Nikolai had always been captivated by birds. Their elegant wings, the way they soared effortlessly through the sky-it was a kind of beauty that never ceased to amaze him.
.
. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
.
He often watched them from his window, imagining what i...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AN: new font..☺️, tw for violence? . . . . . . . . . . . .
It had been six months since you joined the Decay of Angels, and a full year since your "friend's" death. The memory of that time still lingered in your mind, though you buried it beneath layers of duty, denial, and your ever-growing bond with the strange group you now called your allies.
As usual, Nikolai found himself in Fyodor's bedroom, a space that was eerily neat and quiet—unlike the jester himself. He sprawled out on the bed, his stomach pressed against the covers as his feet kicked lazily in the air. His jester hat sat at a slant, one of the bells on it jingling faintly with his movements.
Fyodor sat calmly by the window, sipping his tea with an air of nonchalance. He had grown accustomed to Nikolai's unpredictable behavior, knowing well that any moment could spiral into chaos. But in moments like these, Fyodor indulged the jester's eccentricities, letting the man amuse himself with whatever violent fantasies he had concocted.
"So," Fyodor began, his voice as cool and steady as ever, "what master plan would you choose to kill Y/N this time?" There was no edge in his tone, no real concern—just the casual question of someone used to Nikolai's whims. After all, Fyodor had been on the receiving end of Nikolai's deadly affections many times before and survived to tell the tale.
Nikolai giggled, the sound mechanical and light, as if it came from a wind-up toy rather than a person. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he sat up, adjusting his jester hat. His eyes gleamed with a manic sparkle as he shrugged. "Oh, I don't know, Fedya! The birdie's practically immortal by now!" His grin was wide, a mix of playfulness and madness. "I mean, I've tried everything, haven't I? And look at her! Still flapping those pretty wings!"
The way Nikolai spoke about you sent a strange chill through the room, but Fyodor remained unbothered. This was just who Nikolai was—the kind of friend who adored someone so much, he would destroy them, piece by piece, just to see how far he could push the limits of their existence.
Fyodor let out a low chuckle, setting his teacup down on the table beside him. "Maybe you're losing your touch," he mused. "Becoming predictable, even."
Nikolai gasped dramatically, clutching his chest in mock offense. "Predictable? Moi? Never!" He hopped off the bed, spinning around with a flourish, as if he were performing on a stage. "I'm unpredictable as a storm, Fedya. One moment, I'm calm; the next, I'm tearing apart everything in my path! You should know that better than anyone!"
Fyodor raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the theatrics. "And yet, Y/N remains unscathed."
Nikolai paused, his playful demeanor faltering for just a second, his grin fading into something more contemplative. He tugged at the bell on his hat absently. "Well... Maybe it's not so simple with her," he murmured, his tone quieter. His eyes darted away, as if unwilling to meet Fyodor's sharp gaze.
