Rotten to the Core | FYOLAI

1

Darkness reigned over St. Petersburg with an iron fist, faint street lights shining rather faintly through the falling snow. Few people walked the streets, and those that did were stumbling away from bars with flushed faces shadowed by the moon, covered in fabrics stained with wine and other liquor; Fyodor could pick up the stench from across the street. 

His breath was visible; a faint haze of white fog into the cold night. The air was dry, cracking away at his parched lips with no mercy. Tresses of hair fell in front of his eyes as he exhaled, clouding his vision and brushing against his lashes. He wore a thick winter coat, patches sewn into pretty much every nook and cranny of the thing, and even then, the sting of the cold breeze was still felt beneath the fabric. Old, worn down black boots settled on his feet, far too big for his young legs.

The only thing in decent condition had been a new pair of red mittens that he wore over his pale, trembling fingers. They had been gifts from the boy's mother only a few years before. He did everything he could to ensure nothing happened to them, unlike his other articles of clothing. Those had been picked off of the street, taken from old drunkards that would end up arrested anyway. 

Fyodor had no qualms about stealing from the alcoholics that would end up in prison anyway, they wouldn't need the coat anymore. They wouldn't need the food or change anymore, either. Of course, he was always quiet and passive about it, practicing for hours on his own the art of being quiet. How he could angle his toes the right way as he took a step, lowering his body in specific positions as to not ruffle his own fabric. He could still his breath, perhaps even slow his own heartbeat, fight back the urges of hunger and panic, and steal without a second of hesitation. 

It was his way of life. 

But nights like those were the good ones; when the summer was still far from over and people were walking around all day long, drinking all day long, spending money all day long. 

Nights like these? Fyodor could hardly move. 

His bones felt stiff from the cold, and he found himself unable to really control any aspect of his body, unless he really concentrated on a goal. This winter was harder, though. Less people had been around in the summer; less change to find. Either the town was growing poorer and poorer, or they had caught onto the trend of misfortune that fell upon those who passed out on this street. 

"Oi, boy."

Fyodor's exhausted lids reluctantly peeled open, revealing his violet, hazy eyes, gazing emotionlessly forward at whatever stranger spoke to him. His voice, thick with a Japanese accent, and despite the attention-grabbing words, laced with a tone that was foreign to Fyodor.

He was tall, with a mop of messy brown locks falling all around his face. Eyes, dark and considerate, with pale skin like his own. However, the material of which he wore showed off his wealth, enough for Fyodor to grow suspicious of such a man's intentions. It was the middle of the night, after all. 

When he didn't reply, the man continued. "Aren't you cold?"

To that, Fyodor merely thought. Isn't it obvious? But he had always been a crafty little boy, able to sort of read the other in a conversation; and he knew that a comment like that wouldn't do him any good. 

He tested the waters. "I am."

"Where are your parents?"

To that, Fyodor's violet eyes narrowed subtly, as if he had just been scolded. He moved, now, shifting his weight forward and reluctantly off of the brick wall he had been leaning against. His lips curved into a stern frown as he pressed his hands closer together, as if there had been any warmth to radiate.