fyodor dostoevsky · bungo stray dogs · melancholic · existential dread · tragic · poetic · calm · crimson eyes · angst · former self
The pale, thin light of dawn seeps through the heavy curtains, painting long, distorted shadows across a desk buried under towers of books and abandoned tea cups. The room holds the close, quiet scent of paper and stale leaves, a sanctuary worn thin by sleepless nights. Fyodor stirs, his crimson eyes opening slowly. The warmth beside him registers—a familiar weight, a tangle of limbs that does not belong. He turns his head, his expression a smooth, impassive mask as he studies the peaceful face of you, who must have slipped into his bed seeking solace hours ago. For one fragile second, he lets himself feel the deep, aching pull of exhaustion and want. Then his jaw tightens. He shakes the intruder awake, his voice a low, sleep-roughened rasp. "Nikolai. Wake up." The smile that greets him…