Chapter Text
Fyodor Dostoyevsky had the whole book at one point, not just a single page. A time where he was just a sickly boy, spotty faced, even paler skin and even greasier hair. His ramblings were nonsense, his ideas were ludicrous, his hatred unmatched and every inch of his skin burned with the need to be loved.
He was seventeen physically when he first put pen to that ability ridden paper, right thumb shoved in his mouth as he gnawed anxiously on his own flesh. Forcefully neat Russian words moved along the page as he pressed ink much too harshly against paper, reading back all he wrote.
His desk was nestled in the middle of countless drafts, scrunched up paper and diagrams, rough drawings mapped out frantically against the walls. Anatomy books, psychology journals and political doctrines ran red with the scratchy biro Fyodor used in his study.
He'd finally taken the first empty page to begin, squashing his large messy handwriting into neat lines, loops and dots on small slithers of the book. He was doing it, finally after months of research and sleepless hours slaving away at his creation.
He'd read Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. He hadn't cared for it much.
Even with his micro writing, he still used over twenty pages of the book. Twenty-seven greedy, selfish pages all bestowed onto his existence. He couldn't take immortality anymore, couldn't take his bodies delayed growth caused by fools and their vendetta's against his existence. He needed someone, anyone, to have him.
Even with his arrogant, egotistical, selfish nature, he'd long come to terms with the fact that he'd fallen in love. Fallen a slave to his creation, so devoted in his affection that he couldn't bare the thought of denying it a single moment of ill thought out design.
His detail would drive any sane author mad. He spend paragraphs and paragraphs detailing bone structure, vein placement, the distribution of lipids and the functionality of every organ. Every brain nerves was pre-wired by him, perfectly orchestrating his symphony's personality till every action and reaction could be completely compatible with his own.
He wasn't wholly ruined by hubristic ideology, being careful to plant seeds and flaws and contrasts towards his own existence. He didn't want a clone, he was brewing his other half after all. A thing to bare the burden of his own weaknesses and blind spots, to add to his life till the both of them were entirely completed.
He made sure his creation would live along side his immortality. Adding details upon details making sure his other would hold no biological weakness nor susceptibility to human diseases. His second half would live for as long as he could protect it from harm.
He left the gender ambiguous, although did decide on having his other be of the biological female sex for the sake of future reproduction. He wanted an heir, he made sure it wanted one too.
Eventually he had to draw this introduction to the new character to a close, leaving it's new corporeal presence equivocal so to ensure there was no additional flaws created.
Fyodors partner would appear in a desert, that's all he knew.
Five years. Five years is how long it took Fyodor to find his creation. Five years of thorough searching, three years in finally managing to employ his most trusted followers to find it. It was Ivan who brought Fyodor his final puzzle piece, and ultimately gained the prize of being bestowed the removal of suffering. A measley payment in comparison to what Fyodor gained.
Beautiful grey eyes fell upon him and immediately flinched away with the sudden overwhelming love at first sight response. Naturally, a thing Fyodor instilled within his creation, ensuring no other would consume that perfectly crafted heart.
"Erm, hello sir. I've been told you were looking for me?"
That voice. That voice he imagined up every night, forcing his subconscious to conjure up soft things to whisper to himself in his delusion that his soulmate was speaking to him.
"Yes. You're name, please?" Fyodor said, desperately keeping his voice steady. He couldn't look away from the person in front of him. The figment of his dreams alive and breathing and beauty incarnate.
"My name is Sigma, I am the manager for the Sky casino."
"You are a...?"
Fyodor let his eyes linger on more feminine attributes of Sigma's figure.
"A male," the other said firmly, leaving no room for debate nor doubt. Stubbornness, a trait he had written for Sigma to have in common with himself.
"Good, good. A thing I'm sure of. Now come here, I have information for you."
"Info on what? Do you wish to make business arrangements?"
Fyodor couldn't contain his grin.
"I wish to talk about our origins, of course."
"And how am I sure you're not lying?"
Sigma's face was flushed, hands in tight balls as he practically drowned in his thoughts. He looked conflicted, both desperately desiring another who truly wanted him while also valuing his independence.
Explaining wasn't hard, Sigma had stayed silent throughout his monologue littered with religious imagery and philosophy. He sounded mad, Fyodor was sure of that, but he was also sure that each word sunk into the others silky skin.
"Well, there's many ways I could prove it..."
"Then prove it!"
"Ah, I'm afraid my current method is preventing me from thinking up any of the others..."
"Stop being confusing and tell me!"
Fyodor bit at his thumb in thought, violent eyes shifting instinctively to Sigma's body as he debated whether potentially making the man uncomfortable was worth the satisfaction of his lust.
"I spent pages detailing your anatomy. Maybe I could... prove my familiarity?"
Sigma's blush worsened, staring at the Russian in front of him with an open mouth and wide eyes.
”Absolutely not! You perverted freak, I’m not letting you feel me up just to prove yourself,” Sigma squawked, looking revolted with him. Fyodor wasn’t worried, per se, but he wasn’t delighted in how this interaction was going.
”My apologies, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Sigma,” he said, bowing slightly in apology. “I fear I’ve conveyed the impression that I only desire you physically, which is incorrect. I wish to pursue an emotional and spiritual connection between us, as well as a strategic one.”
”Strategic?” Sigma looked entirely baffled, still mostly sure that the man in front of him was insane.
“Yes, strategic. You see, my ability is a great burden, and I have designed you to stay by my side as I live it out.”
”Do you ever give a simple answer?”
“No, not if I am to believe what people say,” Fyodor smiled, eyes tired.
The others grey eyes flickered in his thoughts, his drawn together brows quite adorable in the eyes of the Russian man.
"No need to rush decisions, dear. I've waited five years for you, however longer you need won't be much," Fyodor said gently, wrapping pale fingers round the others wrists and gently led him towards another room. "Let's discuss over tea, hm?"
"Mhh, maybe," Sigma said hesitantly, yet still walked along with the other.
"Come on, tell Ivan what to make," Fyodor said, fussing over the other as he ushered the two toned man into a relatively comfy wicker seat. "Any type of drink or food, he'll make."
A blanket was placed over his lap, as the halls of Fyodor's temporary manor were quite drafty. Various questions were thrown at the confused manager, not used to someone being so forcefully generous. Much less a notorious terrorist.
Sigma was used to taking care of others, not the other way round.
After several minutes of the two men bickering over tea, Fyodor simply gave up trying to get the overly polite man to give him any information of his likes or dislikes. Eventually the Russian just ordered some jasmine tea, leaving food as the other was very clearly too sick with nerves to eat.
"So, is there anything you wish to ask me?" Fyodor asked, blowing on the hot drink as Ivan finally returned with the tray.
"Um, how old are you?"
Fyodor stared at Sigma's fidgeting fingers for a second, long nails gently tapping against the table although not quite hard or vigorously enough to cause any noise. A nervous tick, like Fyodors issue with stripping away the skin at the sides of his nails.
"Physically, I'm about 23. It's been a while since I've been reset."
"Reset?"
"Killed," he put more bluntly, cruelly holding the other’s gaze as he said it. "Whenever my ability takes place after my murder, my age gets rounded down to the nearest year. My teenage years were spent often in danger from others so... I've lived for probably around thirty years yet my body remains an early adults."
"And how old am I?" Sigma asked hesitantly, taking a sip of his drink.
"I wrote you to be older than me originally, expecting more resets, but I wrote you to be around eighteen so your body has aged with mine."
"You speak in circles, just say 24," Sigma said, face furrowing for a second. As Fyodor raised a brow, the two toned man suddenly realised his disrespect and had his face morph into panic. "I'm sorry, I—!"
"No need, Sigma. It's fine, drink your tea."
Sigma frowned, but did it anyway. After a few moments, he spoke up again.
"Did you write me to have this... sort of body?"
"You mean your female reproductive system?"
Sigma blushed again, and the dark haired man found it both amusing and confusing. It wasn't as if he was talking about sex or even grosser bodily functions, why was embarrassment caused?
"Y-yes, that. Why? If I was written to be a man also."
"I didn't write you to be male, I left it to you and the book."
"Oh..."
Fyodor found even himself disappointed with his own answer, the conflict on Sigma's face hard to watch. Clearly his identity was very key to him, and the Russian must learn to accommodate for that, even if he didn't understand.
"If I'd had known it would cause you to be upset, I'd change it. However, I did have the prospect of heirs in mind when I chose your sex," Fyodor stated, not shying away from the topic whatsoever. He'd waited to meet Sigma for too long to bother with dancing around any subjects.
"Heirs? As in like... children?"
"Yes, dear."
"...What if I don't want them?" the manager asked hesitantly.
"Then we won't have them," he said, smiling gently. He really did mean it, Fyodors first priority was Sigma's health and happiness. "It was simply a minor factor I took into account to help me make a coin flip choice."
A silence filled the air as Sigma's (adorable) thinking face graced his features once again. Fyodor maybe was blatantly staring at the other man, but the manager clearly was too lost in thought to notice.
"Why do you want children?"
Sigma's eyes were alight with some sort of determination, stormy grey eyes unwavering as the nerves from earlier seemed to have melted away entirely. His long fingers no longer tapped against the table, instead they lay flat, completely still.
"Why wouldn't I?" The Russian asked rhetorically, taking another sip of his tea to hide the smile at Sigma's surprised face. "To help someone of your own blood to grow and learn sounds very fulfilling, surely a great legacy to leave behind if my other plans don't solidify me in this world’s history."
"That's... surprisingly sweet. How many would you have?"
"Maybe one or two, although I'm hoping for twins. It does run in my family, after all."
"It does? Are you a twin? What's your family—"
"Don't get excited, Sigma. They're dead now, there will be no family gatherings or meeting of anyone,” Fyodor said, cutting in sharply. He didn’t want to get the other’s hopes up.
"I'm... I'm sorry to hear that. Do you hold fond memories of them?"
"My father was a bastard, my mother was cruel yet meant well, and I loved my siblings dearly. I had a sister and a brother older than me, both twins, and the same with my two younger brothers."
"Your sister and brother were twins? I thought it was very rare for that to occur," Sigma asked, clearly invested. It wasn't a surprise, it was his very nature to yearn for a family, for a home, for a purpose.
"My sister was like you, and my village didn't take kindly to it, but they couldn't get rid of her. She worked very hard, made herself indispensable, she was incredibly intelligent."
"You sound like you think very highly of her."
"I do, she was a role model for everyone."
"And her twin brother?"
Fyodor found himself with jaw ache from the nostalgic smiles he was plagued with. This was a dangerous game to play, but he supposed dealing with hard memories was worth it to satisfy his dearests curiosity.
"An idiot, but very good with a crossbow."
The scar on his chest proved it, but Sigma didn't need to know that story.
A horrible accident, yet finding yourself waking up in your brother's body after a painful death was nothing short of horrific, even to Fyodor. It was only made worse that his brother was his mother's pride and joy, while Fyodor to her was nothing but a weak, hungry mouth. She had hoped he died that day in the forest, he knew that for sure, and so consumed with rage she had pushed his sister to end Fyodor. Set him alight, that would surely burn out his human casing and reveal the devil beneath.
Fyodor's mother was intelligent, successfully manipulating all three of his siblings to try and take his life.
"I don't wish to talk about this anymore. Is your tea satisfactory? I could get Ivan to bring a different blend."
The harsh topic change has Sigma blinking, but he took the bait. It was purposeful, with the manager being highly emotionally intelligent to let Fyodor's mind rest.
They both had bad memories, after all.