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Chapter Text

July 12th, 1867

Today is my birthday. Today I turn 21. And today, I was a sensualist this good Friday. Mikhail and I will never be the same.

Being born in the peak of Summer can be a blessing and a curse. It was so hot in the monastery from a drought, that everyone felt a natural thirst upon a water shortage. But my thirst this morning felt unnatural, incredibly akin to the second circle of hell. I wasn't myself. This creature in my body was parched, dying of heat. Whoever he was, he suffered greatly. He alone knew Rakitin's thoughts.

In the middle of mass, I had a migraine. Mikhail noticed my white knuckles against the wood as I willed to steady myself, and offered his hand. And God, I took it. I hungered, and I ate the forbidden fruit in desperation. My pain was sated at his touch, making me gasp.

One might not assume that a simple hand holding would bring out such a torture, but one must remember the life of an ascetic. Denial of alcohol is difficult for drunks as their hold on life disappears. Unfortunately, in what I felt at that very moment, I became my father, begging to get drunk in the chaste gesture that the other monks might overlook. 

My faith soared on this blessed day of blasphemy, which was unexpected. After mass, as the men and women of Christ left the chapel, and the Fathers retired to their cells, the sacristy was ours alone. Miracles in the mundane are rare in Skotoprigonyevsk. And I believed in our sin just as much as the God that watched us, as if we were the first two humans in Eden.

Rakitin's mouth tastes like strawberries. Sweet heat slipping between my lips that fed my hunger, and I learned the name of the forbidden fruit: Misha. His kisses were an entire language of their own. The ones that spoke the most dragged his teeth over my lip, whispering Al-yo-sha...

Alexey: Defender of Man.

My name cursed me to be Alexey Fyodorovich Karamazov: Defender of Man, son of a sinner, from a dynasty of sensualism. And I defended the secret of my name in the name of humanity. Oh God, I defend this moment in the name of the miracle it was spent in. 

When Mikhail's hands felt my waist, it was heaven and I was above their cherub-tipped clouds. My own sensual hands met his, tracing our shapes against each other. The cassock was getting in the way.  I'd worn a thin shirt underneath, suffering modesty under the abuse of the heat that cut through stained-glass drops of blood, Jesus again, dying for this very sin.

The most complicated of kisses took place as the wolf's teeth met the lamb's neck, forcing a weak bleat. A sudden stillness blanketed the monastery, suffocating, our breath misting against the stained-glass tears of Mary. Tears came to my own eyes. Bruises would fade, after three long days.

Jesus wept. Such a betrayal wasn't even worth thirty pieces of silver in the sacristy, and I cried out at the plagiarism. 

Mikhail is a rough man, living a rough duty. Denial of comfort, produced as wool rashes tender skin. Denial of luxury, forcing down cabbage and broth and precious water. Denial of the self, submitting to Christ, as I submitted to the Passion of the blood he suddenly drew. 

The bite was small, but the rip in my shirt framing it was a worse sting. More rips followed, and my shirt became the ribbons of shame I was about to replicate. Rakitin shed his own clothing, bare from the waist up. I had heard of them once or twice, but before Rakitin pulled the cloth away from his body, I realized that I had never seen the scars under his chest before now.

His hands kept following hell, as Judas betrayed more. It was at this touch that I begged caution, only encouraging his behavior. I bowed my head at his requests, words replaced with our close trust we had already shared, as he kissed my tears away. Submitting to Christ asks man to fall to his knees at the adoration of Him in prayer, and as Mikhail wrapped his fingers in my hair, I premeditated my words. 

Sounds returned to the monastery, the moment froze and melted away in due time. The sinning waited for the saint to pass over the threshold before its consummating dared to commence- and was caught. The miracle had been abused; the lamb's cries had attracted the shepherd. 

A trick, the betrayer is betrayed! Mikhail is red-handed, red-cheeked and reduced to a puddle of tears. I wept along as Judas' head hung in shame. My cassock pulls roughly back on over my bare skin, his still intact shirt veiling his secret again. Rushing out of the monastery, my cheeks aflame in red wine of our last communion - I fly to my father's house, undeserving of the monastery's shelter. And here, in Fyodor's study, I hasten to write this confession. I'd have retired to my room, but father's been reading my journal again. 

Forgive me Father, a fearful man, trembling in my cassock, contemplating my fig-leafed-knowledge. It can never occur again, the sin nor its risky report being read.  I'll be burning these tear-damned pages immediately after they're written. One too many people know, I can't make it two. God, forgive me, for I have sinned. The candle before me is virgin. It's fitting I must reduce it to its wickedness, the black snake of its wick withering to dust, as Adam's thirst was quenched by Eve.

Forgive me, it's my birthday.

Chapter Text

The summer heat was finally abating, but Katya was not.

Grushenka's head flopped back onto the pillow, sweating and moaning feverishly, muttering the name of the woman before her, consuming her very soul. 

Katerina Ivanovna was truly a woman to behold, an enigma in the life of any man or woman who stood in her way. And here, in Dmitri Karamazov's bedroom, Grushenka had been the one to defy such a woman. It had been a challenge, a duel, but no guns were involved between such a tense rivalry. The way she eyed Grushenka, her green eyes first speaking to the mirror's black seductive allure. Trailing the shape of her skin, Katerina marveled in amusement how her skirts twirled provocatively with every gentle step; her gaze was a lone shot in the dark, piercing the heart of Agrafena Alexandrovna. 

The duel was settled with guns still - a bet placed on Mitya's twin pistols, safe on the shelf above the bed they lay on. The conqueror was to take them home, before their owner returned from his drunken affairs. The very act that these two women had met had been a drunken affair, spilled champagne on tulle and satin the Saturday before last. And at last, Katya came to claim the pistols for her own, from Grushenka's hands.

Grushenka's fingers curled ever so slightly, and the gasp from Katya - "Fuck! Grusha..." was so so close to her claims of sweet victory that she almost felt bad for the woman, writhing between her legs. She used her other hand to tangle her auburn locks, holding her steady, praying for her own sanity to be sated. A low hum purred from her throat, swallowing hard - Katya's touches and tastes were of a rougher nature than she had expected, and Grushenka's backside smarted on the mattress from the proof. 

Katerina gasped a moment, a tether of spit binding them yet - and laughed, her sweet soft birdsong the most delectable of delights. A trick - a ruse! Grusha screamed as Katya bowed her head in fervent prayer again, her slick fingers slipping as she lost control. In an ironic echo, Katya's voice again harmonized, salty skin rashing against the rustle of fabric, but it mattered not. Grushenka felt only one thing- loss. 

It was not the loss of a touch, her experience and Katya's cries proved so, but the pistols above the bed glared down into her gaping mouth, as if they had been fired nonetheless. Catching her breath, she pulled Katya closer, examining those tempting fateful eyes. The loss that she ached for was of what the sister pistols had promised, that she might take Dmitri's power, and trade it for resentful rage. 

"Truce," she breathed, and Katya's emerald eyes mirrored her, in an equal surrender. The duel had come to a satisfying standstill, like ships stranded on sandbars before the sea, rocking ever so gently in the lapping waves. They laid closely together, like twin pistols in a case, nestled amongst powder and velvet, waiting to cool, so they might fire again.