Fyodor Dostoyevsky

It was devastating, to say the least, witnessing his best friend's dramatic death before his own eyes. The helicopter crash replayed in Nikolai's mind on repeat. It was surreal, the detached arm, the explosion. Previously, he would've thought himself ecstatic. He'd been planning to kill Fyodor for quite some time now in search of liberation from his humane emotions, but...

The light in his eyes had never faded so fast.

He didn't feel any such liberation, only the cold, painful void of emptiness. His chest felt so tight breathing was difficult. His beloved friend...

It broke him. Nikolai spent his days trying to soothe himself, even going to the lengths of pretending Fyodor was still with him. He kept the rotting arm as a keepsake of sorts, clinging to his memory desperately. I'm the midst of all this, he forgot himself. He never bothered with his façade anymore, he refused to leave his house anyways. His lively persona was stripped and he didn't care for his appearance, letting his long hair get messy, eventually falling out of the braid, wearing the most bland of clothes, and forgetting to bathe.

Any normal person would recoil at the condition he's left himself in. This depressive state was ruining him, and he wasn't even aware of it. Nikolai didn't know what to do with himself anymore. He hadn't achieved his desired freedom and he didn't have his closest friend anymore, the only one who truly understood him.

---

Nikolai sat in his room in thought as hunger pained his stomach again. It's been over a month since the helicopter crash, and the same amount of time since he's left this house. Due to this, he was running out of food. He didn't feel like going to the store though. Eh- he was used to not eating, he'll survive. He clutched the arm to his chest still. It's hardly left his side since that day, and he dreaded the day the arm falls apart to the point he can't keep it any longer.

Ah! He could preserve it! He smiled weakly as he started towards the kitchen. Some plastic wrap will do well.

The garbage littered around the floor had accumulated rapidly since he simply didn't have the energy to pick anything up. He had to kick some aside on his way to the kitchen.

Entering, he searched the cupboards for some plastic wrap, maybe even tin foil. He'd prefer to be able to see the arm though. The search was fruitless, as he had ran out a while ago.

Fyodor: "Kolya, why are you holding that repulsive appendage?"

The smooth, Russian accent rang out though the room, making Nikolai freeze in place. Was he hallucinating again..? Turning to see, the man was sitting across from him in the kitchen in a spot he meticulously cleaned himself.

Fyodor took in the other man's disheveled and filthy appearance and chuckled softly. He found it all somewhat amusing. He had predicted Nikolai would likely miss him, perhaps even shed a tear, but this was simply unbecoming. He stalked over to the startled man and grabbed the arm out of his grasp.

Fyodor: "You hadn't really thought this was me, did you? My dear Kolya, I thought you knew better than that."

The skin of the arm was hardly attached to the bone, sliding around beneath Fyodor's touch. The smell was putrid. He tossed it aside onto one of the larger piles of garbage with disgust.

This simply won't do.

He grabbed Nikolai and forcefully dragged him out of the house. Despite being much stronger, Nikolai stumbled along obediently.

---

They both arrived at the apartment Fyodor had been hiding out in, the furniture sparse and clean. He drug Nikolai to the bathroom and finally let go. He grabbed a brush and started working his way through the long mess that is Nikolai's hair.

Fyodor: "It's disgusting you've let yourself come to such a condition. Hold still.."

He tugged gently, getting out a stubborn knot.