did he not feel free? Why did he still feel trapped, even more trapped then before!

He stared down at the arm of his friend. Friend. Why did that word feel so incredibly wrong? Why did it hurt? He held the arm against his face, his eyes staring down at the ground in pain. He shouldn't feel like this. But he did, he had lost the only person who understood him. The fault? His own.

Days had passed since he had worsened his life. He didn't know his purpose. Both Fyodor and Sigma gone. All he wished was to see Fyodor’s face one more time. How he loved to stare deep into his eyes whilst contemplating how to kill him.
Fuck.
He had spent ten minutes staring into his mirror, pretending it was Fyodor’s face. Realizing his own reflection, Nikolai took a hand of water and splashed his face, sighing at how tired his face looked. Eyebags and red eyes, he couldn't sleep, and all he could do was cry. It was so confusing. He wanted this, he had wished for Fyodor to die. He had killed him.

What if Dazai-

No. The fault was his own, not anyone else's. He put them up to the game with the risk, and he hoped it would end like it did.
He didn't bother to brush his teeth, walking back into his room and pulling out his draw, pausing and considering his clothing options. Usually he would dress with the intention of showing off but right now he didn't have any intention of doing so. He didn't want to leave his apartment. He wanted to lie in bed and cry. Everything was so confusing. Why couldn't these feelings just leave him alone? Why did he have to feel so much guilt and sadness?

Tick tock.
Pay attention, Nikolai.

Oh right. He took out a shirt and shorts, lazily putting them on and sitting on his bed, staring at his hands. He began to pick the skin off the area around his nails. He did so for a while, then covering his slowly watering eyes with his injured hands.

“God damn it..”
Why did he have to die. Why couldn't he have just been more careful! Now he was alone, completely alone and feeling even more trapped then before.

There could be only one way to be free, join Fyodor in the afterlife. But he didn't even have motivation to kill himself. How pathetic.
He shifted his body up his bed, resting his back against the board of his bed. He looked up at the ceiling, thoughts running free through his head. Freedom was something he often thought about. But he now realized what he was thinking about wasn't freedom at all.

Nikolai Gogol showed emotions quite a lot. Albeit, maybe not his true emotions. He always wore a smile, always joking around. Some could call him insane, he didn't agree with that.
Emotions were his mask, always used to fool others into thinking he was happy. At this current moment of despair, he had no motivation to cover up his feelings. He didn't care who would see him.
There was only one thing he wanted.
For the one he loved to be alive again.