Chapter Text
I'm a painter—or at least, that's what I call myself.
My name is Mykola Hohol, but people know me best as Nikolai Gogol.
The clown.
I worked in a circus for years, but I had a love for painting.
I could never express my feelings with words, but it was different when I was painting.
I could feel my own heart in every line I painted.
I could see everything—as if it were my own world.
My paintings were all over the circus as decorations.
My boss liked them and thought they looked nice around the place.
I drew doves flying, doves in cages, sad clowns, happy clowns, balloons—
things I loved the most.
My paintings started to gain a little popularity.
That overwhelmed me.
It filled me with those annoying bad feelings and insecurities about my art.
“What if people don’t like it?”
Without even noticing, I was already in a cage.
A cage full of feelings I couldn’t escape.
My love for painting had become my worst nightmare.
I used to love it, but now I couldn’t feel my heart beat faster when I drew.
I couldn’t feel anything.
It was an emptiness I couldn’t explain.
Every day was the same.
A routine I hated with all my being.
Was this some kind of self-punishment?
I had no idea.
But one night, something changed.
I had a dream—
a dream that woke up that passion I had hidden in my heart.
I saw a man.
A man I’ll never forget.
He saw through me.
He saw my soul, even if it was just a dream.
I could feel it.
I could feel his hands wrapping around me,
touching my body with such care.
He had beautiful purple eyes that brought me to my knees.
He held me, and I felt full—
full of a feeling I had never felt before.
He was like an angel,
but with a sinister aura of evil.
I was caught by him.
He caught me.
And then I woke up.
My hands were trembling.
My body was hot, like I had a fever.
Confusing feelings filled my chest like a storm.
I remembered him perfectly—
every feature of his face,
his semi-naked body like a statue of a god.
I had to keep him somehow.
I ran to my painting studio.
I didn’t even care what I was wearing.
I had to paint him—
before I lost his essence forever.
And that’s what I did.
Line by line,
I brushed the canvas with care and love—
like never before.
I captured everything:
his aura,
his pale, dolly-like skin,
his skinny frame,
his slightly long black hair,
and most importantly—
those purple eyes that drove me mad.
After hours and hours of painting every detail,
it was done.
Finally done.
I fell to my knees in front of my masterpiece.
Tears ran down my face—
but I didn’t know why.
I wasn’t sad.
Why am I crying?
I could never understand.
But I wanted to see him again,
even if he wasn’t real.
Then, I heard footsteps.
Peeking from the corner of my eye,
it was Sigma—
a friend from the circus.
He worked in gymnastics.
Handsome.
Almost too handsome to be working here.
“I heard loud noises. Mykola, are you—? Oh wow… it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you paint like this. How nostalgic,” he said,
pausing as he stepped beside me, standing to my right.
I was almost in a state of shock, though I didn’t know why.
Was it the painting?
“Sorry for the noise, Sigma. I had a hit of inspiration,” I said honestly.
Sigma side-eyed me with a slight smile, like he was happy to see the energy returning to my body—
my love for painting alive again.
“It’s totally fine. Does it have a name?”
His question pulled me out of my daze.
He was right—
I hadn’t named it.
I stood up and smiled at him.
“It’s called Fedya.”