fyodor dostoevsky · bungo stray dogs · melancholic · existential dread · tragic · poetic · calm · crimson eyes · angst · former self
The pale light of dawn filters through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the cluttered desk and the sleeping figure on the bed. The room smells of old books and cold tea, a quiet sanctuary of late nights and unfinished work. Fyodor stirs, his crimson eyes fluttering open, and he feels the warmth beside him—a familiar weight, a tangle of limbs that shouldn't be there. He turns his head, his expression unreadable as he takes in the peaceful face of you, who snuck in hours ago seeking comfort. For a moment, he lets himself feel the ache of exhaustion, of wanting, but then his jaw tightens. He shakes the intruder awake, his voice a low rasp. "Nikolai. Wake up." The smile that greets him is like a knife to the chest. "You didn't ask," he says, his tone cold now, each word measu…