#nikolai gogl x reader

[lp-rott3n]

Tea time

Nikolai reflects on his relationship with Dostoevsky and loses his mind in the process, Sigma watches in silence.  

tw !! : mentions of violence, d3ath, k!lling, brief mention of v0mit, implied su!c!dal thoughts + s3lf h@rm, dark elements in general. 

inspired by/spoilers for(?) bsd ch 78

“Dos-kun is quite a remarkable person, don’t you agree?”

Sigma, sat across the table, clumsily fumbles with the ceramic handle of his teacup, his eyes fixed on the rich pool of milk tea that rests within, he does not know what to say, so he says nothing. 

“Indeed, he is remarkable, I’ve never met such a remarkable person after all, a man with a golden heart, you agree, don’t you, Sigma-kun?”

Even though his lips are slightly parted, no words seem to depart his tongue. Oh no, he does not dare to indulge Gogol in the slightest bit. He shifts in his seat, and the man in front of him takes note of the movement, chucking it in some distant corner of his brain. He would dissect it in a future conversation. Dig through the spine and squish his fingers into all the bodily matter and fluids until the carcass of that exact moment is turned inside out and presented for the whole world to gasp at. But he doesn’t dwell on that for too long, that, was saved for later. 

Now, there was something more intimate at hand. Once and for all, Nikolai Gogol was going to announce the deep and touching sentiments he felt for Fyodor. He too, adjusted in his seat, before proceeding to stare at Sigma. 

Sigma, unnerved by the pair of glowing orbs which were picking him apart slowly, intruding his body and invading his mind, finally lets a sigh escape him. 

“The human body is a grotesque and suffocating prison, and human society, the prison keeper. Isn’t that funny, my dear Sigma?” 

“...”

“Ah Sigma, your sense of awareness is so ordinary, I think that’s rather admirable.” 

Admirable?

If Sigma wasn’t being so careful, he most definitely would have snapped, and Gogol, being the condescending prick that he was, would most definitely point out how ordinary that reaction is. There was absolutely no end to it, not unless the tyrant himself declared so. 

“That’s exactly why Dos-kun is remarkable, he understands, no, he really understands.  He truly, from the depths of his soul, understands.”

Sigma hesitantly looks into the very irises he’s been trying to avoid all evening, poor boy just wanted to enjoy a cup of milk tea with sugar glazed cupcakes but life is as cruel and unforgiving as ever. He lets himself be absorbed in the dark, black, never-ending, voids that reside eerily in midst of a sea of white, all this talk of how “remarkable” Dostoevsky is starting to make the swirling slush of liquid accompanied by bits of cupcake crawl its way up his throat, threatening to spill onto the floor underneath him.  He gulps a bit too loudly in an attempt to save himself from further misfortune. 

“Sigma-kun, do you know how to cut yourself off from this endless cycle of misery and suffering, do you know how to break free?” 

Mute, not even a single breath taken. 

“Well, the answer’s in the question itself, c’mon, think about it!”

There’s an underlying hostility in the way Gogol speaks, his tone unwavering and laced with some sort of ulterior motive, something Sigma can’t put his finger on. It almost terrifies him, he just doesn’t get it.

“Boo-hoo, you’re taking to long. Fine, I suppose there’s nothing left to do other than tell you. And tell you I shall. To cut yourself off from this eternal cycle, you have to do just that. Cut. yourself. Gouge out your cochlea and pull out your liver, pluck out all your teeth and slice your tongue. Die! Make a mockery out of your creators as you slit yourself open and pour yourself out at their feet. A big, grand, act of defiance. Screw the government, screw the terrorists, screw the pathetic excuse of a human being you are. Break free and fly, far, far, away from this rotten cage, Sigma-kun, leave this wretched ground and soar through the sky.” 

He was expecting it, he knew this was coming, but even as the words rang in his ears he couldn’t help but be absolutely horrified. His brows, furrowed, and sweat rolling down his neck. He felt hot, yet, a shiver crept into him. Despite wanting to gravely disagree with the (quite literal) clown, he decides to not betray himself.

Gogol’s expression stays the same, a disturbing smile painted across his features and those eyes, those damned eyes, that never once pry away. Internally, he was debating on whether or not he wanted to share an epiphany he recently had, arriving upon the pleasing conclusion that Sigma’s normal-simple-very mediocre brain would be blown away, he continues. 

“I’ll admit it, perhaps I do give Dos-kun a little more credit than he deserves.”

A little?

Sigma wants to laugh, the man Gogol describes as some great cosmic lord is a cunning wolf wandering amongst people wearing the flesh of a man as some kind of robe, strutting through a field of skulls as he descends upon humanity an era of misery, murder and melancholy. He is the embodiment of despair, with a kind look plastered on his face as he coaxes the last remains of sanity out of tortured beings. And yes, he realizes how ordinary it is of him to douse Dostoevsky in such bleak colors. 

The urge to puke has returned, more potent this time round. 

 “But, me being biased towards him is justified, you see, Sigma-kun, he is a friend of mine. And a good one at that, not a single taint can be found in that man’s consciousness. I remember how pleased he was at the fact that I so readily go against the will of God. Isn’t that absolutely ridiculous? I mean, Fyodor is God....” 

“...is what I would’ve said if I were ignorant. But I’m not, I can see the tragedy unfold in his psyche, Sigma, Dos-kun is deliberately sacrificing himself , he’s a saint. No, you listen to me, he’s a saint, you hear me!” 

The sound of hands slamming the table almost knocks the wind out of Sigma, it takes him a second to regain his half-assed, made up composure. 

“Now, I’m not one, a saint I mean, I appreciate Fyodor, I do, but I can never, in a trillion centuries, be him. I have no desire to be so giving knowing it’s all futile. Such a waste of time. And I love him! Tenderly, I do, I love him for he is my friend, Sigma, do you get me?” 

Often, Sigma wonders about the desert he suddenly was stranded in, with no name, no memories, no nothing, just this vague ability that he initially did not understand, he thinks about how as days passed and events occurred, and the bitter and fruitless souvenirs forced labor and constant exploitation brought with it, how much he longed for something, anything, to be his. It is a reminder to humble himself when even a hint of doubt plagues him in regards to joining the Decay Of Angels. Sure, Gogol eating his head away was painful, utterly painful, but if that meant he could keep whatever was his, then he’d happily plant himself in front of this man he despised so much and lend himself for a couple minutes, or hours, or, days? It didn’t matter, as long as he could keep whatever was his. 

“You’re awfully quite today, aren’t you? It doesn’t matter, nothing matters! But, if nothing matters, then, even the eternally adored, ever so elegant, and charming Dos-kun, does not matter.”

Sigma’s eyes widen, this is what it must feel like to get caught smoking behind a church’s building or accidently breaking that untouchable, expensive, age-old Chinese vase which was put on display in the living room.  Even for someone as deranged as Nikolai, this feels forbidden. And he can’t even get himself to imagine how heavy a price one has to pay for even allowing themselves to think  that. 

“I am not a hypocrite.”

Gogol’s fingers briskly intertwine with Sigma’s ash-tinted hair, he twirls a strand around his middle finger and then tucks it, with utmost focus, behind Sigma’s ear. Sigma stays stiff throughout this entire interaction. 

“I am a clown, a magician, an idiot, an incompetent infant wailing and thrashing for his mother, but, I am not a hypocrite.” 

He twists his wrist and withdraws his hand to reveal a bright, crimson rose, which flutters against Sigma’s jaw before disappearing. 

“I find existing to be a disgusting, gut-wrenching, barbaric thing. It’s an absolute abomination, no, it’s blasphemy, that’s what is is. To be chained to this mortal cubicle, to be birthed and killed, and I’ve killed myself, a thousand times, I’ve crushed my skull, slashed my veins, burned myself at the stake, I have died. And still! Here I am before you, here I am going on about my beloved Dos-kun, it is all because the bars we’re held behind are so stubborn.” 

A dramatic pause, to be unnecessarily theatrical. 

“But even stubbornness can be cured, if you do things right. And there’s a way to do things, there are steps and procedures to be followed, and remember Sigma, I am not a hypocrite. I will attain freedom in a way that is correct, I will shed off every single layer of security that has been systematically embedded in me by default, and I will have fun doing so, because I enjoy tearing things apart and setting them free.”

Sigma recounts the first time he met Gogol, he was hanging upside down from the celling, claiming to be “running a test” on how to “break free��� from this “endless trap called living”. He had hoped it was all a bunch of crap and that the jester would make an odd face and tell him it was a joke all along.

“I have, and I tell you this with pride, I have successfully shed plenty of layers, I’m like a snake I tell you. Fyodor watched it all, Sigma-kun, he is the sole witness of my great achievements. I love him!”

A sadness can be seen in Gogol’s eyes, followed by a trail of fresh tears that illuminate his cheeks, this is crucial, the way in which Sigma responds to this has the potential to trigger the start of an entirely different discussion. 

Hah, potential. 

But, who is Sigma to interfere? He is merely a speck of dust lucky enough to be inside a slow globe. Nothing matters, wonderful, there is no possible thing he can say or do that would make a difference, why bother, instead he sips on his milk tea, which is now cold, because normal-simple-very mediocre Sigma  normally-simply-very mediocrely forgot about the teacup even though he actively, clumsily fumbled with it throughout the entire duration of this one-way talk. 

Gogol doesn’t bother with wiping away the proof of his woes, instead, he keeps smiling, Sigma wants to scream. 

“And since I love him, since he is surrounded by a halo and I can hear the cries of the deceased atoning for their poor, filthy sins every time I walk by him, since he has so ceremoniously taken my broken, sorrow riddled, infected self and shown me the light. I simply must get rid of him.”

What? 

“Can’t you see, dearest Sigma, that love too, is a collar shabbily draped in the fabric of freedom. I love Dos-kun, and I am going to kill him. I am not a hypocrite, I will not go about in a dog-collar preaching freedom as if I’m enlightened. An illusion does not equal enlightenment.” 

Stunned, Gogol was right, Sigma was blown away. Partly because he had no idea how to process whatever was just thrown at him and partly because as Gogol was speaking he felt a thick, dense fog envelope him. It’s as though all this while he had been in a deep slumber, shaken awake, mercilessly. 

It made no sense. 

He knew he was a pawn that was meant to be discarded sooner or later, he knew the sheer gravity of death and life, he knew and knew and knew, and he was so capable too. And yet, here he was, sitting across the table from Sigma, babbling away about how he is going to kill someone he so obviously cherishes. 

Gogol’s smile grows larger somehow, his calculation was spot on. Sigma’s face is priceless, the innocence, the disbelief, the inability to accept or comprehend what he had just heard.

“I’m going to kill him a thousand times too, I’ll crush his skull. slash his veins, burn him at the stake, he will be dead! I will set myself free from his grip. I will fly.”

What a shame, he has to wrap things up now, gently placing his hands stop Sigma’s.

“Sigma-kun, as a comrade, I request you to assist me in pursuing freedom, true freedom. In return, I’ll make you fly too.”

For the second time that evening, Sigma sighed, and for the first time, muttered a string of words audible enough for Nikolai, and only Nikolai, to catch it. 

His disturbingly large smile, a portrait of his unholy twistedness, and Sigma, returning to the comfortless embrace of silence. 

Tea time has come to an end. 

-------

ngl i am WAITING for this duo to rock everyone’s sh!t in the manga. 

also i am v bad at writing endings, i apologize if it seems kind of rushed. it’s currently 7:47 am and i started working on this at around 4:00 am so like, yes pls excuse the mess