Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

"So…" Feofan takes a moment to push his glasses up his nose. "How long?"

"Six months. At best."

He's quiet for a moment. He drums his fingers against his thigh thoughtfully. "I see."

His doctor winces at him in sympathy, a grimace pulling the corners of his lips down. He clasps his hands together in front of his chest and wrings them almost anxiously. "My deepest condolences, Mr. Veksel. I recommend getting your affairs in order as soon as you can. I can redirect you to end-of-care resources, and —"

"That won't be necessary," Feofan interrupts firmly but gently. The doctor's grimace deepens, most likely presuming his patient was in some form of shock. Shock would imply surprise, and yet somehow, Feofan had somehow seen this coming. Deep down, he’d already known he didn't have much left.

Still, the doctor — bless his soul — holds out a pamphlet to him, sympathy ringing clear as day in his kind eyes. On the cover it reads 'Approaching End of Life' printed in large white letters against a backdrop of a younger individual holding an elderly hand. 

"Take this."

Like a pamphlet would make any goddamn difference.

Feofan offers a courteous smile and takes the folded paper. He stares down at the elderly hand depicted in the image. His hands would never look like that, he thinks idly. He'd never grow old.

Enough is enough. He wastes no more time getting up, only pausing to pick up his coat from the hospital cot and sling it over his arm.

"Thank you for your time. However, if you do not require anything more of me, I shall be taking my leave."

Oh, how Feofan finds himself despising the pity in the doctor's eyes as he watches him make his way to the door. No, he needs neither pity nor sympathy, knocking on death's door or otherwise.

What he needs is a smoke and to be out of this damn hospital five minutes ago.

❖❖❖

It's raining outside. This makes the walk home rather grim.

Feofan hadn't bothered to bring an umbrella with him, and he doesn't bother hailing a cab either. He simply stands underneath the awning of a building, lights a cigarette — pretending his hands aren't shaking — and begins his way back to his apartment at a leisurely pace. 

It's spring, and the weather is quite nice, he notes as he slowly makes his way through the city streets. Despite the faint chill that still persists, the fresh, sweet scent of springtime flora and petrichor hangs in the air, and a warm breeze whispers of the summer to come.

It's a lovely day. And somehow, Feofan finds himself angry at this. At how pleasant it is outside, even with the rain. At how the world will keep spinning after he is gone, and there is nothing he can do about it.

No, he was going to keep it together. It's only fair that he'd die young. He'd done nothing his entire life to promote a longer life. A pack a day, consistent all-nighters, exercise always being an afterthought. 

This is the price he pays for neglecting his body. As he reaches his destination, the tip of the cigarette burns bright against the filter, and he throws it to the ground with more force than necessary, grinding the filter beneath his heel.

This was only fair.

He is scared. He is so very utterly scared.

Feofan closes his eyes, feeling the cool rain beat down on his skin. Maybe this turn of events was caused by fate’s cruel hand, rather than his own. Maybe his illness is a result of genetics passed down from parents he’d never known, as some sort of cosmic joke of an inheritance.

He wants to live. He wants to live so fucking bad.

Feofan inhales deeply, breathing in the air of a new spring, only for his breath to catch in his chest and leave him coughing violently. Not even the simple pleasures were left for a dying man like him. Life's always been a cruel bitch; why would it change now?

Cursing softly under his breath, he drags his hands down his face in a feeble attempt to wipe the moisture from his skin and finally steps inside of his apartment building. The doorman — who had been presumably watching the resident of his building stand outside in the rain for the last few minutes — gives him an odd look but nods his head in greeting. Feofan gives a curt nod in turn as he strides towards the elevators, trying to keep as nonchalant as possible.

With a ding, the elevator doors slide open, and with a scan of his keycard, he's shuttling up to his floor.

How does one spend the first of their last days? 

Feofan steps off the elevator onto his floor. He's debating between a warm bath and an early night or a night of drinking himself into a stupor when he notices— 

There's someone else here. 

And he's standing in front of his door, back turned to Feofan. Tall and lean, with unruly pale blue hair and a weird white and black fur-trimmed jacket that looks straight out of a video game. The smell of burning wood and chemicals hangs in the air. A deep uneasiness settles in Feofan's gut, one heralding something awful to come.

Goddamn it. Feofan really doesn't need this bullshit right now. 

"May I help you?"

This stranger starts as if he's been electrocuted. Straight out of a scene from a thriller, he turns around in slow motion until he's looking over his shoulder at Feofan. He's got this strange, ornate black mask covering his eyes, one that Feofan imagines would be quite difficult to see out of. Still, the stranger stands frozen in place, presumably staring at Feofan, body wound up tight like a coil ready to snap.

How did this guy get in? How'd he get past the doorman? What is he doing here? Feofan's mind turns over different possibilities, none of them welcome. Best case scenario, he has an eccentric neighbor who got off on the wrong floor. Worst case —

"Pantalone," this stranger says slowly. Carefully, almost. "What are you doing here?"

"Pantalone?" Feofan echoes. Alright, so it's not the best-case scenario. He pushes a faux, polite smile onto his lips. "I believe you've got the wrong —"

"What have you done?" the man drawls with a tinge of what Feofan thinks to be bemusement in his voice. His heavy black boots softly thud against the ground as he turns to face Feofan fully and takes a step forward. Feofan instinctively takes a step back in turn.

"Sir, I recommend you leave before I call the authorities," Feofan says firmly, internally hoping the threat of the police or whatnot would be enough to deter this stranger. He can't see this stranger's eyes behind that mask, but judging by the way he seems to tilt his chin back oh-so-slightly, one could imagine he was rolling his eyes.

"Authorities. How droll, coming from you of all people." The stranger pauses for a moment before cocking his head to the side. "Ah, I see. Upon my death, I seem to have been transported to another universe altogether. A parallel one, by the looks of it. How very interesting."

Lovely. This is exactly what he needed after coming home with a terminal diagnosis: finding a stranger on his front doorstep actively suffering from psychosis of some form.

As Feofan slowly and subtly reaches for the phone in his back pocket, he watches the stranger reach up to hold his chin. 

"Then by any chance, would your name be Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel in this world?"

Feofan pauses. His phone weighs heavy in his pocket, as if urging him to ignore the stranger and call the police while he still can.

"Hm, yes. Judging by your reaction, I seem to be correct." The stranger nods to himself. "It is quite remarkable how similar you are in appearance to the Feofan I knew."

"Do I know y—"

"Say, Feofan, are you sick in this universe as well?"

Blood rushes to heat Feofan's face, and rage bubbles in his gut.

"I beg your pardon?!" Feofan hears his voice rise. He finally pulls his phone out of his pocket and makes a show of unlocking it and navigating to the dialpad. "Sir, I do not know who you are and how you have this information about me, and quite frankly, I do not care. Now I suggest you remove yourself from the premises before —"

The stranger gives a low chuckle, one that very much sends a chill running down Feofan's spine. He doesn't seem deterred in the slightest. If anything, he seems amused. 

"What an amusing twist of fate. Out of all the possible outcomes, I must admit that even I hadn't foreseen this turn of events. Oh, I am quite glad that I landed on your doorstep. For you see, I've only just regained my bearings after —"

Feofan jams the elevator call button with his thumb, thankful when the doors slide open promptly with a little chime. "Get out before I press call."

The stranger stays put, squashing the last of Feofan's hope that this sticky situation would be resolved painlessly. No, he continues to hold his chin, looking even more thoughtful. "Even if you do not know me in this world, there is a reason why the universe has decreed that I show up here at this point in time."

Feofan dials 911.

"Ah, but where are my manners? I am the humble Dottore —"

Feofan blinks as his vision briefly blurs with a mysterious blue light. His head spins with an unfamiliar sensation, a sort of dizziness that has him planting a hand against a wall for balance.

" — I would introduce myself further, but well… all in due time. First —"

Loading Special NPC [Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel]....

Feofan winces as a sharp pain lances through his skull, unlike anything he's ever felt before. He hears the stranger call his name and ask him if he's doing alright, but all he can do is lean against the wall and grit his teeth as the migraine sinks its sharp, agonizing claws into him.

Shit, shit, shit –

There's a hand on his shoulder, he thinks, and he roughly pushes it — the stranger — away. The pain is unbearable now. His head throbs with each beat of his heart, and each thrum increases the pressure in his chest. 

Was he dying? Was the doctor wrong? Is this the end, collapsing on his front doorstep trying to argue with a mysterious stranger? He dared to hope for a slightly better ending than this. Was he wrong to hope for a dignified death, too?

The pain in his skull grows and grows in intensity, until he's quite certain his head is about to literally split in two. Feofan thinks he can hear himself groan. He can't breathe; he can't breathe, it hurts so fucking bad —

And suddenly, it's gone as soon as it came, leaving him dizzy and gasping for air. His limbs feel weak from the strain of the pain he'd just endured, and he feels a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.

But he's fine. Whatever that was, it's over now. Feofan sighs as he gently pushes off the wall and straightens himself out, ignoring the gaze of the unwelcome stranger. His cheeks prickle with the embarrassment of having this unwelcome stranger witness whatever the hell that was.

Except —

Feofan hears a little happy digital chime, and before him, there's a gray window floating mid-air in front of him, not unlike one pulled from a retro UI from a bygone era. Oh no, he really was dying.

"What…?"

And then everything goes black.