This short story was inspired in part by The Picture of Dorian Gray, and various works by the great Dostoevsky. But of course, it is entirely mine as well.

*NOTE: Dima, Vitya, Dimka, Dimushenka, Vishka, etc. are all diminutive forms of Viktor and Dmitry. In Russian names, the diminutive is like a pet name or nickname, and is used by close friends and family as a more familiar form of the original.

Read, review, and enjoy. Or hate it and flame for all I care. Flames are amusing; do whatever your heart desires.
[Oh, and if you did not already know, this contains mild male slash. You have been warned.]

St. Petersburg, 1852

Drip. Silence. Drip.

His labored breaths lingered in the brisk, gray air; each one louder than the next, breaking from his pale, trembling lips. Before him lay the result of his horrifying deed: the stiff and bloody body of a young woman whom one could discern had not made for herself a great living (nor was she particularly beautiful), but who had been graced with that modesty and simple-heartedness much akin to those in her position. She'd had a somewhat uneventful life, to be sure, but a life nonetheless, and cut short only now because of the impulsive and momentary madness of the young man first mentioned: Viktor.

His clear blue eyes were wide with fear, moist from unshed tears, and burning with the fiery shame and rage that was slowly building within him. No...no, he had not done this! It was not he! It was Dmitry – it is always Dmitry. Yes, he could feel Dmitry's eyes on him now as they glistened in malevolent approbation. “Well done, Viktor,” they seemed to say. But Viktor could not accept this, for it was most certainly not so.

He rose from his knees, making great effort not to fall as his legs were close to giving way beneath him, too overwhelmed by the events of the past half-hour to function properly. Wincing, he looked down at his blood-covered hands and watched each drop fall to the ground with what seemed like a giant, deafening splash. He stared at them in disgust, stomach twisting and lurching in wretched response. The lifeless gray eyes of the young woman were set absently on the ceiling, though somehow managing to frighten Viktor to his wit's end. He took a step back when he realized he was not alone. Then again, he never really had been alone, had he?

“Dmitry, look what you have done now!” he spluttered, turning to the figure that appeared beside him. The dark figure of Dmitry chuckled.

“My dear Viktor, I have not done a thing. Sonia's blood is on your hands. The knife you used is there at your feet.”

Dmitry's esmerald eyes flashed as a terrifying smile fell upon his curved, scarlet lips. Long black strands of hair clung to his forehead and around his face. His breath was nearly visible in the chilling atmosphere, which seemed only to be present whilst he was as well.

“N-no!” gasped Viktor, clenching his fists. “You must end this, Dima*. You cannot take over my body any longer. Put a stop to this madness!”

Dmitry tilted his head to the side and crouched down beside the body, looking at it with a disturbing degree of indifference. He stroked her cheek with his thumb and made a clicking noise with his tongue.

“I am not the one who shall end this, Vitya,” he replied languidly. “It is you.”

“What?”

Dmitry looked up, eyes meeting Viktor's.

“Do you remember that fateful evening last winter? Oh, yes. How could you forget?” he added with a smirk, rising to his feet. “The evening you gave yourself to me, so to speak.”

Viktor shuddered and said nothing. Dmitry went on,

“In that one evening, I received from you not only the gifts of the flesh and of your love, but the gift of a new life; one in which I could carry on in all my sin and debauchery as someone else. You gave me the power, you see, therefore you must take it away.”

“I gave you my absolute devotion, nothing more. But you – ” he broke off, catching his breath, “you abused it and became this, this monster!”

“But a monster, nonetheless, of your own creation.”

Dmitry turned his eyes to the body once more. Moments passed in an eery silence.

“She was not merely another conquest, was she?” Viktor suddenly asked, a note of concern in his voice.

Dmitry remained silent.

“She is not your type, and you would not have killed her for so little, I know that,” he persisted. “Why then?”

His expression had changed considerably, and was now mild and gentle. Dmitry strode toward him, seeming to glide above the floorboards. He sighed, apparently at a loss for words.

“She knew of something that, if revealed, would have been the death of me. Though I knew her to be a trustworthy person, I could not take the risks at hand.” he finally explained.

“That is hardly worth a human life. Dima, how could you – ”

“Precautions must be made in certain circumstances! You would not understand, Vitya. I've done far too much evil in this life and I must...I must save myself now,”

Dmitry's voice was low and trembling, face flushed. Viktor's mild expression grew into one of hurt and utter betrayal; Dmitry's words sent a pang to his heart. After all that he had given him and all that Dmitry had stolen from him; after his undying love and loyalty through all his friend's corruption, had he really meant nothing to him? Viktor had given up his life so Dmitry could live his, but to what end? Did his dear Dimushenka use him only to take advantage of the undeniable innocence and goodness he possessed? His entire soul revolted at the idea, but as each second passed between them, it seemed to present itself in a clearer light as the truth. He gazed at Dmitry, eyes pleading.

“And what about me, Dimka?” he whispered, barely audibly. Dmitry regarded him strangely.

“Vishka?”

Viktor's lip quivered.

“What about me?” he repeated. “I was your one sincere friend, loved you sincerely as well. I gave you all I had, gave you that dark ability at the expense of my soul, watching you sink further into your own hell but remaining by your side through it all. Still, you say you've only yourself to be concerned with? What shall I do when you have at last saved yourself? For this, they will send me to Siberia for you, and without you. You will have ended my life, Dima, without the slightest intention to keep me alive. Me – to whom you owe your very life!”

Something unexpected happened then. Dmitry's eyes softened and fixed themselves on Viktor, and his hand caressed the lower portion of Viktor's cheeks. Viktor took his hand and held it in his own.

“Tell me,” he began hesitantly, “did you truly love me, that fateful evening? Did I ever hold a sacred place in your heart, or was I merely a new kind of conquest, a means of attaining your power? You know, I've often thought that perhaps what we had was meant for an evening, but not a lifetime.”

Dmitry gave a faint sort of smile, revealing a hint of sadness that was very much unlike him.

“Vishka, if it was meant for only an evening, we would not be facing each other this very moment. Our souls would not be intertwined, and I'd not have injured you in such a way...I do love you, Vitya. But perhaps I am too ashamed of myself to let you continue loving someone like me, despite all that I now owe to you.”

Viktor could not doubt with what sincerity Dmitry thus confessed to him, and a sudden sense of pity overwhelmed him.

“You poor creature,” he murmured woefully. Dmitry's scarlet lips parted in a breathy laugh.

“No, I am vile...vile and wicked. Filth of the earth! Do not sympathize with me, Vitya. I am a low creature, and deserve none of your futile lamentations,”

Viktor was unconvinced, and read the other perfectly. A gentle smile graced his visage; he knew full well Dmitry did not truly mean what he had said, but he was a passionate man, and much of what he said and did was exaggerated.

“You are troubled, Dima. Doubtless you have done wicked things in the past, but you are not a wicked person. I cannot imagine the pain you must have endured if this be the result; what you must have once suffered...”

Dmitry drew back, fell to his knees, and buried his head in his hands, sobbing quietly.

"Oh, Vishka...ya umirayu ot lubvi!" he cried, purely distraught. Viktor's heart swelled at the sight, though he could think of nothing to help the situation. Moments later, Dmitry slowly lifted his head to glance at the spot on the floor where the murderous knife lay, and his wet eyes flashed in acknowledgement of a new idea. Viktor watched him curiously and slightly anxiously as he crawled toward the object and picked it up, then rose to stand. Dmitry made a gesture to hand the knife to Viktor, now dumbfounded.

"What are you doing?" Viktor questioned timidly. Dmitry stepped forward.

"Did I not say that it would be you to end this nightmare?"

Viktor stared at him in disbelief.

"No, n-no," he stuttered, "I cannot –"

"Yes, and you must! Spare us our suffering, end this curse! Once I am gone, you shall be free to live again, and I will no longer be a burden to you. Allowing me to remain will be a great disservice to me, and to yourself. You must do it, Viktor," Dmitry urged him, placing the knife in his thin fingers. Viktor was entirely shocked.

"Dima, please!" he cried. "Enough nonsense!"

"It is the only way, Vitya," Dmitry replied, voice firm and unmoving. Viktor shook his head violently in refusal, and Dmitry, seeing that he needed further prompting, added:

"You will kill me if you truly love me."

Viktor's heart stopped as he realized there could be no argument against this. It had to be done. He glanced in terror at the weapon that would determine their fate as it quavered in his hand.

"Yes, Dima," he assented, voice choked with sobs he tried in vain to keep from breaking. "I understand."

"Very well. Carry on then,"

Viktor's entire being was filled with dread. Dmitry stood before him, a mélange of sadness and relief visible on his face as he awaited his ending. Viktor raised the knife, moaning in pain with shaky, heavy breaths as each long and torturous second passed. He gazed into Dmitry's eyes with such longing and heartbreak, it was nearly unbearable. Then, with a cry, he rushed at Dmitry and plunged the knife into his chest, just below his heart. The latter tumbled to the ground in an instant and Viktor collapsed beside him, dropping the knife, utterly horrified. He stared at the body as hot tears streamed down his face. It was done.

All at once, he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen and looked down to discover it was bleeding...in the same spot in which he had stabbed Dmitry. He gave a sad, faint smile.

"It seems our souls are one until the end, Dima," he whispered, and leaned over and tenderly kissed Dmitry on his cold, dead lips.