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beanman1010 · 25 days ago

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YEYSYEYEYSYSYSSSSSS

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝓥𝕴

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𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙𝓥

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Fluff.

𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 7.1k 𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 *сонечко- Little Sun

“You truly are a remarkable assistant. Simply amazing.”

Nikolai’s voice is smooth as velvet, with the charm of a warm fireplace in Winter. He had a voice that could draw people in like a siren's song. From the kitchen, Fyodor could practically visualise the familiar gestures he was making while speaking.

The grand gestures, the elegant swoops of his hands...

Knowing him, he’s likely touching your shoulders and arms here and there too…Fyodor stirs the porridge a little faster as it bubbles and boils.

Yet beneath his charming voice, something about his rambunctious friend's tone causes Fyodor’s jaw to tighten. He shifts uncomfortably as he listens from the kitchen, wooden spoon scraping gently against the sides of the saucepan.

Nearby, Tolstoy lays across the kitchen table, head tilted and ears directed down the hallway. He's gazing down the hall, the tip of his tail twitching faintly, his eyes half closed.

A small huff of amusement escapes Fyodor; it’s as though even the cat knows what's going on too. That small flicker of humour dissipates faster than a flame being doused with a bucket of water as Nikolai’s voice reaches his ears.

“Back when I was an author, I saw seasoned professionals crumble under less pressure than this. But you—” Nikolai’s voice escalates, changing from charming to flirtation. “—handle it with grace.”

“And with that wrist of yours on top of it—” Fyodor can almost picture Nikolai reaching out to touch your hand, gently caressing the soft beige bandage. He imagines him kissing your hand, his large hand enveloping your smaller one. Suddenly, it feels hard for Fyodor to breathe. “—You are an inspiration to us all. We could all learn to be harder workers from you. You, my dear, are one of a kind.”

He hears the flustered stammer in your voice, the tap of your ankle boots echoing like distant thunder against the floorboards; it’s a rhythm of retreat, each step a hesitant heartbeat, pulling you away from him as if the very air between you has thickened.

Nikolai definitely kissed your hand. “Ah…I’m just doing my job as Mr. Dostoyevsky's assistant,” you insist, tone trembling. Fyodor is quick to assume you’re not used to interactions like this. “I take my job seriously since I want his book to succeed, is all....”

A brief flare of pride ignites in Fyodor’s chest, only to be swiftly extinguished once more by Nikolai’s next words: “There’s no need to be so modest! You, my darling, are a true gem in the literary world. And so early into your career! Perhaps I should start calling you the muse of Mr. Dostoyevsky himself~ After all, every great writer needs one, don’t you think?”

“Except,” he continues, his tone shifting. Fyodor frowns, straining to catch his old friend’s flirtatious murmur as it softens to a near seductive purr that causes his lip to curl into a deep, displeased frown, “Maybe you’d prefer to be my muse instead~? Perhaps you’re just what I need to be…inspired to write again~”

Suddenly, the walls feel like they’re closing in on him. He swallows roughly, his throat parched and his chest tightening as he grips his wooden spoon tightly. Before he even realises it, Fyodor's opened his mouth and called out for you, his tone firm, “Огонёк. I require your assistance in the kitchen. Now.”

He barely hears your murmured apology, but the swift pace of your footsteps echoes in the silence. His gaze drags across the countertops to take in your appearance—your rosy cheeks, the way you struggle to hold his gaze while your hands fidget nervously with the fabric of your skirt.

His stomach churns uncomfortably, as if caught on the rough waves at sea.

“Bowls,” Fyodor replies, forcing himself to look away from you. The longer he stares, the more queasy he feels. “Please.” He adds, the wooden spoon circling the pot, his hand never pausing in stirring the thick, bubbling porridge. Swiftly, he removes it from the heat, shutting the stovetop off.

“Y-yes, of course..!” you stammer. Your flustered response makes his throat constrict. He feels a faint breeze as you rush behind him, grabbing a trio of porcelain bowls from the cupboard. He clears his throat and turns his dark eyes in your direction.

“Just two, Огонёк,” he remarks, watching as you look up at him in surprise. “I was not expecting Nikolai’s presence this evening, so there isn’t enough for three.” He notes the slight relaxation in your face, before he watches your lips tug downwards.

“But what’s he going to eat? We should at least serve him something.” Your insistence makes his shoulders tense. Even his own upbringing taught him not to let a visitor go hungry. His hand hesitates in its stirring as you place the bowls on the countertop.

He could think of a few of the meals you'd both prepared for the week that Nikolai may enjoy that you wouldn't. He had begun to learn your tastes this week especially, so he has a pretty good idea of what could be served to Nikolai.

As he begins portioning the food, Nikolai’s mischievous voice wafts in from the hallway.

“Your assistant and I could share a bowl,” he suggests deviously. Though deep down he knows his old friend is teasing, Fyodor feels his chest clenching tightly again, his gaze never wavering from the porridge he’s serving. The gentle tap of Nikolai’s footsteps approaching makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, his chest seeming to tighten further.

Nikolai adds, his voice growing more flirtatious once more, “Maybe you can even feed me a few spoonfuls, Огонёк~” The moment he tries to walk past him to get closer to you again, Fyodor holds out his wooden spoon like a barrier, making sure not to splatter porridge across the kitchen.

“Only I can call her that,” Fyodor states, his dark eyes finally lifting to meet the playfully charming gaze of his best friend. Nikolai holds his hands up in mock surrender, his charming smile turning into a devilish smirk. He steps back, his voice sounding as cheerful as ever.

“Oh, my apologies! I didn’t know, Fedya!” Nikolai replies, his voice as devious as ever. As Fyodor turns his attention away from his old friend to watch you organise the table, Nikolai steps passed him, adding, “Do you need some help setting the table, сонечко~?”

For a brief moment, something ignites in Fyodor’s chest. He’s tempted to smack Nikolai in the back of the head with his wooden spoon. Just a little bop, nothing too bad--

Goodness… over their three decades of friendship, Nikolai has gotten under his skin countless times, but he’s never felt the urge to strike him like this…

The earlier argument he had with you must be why he’s still so agitated.

Shaking his head briskly, he dispels the odd thought and focuses on filling the now-empty saucepan with water, tossing the wooden spoon in alongside it. As you set the table, he hears you reply, “Oh no, I can handle it. Thank you though, Mr. Gogol—”

“Just Nikolai is fine, dollface.” Fyodor turns his gaze as Nikolai continues, “Although, I’d much prefer if you called me Kolya~” As his gaze lingers on you, Fyodor notices the small smile blooming on your face as you pick up Tolstoy, your hand idly caressing his fluffy head.

“I’m sorry, but you’re my senior in the writing world,” you respond kindly as you continue scratching behind the cat’s ear. The corners of Fyodor’s lips tug upwards into a smirk as he scatters defrosted berries across your bowl of porridge. “It would be disrespectful to call you by your first name.”

“Come on, сонечко. I insist! After all you’re friends with Fedya, right? Any friend of his is a friend of mine, so there’s no need for all this last name business!”

“I’m sorry Mr. Gogol, but I just can’t–”

Before Nikolai can whine again, Fyodor interrupts, “You are not making a good first impression on my assistant, Kolya.” He smirks at his friend as he places your bowl of porridge down first, adding a drizzle of honey on top. “Do not force her to call you by your first name. And besides—”

He sets his own bowl down, crossing his arms. “You still have not told me what you are doing here. The convention isn’t for another five days. Vivian told me that you and the others would be arriving as a group the evening before the convention.”

Nikolai’s flirty smile shifts into a mischievously devilish grin. Like a cat that's about to do something devious. He rocks on his feet, speaking in a carefree, warm tone, “Can’t I just show up early to surprise my bestie?” His voice takes on a mockingly hurt tone. “And here I thought you’d missed me this past year…woe is me, unloved by my best friend. I might just shed a tear…”

Fyodor scoffs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “There’s always a reason for your actions.” As he takes his seat across from you, he eyes Nikolai suspiciously as he settles into the chair closest to you.

He watches as Tolstoy leaps out of your arms, the feline disappearing into Fyodor’s bedroom. Feeling his jaw tighten, he picks up his spoon and digs it into his porridge, idly stirring it. “So?”

With an exaggerated sigh, Nikolai holds up his hands in feigned defeat. “Alright, alright, you caught me! I was supposed to arrive here in four days.” He leans back, hands behind his head. “But a..shall we say, opportunity presented itself that allowed me to be here early.”

Mid-scoop, Fyodor pauses, narrowing his dark eyes at Nikolai’s carefree expression. Silence stretches before he lets out a heavy sigh. “You stole Ivan’s ticket again, didn’t you?”

Nikolai’s lips curl into a barely concealed smirk, the kind only Fyodor would recognize. “Ivan’s ticket, my ticket—really, who’s to say whose it was? What matters is…first class is cushy, especially when you’re not the one paying for it!”

Fyodor can’t help the amused smirk that rises on his face. “I always knew those hacking techniques our old technology teacher showed us would come in handy in one way or another.” He grabs the honey, giving himself a smaller drizzle as he mumbles, “Imagine what else he could've taught us if we kept praising him--”

“You two have really been friends for that long?” Your voice snaps Fyodor out of his small moment of banter with his old friend. Placing the honey back down on the table, he casts his gaze toward you, noticing the curiosity lighting up your face.

“Oh yes, yes!” Nikolai speaks up before Fyodor can even think about replying. He casts his gaze towards him, noticing just how eager he is to talk about their past. “We’ve known each other since…” He looks at Fyodor, pursing his lips together. Holding his hands up, he mumbles, fingers twitching as he counts the years.

A low chuckle escapes Fyodor. “Since we were very small.” His voice softens as he turns his eyes on you. The way your eyes twinkle with curiosity is captivating, and he can’t bring himself to look away. “Kolya was visiting the area on vacation right before Winter one year—”

“—When I swear I saw this huge bird! It was one I'd never seen before! ” Nikolai interjects, his excitement as palpable as the day their paths first crossed. Fyodor’s shoulders slump slightly as your sparkling eyes turn in Nikolai’s direction. “So, like anyone else would, I ran after it! And I’m glad I did. This place always becomes so beautiful in Autumn…”

Nikolai turns his multicolored gaze toward Fyodor, grinning widely. His eyes are vibrant and alive, burning with the memory of that fateful day. Fyodor can practically see it playing over in the colourful hues of his eyes. “I lost sight of the bird but Fyodor here just so happened to be outside!"

"Well, I say he was outside," Nikolai adds, gently nudging Fyodor with his elbow as he smirks at him, "But really, he was huddled by the front door of this place reading a book!" He raises an eyebrow at Fyodor, as if saying 'what was up with that?'

"I was told to spend time outside," Fyodor nonchalantly replies, shrugging. "I was not told I couldn't take my book with me." Nikolai scoffs, rolling his eyes in response. You, on the other hand, giggle in amusement. Fyodor's dark eyes turn towards yours, gazing into your soft eyes, twinkling with mirth.

"That sounds exactly like something you'd do," you jest back, grinning at him. "You'd be the type to read at an amusement park instead of enjoying the rides."

Nikolai cackles softly, giving Fyodor another playful nudge, "I see she already has you all figured out, huh Fedya~?" He teases, earning a scoff from Fyodor. His eyes linger on you for a few moments as Nikolai continues his story. "If his mother didn't come outside and ask him to help her with the gardening, he probably would've sat there all day!"

Suddenly, Fyodor's heart clenches at Nikolai’s words, and he finds himself staring into his porridge as if it holds the answers to his unspoken questions. The meal suddenly seems less appealing, his stomach feeling constricted. He tries to swallow but his throat is abnormally dry.

“It was hilarious, honestly!” Nikolai continues, his laughter ringing through the air. “She dropped his ushanka on his head-- It was so big on him! It kept flopping down onto his face! Not to mention, his Winter coat was so big, he had to keep stopping to roll the sleeves up! At first I was shocked, because I didn't think he had hands!”

He laughs heartily. Fyodor hears your soft giggles mingling with it. His spoon glides through the porridge, a stone settling uncomfortably in his stomach. “—But it was honestly adorable how much he was helping her, with his little hand trowel and tiny watering can. All the while, he looked like a little puppy with floppy ears!”

Nikolai's voice is filled with the warmth of a sunny day. Each soft chuckle and tease made that ball of cold ice in Fyodor's stomach grow havier, weighing him down. “Why, if you ask me, I’m almost certain he—”

Suddenly, Fyodor clears his throat, interrupting Nikolai. He takes a deep breath, briefly locking eyes with him before his gaze drops back to his bowl of untouched porridge. He stirs it once, twice, before finally looking back up at Nikolai.

All traces of mischief have vanished from Nikolai’s face; even his smile feels empty. Despite this, the understanding and sympathy in his expression are unmistakable. In a heartbeat, he hums, turning his gaze back toward you. “Aaah…I can’t seem to recall…! It was quite a long time ago, so you’ll have to forgive my fuzzy memory.”

A sense of comfort washes over Fyodor. Even if he was intent on teasing him to death, Nikolai still understood and respected his boundaries without question. Fyodor couldn't help but appreciate that. As your warm tone of understanding reaches his ears, he relaxes further, “That’s okay; I have trouble remembering a lot of my early years too.”

The sound of your spoon tapping against the inside of your bowl as you scoop up more porridge isn’t lost on him. “So then, Mr. Gogol, if you gave up being a writer, what are you doing now?”

“Oh? Interested in my career, are you? What, want to make sure your future husband is earning enough~?” Fyodor feels his body starting to relax as the topic of conversation shifts. He hears you splutter a bit, coughing and dropping your spoon, clearly to Nikolai's delight, judging from his amused cackle. Fyodor keeps his gaze down at his porridge, stirring the thick, pale substance around as Nikolai continues, “Well, I gave up writing…god, quite a while ago at this point!”

Fyodor listens to Nikolai’s story, his stomach slowly feeling lighter as he reaches for a glass of water. His gaze briefly rests on Nikolai’s cheerful expression. He nods a few times in confirmation as he sips from his glass. Just like that, Nikolai’s gestures become more animated as he leans toward you.

“I stopped writing after Fedya’s published his first novel, under his pseudonym of course. I'd already been writing for a few years before this one started publishing.” He rests his elbow on the table, resting his chin on his knuckles.

He nods, enthusiasm sparkling in his eyes, “I'm very proud of the novels I've published and I'm glad so many readers enjoy them too.” Fyodor can practically see his best friend’s ego swelling. “Since then, I’ve just been in and out of jobs, travelling the world and–”

“Basically… Kolya struggles to hold down a job,” Fyodor teases, his eyes flickering toward you. He notices your amused smile beneath your curious eyes and adds, “He’s always been a bit of a wanderer. A free spirit, if you will. Don’t follow in his footsteps, Огонёк, or else this porridge may become a staple in your diet.”

Your gentle giggles fill his ears, causing his lips to tug a little higher. His eyes soften as he watches you, even as Nikolai starts to scoff. The sound of your laughter and the sight of your smile are almost soothing to him.

It doesn’t seem like you’re still upset about earlier—

Nikolai’s loud voice shakes him from his thoughts. “I’ll have you know, сонечко—” That nickname again. Fyodor's hand clenches tighter around his spoon. “—that just because I enjoy drifting between jobs and places, that I have, in fact, had many jobs and have quite a decent nest egg, if I say so myself!"

"I didn't work for a while after I published my last book. All of my freetime went into planning my future trips around the globe! But when I finally did get another job, I--"

Before Nikolai can continue, his phone buzzes and chimes. He glances at the screen, scoffing as an amused smirk tugs at his features. “Ah, I’ve been caught already, it seems. I’ll be back in two shakes of a bird’s tail! Don’t miss me too much~!”

He looks towards you, kissing his fingers and blowing you a kiss. Fyodor doesn’t miss the way your cheeks light up at the gesture, his eyes trailing after Nikolai as he leaves as he notices your turning to stare into your bowl.

Before Fyodor can correct the expression he used, Nikolai gets up from his spot beside you, heading for the front door. He lets out a silent sigh of relief as he hears him answer the call, the door gently shutting behind him.

Then, he turns his attention back to you. “I apologize for his sudden appearance. I would have warned you if I’d known Kolya was going to show up on my doorstep today. He can be a bit… much.”

“Oh, no, it’s completely fine. Mr. Gogol just seems very… eccentric. I don't mind his company." Your voice is quieter now, more relaxed. Fyodor’s gaze drops to your bowl, noticing you’ve been eating the whole time. There’s about half of the porridge left in your bowl, while his remains full. “But you still haven’t had a single bite of food.”

Blinking a few times, Fyodor looks up at you, mildly surprised that you’ve noticed his untouched bowl. “Ah… I suppose I just got caught up in our conversation.”

He watches as a frown tugs at your lips faster than you realise. You sigh, shaking your head lightly, your tone slightly exasperated. “I thought we fixed your eating habits.”

Before Fyodor can respond, you stand up, sliding your bowl across to the spot next to his before taking a seat beside him. He’s taken off guard, his mind short-circuiting for just a moment as you gaze up at him, that familiar warm smile finding its way back onto your face.

“Taking care of yourself is important, you know.” He can hear the care and worry in your gentle tone. His dark eyes turn down to watch as you grab his spoon with your non-dominant hand, scooping up some of his porridge along with a berry or two. “If you don’t eat, how are you going to keep coming up with those fantastic ideas of yours?”

“And what of you?” he replies, his gaze rising to meet yours with a hint of sternness. He gently caresses the back of his hand and wrist, reminding himself to soften his tone. “Your wrist won’t get any better if you keep forcing yourself either.”

A huff escapes you, a mix of frustration and understanding. “Okay, fair enough…” There’s a pause, the air thick with unspoken words with a dash of anxiety. When you speak again, your voice has grown softer, barely above a whisper. He notices how you look down at his bowl of porridge, as if it holds the secrets of the universe within its creamy texture.

“I’m…sorry. For earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.” His brows raise slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. He leans closer, silently urging you to continue.

“It’s just… I feel like I’m the one responsible for making sure your international debut goes well. If the work isn’t done in time or my translations are poorly done… I feel… I just…” You take a sharp breath in, fingers twisting the fabric of your skirt for comfort.

Your gaze shakily lifts, meeting his, revealing the intense sea of disquiet swirling in your usually bright, burning eyes.

He watches the way your lip quivers, the furrow of your brows deepening as you seem to search for stability in him. “I feel like I’ll be the one responsible for ruining your career. And I can’t… I just can’t do that to you…”

The weight of your words hangs in the air, heavy with apprehension. Fyodor can only imagine that this same burden has been weighing on your mind and heart all this time.

His chest clenches as he starts to realise the weight you’ve been silently carrying, that burden that’s been pushing you to work harder and harder, despite the agony it’s bringing you.

Despite the risks that come with it.

He wants to reassure you, to tell you that you’re not alone in this, that the success of his book relies on so many other factors outside of you. But the intensity of the moment leaves him momentarily speechless.

Taking a deep breath, he finally speaks, his voice soft, “Огонёк, you could never ruin my career. Your translations are…phenomenal. This is your first job, yet you have the talent of someone ten years your senior.”

He notices the way your eyes widen as if his words have struck a secret chord within your heart. Slowly, he lifts his hand, his slender fingers gently brushing against your bandaged wrist resting tenderly on your thigh. A silent gasp escapes your lips at his touch. With deliberate care, he caresses your wrist, his gaze firm yet warm.

“You are the best assistant I could ask for. That’s precisely why I need you to look after yourself.”

“I only scolded you earlier because I’m concerned about what could happen if you keep pushing yourself this way.” His tone softens, fingers pausing their gentle caress as he almost whispers, “I care about you, Огонёк. I don’t want to lose my assistant. So please, let’s find a middle ground so you can continue your work without risking your wrist.”

Without skipping a beat, a soft, shaky “O-okay,” escapes you. Fyodor smiles gratefully, his hand sliding off your wrist as he sits up straight. He's fast to notice the brief pause of silence that flows between the both of you. He lets it continue for a few seconds before he decides to speak up.

But before he can break the silence, he blinks in surprise as you lift the spoonful of porridge toward his lips, a playful- though still somewhat shaky- grin on your face.

“But if I’m going to start taking my wrist more seriously, you need to promise me you’ll keep eating well and looking after yourself too, okay?”

A small chuckle of amusement escapes Fyodor. He pauses for a moment, as if considering it. Then, with a shrug, he murmurs, “I suppose it’s a fair deal…”

Leaning forward, he accepts the mouthful of porridge, letting you feed him. He sees the way your eyes light up with relief, despite the anxiety still present in them. The way your smile doesn’t light up your face like normal, how your brows are furrowed….

As he swallows the porridge, he reaches out once more, his hand easily finding yours without him so much as glancing down. Instead of touching your wrist, he tenderly grasps your hand. He notices the way your eyes widen as he leans forward, his tone a serious whisper, “I’m serious, Огонёк. I want you to lean on me, okay? I do not want to see you pushing yourself again.”

His eyes peer into the shimmering surface of your eyes, watching as you fully absorb his words. Your silence is telling enough. It’s a silent sign to him that this will be more difficult than he initially thought. “Promise me, Огонёк. Promise me you won’t do this again.” His fingers gently intertwine with yours, his touch careful as he squeezes your hand.

A silent plea to agree to his terms.

“Mr. Dostoyevsky…” He notes how breathless you sound as you whisper his name. He remains unwavering, his hand gripping yours, refusing to let go until you agree to his terms. There’s a flutter in his chest as he remains silent, waiting with bated breath for your confirmation. Just a simple okay will be enough…

“Ooh la laaa~” Fyodor jolts, his shoulders going rigid as Nikolai’s mischievous voice fills the kitchen once more. His hand quickly releases yours, but it’s too late.

As Fyodor turns to meet Nikolai’s teasing, devious grin, he knows Nikolai has already drawn his own conclusions. “Have I interrupted something~? Oh dear! Fedya, you should’ve told me your assistant is—” He shifts his gaze back to you, his Cheshire-like grin widening, “—more than just your assistant.”

You take the bait before Fyodor can even think to stop you. “It isn’t anything like that!” You sound so flustered that it almost catches him off guard. You’ve never sounded like this around him before—it’s strange to hear your usually resolute and passionate voice tremble like this. But it’s almost… cute. “We were just talking–!”

A mischievous hum lingers on Nikolai’s lips as he approaches the table, a taunting sway in his steps. You've snatched the bait, hook, line and sinker.

“Talking while holding hands, hmm~? Forgive me for saying so, but that seems a bit more—” He moves closer, almost standing behind Fyodor now, “—amorous than a boss should be with his assistant~”

“She’s wounded, Kolya.” Fyodor interjects, stepping in before you can reply. “I was checking the condition of her wrist. You haven’t strayed so far from writing that you’ve forgotten just how valuable our hands and wrists are, have you?”

Nikolai holds up his hands, that sly grin transforming into an innocent smile that could fool anyone else. “Hey, don’t let me stop you from being a caring boss. I just think that normally, when you’re checking someone’s injury—” His smirk reappears just as quickly as it had vanished. “—you normally… well… check the injury. Not stare into the patient’s eyes.”

Fyodor interrupts calmly, “I was watching her expressions for any signs of discomfort or pain. Огонёк and I may be on friendly terms, but I wouldn’t put it past her to hide her pain from me if she thinks for even a second that I’m going to stop her from translating those chapters.”

“Oh, so she’s resilient? That's interesting...” Nikolai clicks his tongue, his eyes gleaming deviously. Fyodor sighs, mentally preparing himself for whatever flirtatious comment Nikolai might make next—aimed at you, of course—when your voice cuts through the banter.

“So… you’d say we’re friends then…?”

The question catches Fyodor off guard. It’s not just the question itself, but the soft, almost meek tone you’re using, as if you’re afraid he might deny it. His dark eyes shift to meet yours. You look up at him, uncertainty etched on your face, a glimmer of anticipation shining in your eyes.

Friends…

Fyodor hadn’t considered the nature of your relationship before you said that.

At first, he had to admit he hadn’t enjoyed your company that much. You were a brilliant translator, an asset to him as an author and in achieving his current goals. But having someone else’s presence lingering in this cottage with him after the past year he'd spent here alone had felt unpleasant at first.

You didn’t know how sacred this place was to him. You didn’t know how long he had spent in these walls, absorbing their atmosphere and essence, burning the memory of thi splace into his memory. Wanting every small detail etched deep into his soul so that when he ultimately met his end, he would remember it in the afterlife.

But that wasn’t your fault.

You had come here to perform a job, plain and simple. You hadn’t come to trample all over the sacredness of this place. You probably didn’t even realise how deeply this building and its location means to Fyodor. When he finally came to accept that and let you in, he couldn’t deny that he began to enjoy your presence.

You'd even gone out of your way to spend your paycheck on food these past few weeks, just to make sure he was eating well. You even helped him get some much needed rest that fired his creativity and drive to write into overdrive.

In fact, a part of him desired your presence now. You brought warmth back into his life that he had lost a year ago when his spark had been swept away. Stolen from him in the blink of an eye, leaving him cold and alone with only his thoughts to keep him company.

It wasn’t the same burning intensity he had known, but a gentle flame, a determined, passionate one, unique and all your own, that you’d brought with you was warmer than any candle currently lit around the cottage. He was drawn to your captivating flame, your burning passion and drive, like a helpless moth.

He couldn’t deny it, even if a small part of him didn’t want to admit it: Fyodor enjoyed your company.

“Yes.” He pauses, considering his words carefully. His dark eyes never leave the hopeful shimmer in yours, the words leaving his lips causing that flutter in his chest to grow as he continues, “That is to say....I would consider us to be more than acquaintances…”

He watches your eyes light up, that shimmer becoming a full sparkle. Her doesn’t even realize you’re leaning slightly closer to him, that hopeful undertone to your voice growing more intense, “And more than acquaintances is…?”

He huffs at you, pulling back. He looks away, returning to swirling his porridge, “Forget I said anything.” Despite his dismissive tone, he stifles a chuckle as you whine beside him, pleading for him to say the words you want to hear.

“Aww, come on! It doesn’t count if you don’t say it!” He can easily hear the joyful mirth in your voice, the slight rise in pitch as you plead with him.

He may not have openly called you friends, but his words have nonetheless brought you happiness. Alot of it by the sounds. He can tell that much, at least. That’s rather sweet; he didn’t expect his words to make you this happy.

Something about it warms his chest, that fluttering feeling growing more intense. Before he realizes it, a faint smile is sneaking onto his face.

︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

“Dad, I’m home!”

Your keys jingle in your hand as you push open the apartment door, greeted by the musty smell of mildew and the irritating flicker of the lightbulb in the dining room when you switch it on. It buzzes and flashes a few times before settling into a soft glow, illuminating your dingy little apartment.

You know it might seem odd to others, but it’s hard to break this habit. Whenever something makes you particularly excited or happy, you find yourself coming home, calling out for your deceased father just as you did in your youth.

The last time you'd done this was the day you'd graduated from university. Even though he’s gone, you can’t help but share the good news with him as if he were still here.

“Sorry I’m late,” you continue, turning to securely lock the door behind you. You giggle happily, hanging your still damp amber coat on a clothes hanger by the window, the chill of the evening still clinging to your skin. You crack the window open slightly, hoping your coat will be dry by morning.

The silence of the rundown apartment wraps around you; the only sounds you can hear is faint honking in town. It’s a familiar silence. A lonely silence. “One of Mr. Dostoyevsky’s friend’s showed up early. Something about hacking and stealing tickets?”

You giggle, the sound echoing in the quiet space. “I don’t know. I didn’t really get it, but that friend of his was quite the charmer.” Your smile softens as you think of the encounter, a flicker of warmth igniting a memory.

“Oh, and get this!” You almost squeal as you walk toward the kitchen. Pausing, you turn to gaze at the dining room, imagining your father sitting at the table, listening to you gush about your day, that big goofy grin of his on his face. “Mr. Dostoyevsky said we’re friends!”

You know you have the goofiest smile on your face as you open the old refrigerator. It hums loudly as you reach in, grabbing a chilled water bottle before heading back into the dining area.

Your tone hushes slightly after you take a few mouthfuls of the cold liquid—the last thing you need is for your neighbors to think you’ve finally lost your marbles. “Well... he didn’t say the word ‘friends,’ but that’s basically what he meant!”

Giggling happily, you feel like you’re on cloud nine. Maybe it was silly to be so happy about something like this, but the thought of actually being friends with Fyodor filled you with the warmth of a cozy fireplace in winter.

During your time working for him, you’d come to admire both him and his work. The idea that someone as talented as him saw you as a friend made you want to jump around and squeal.

“I wish I could introduce you to him and Mr. Gogol,” you mumble, a wistful tone in your voice as you approach the dull gray buffet table. “They’re really interesting people, Dad. I bet you would’ve loved to share your stories with them too…”

It stands sturdy, even after all these years, with three lockable drawers and two sideboards. But you only make use of one sideboard and the top drawer.

The second drawer holds your school report cards and the arts and crafts projects you’d made for your father during your childhood. He’d lovingly labelled the front of the drawer with your name, decorated with worn-down holographic butterfly stickers and beloved cartoon characters that once filled your days with joy.

As you lean closer, a faint scent drifts up from the surface—something sweet and sharp, reminiscent of overripe fruit mingling with the dust of distant memories. Memories of your youth that now left far behind you.

Despite knowing better, you attempt to unlock the bottom drawer with your key but it doesn’t seem to work. The key slides in but doesn’t unlock the drawer as you rotate it. It was an oddity that always piqued your curiosity, made worse by the fact that it couldn’t unlock the right sideboard either.

The key slides into the lock for the left sideboard, unlocking with a satisfying ‘click!’ as you turn it. Opening the door, you smile nostalgically, greeted by the sight of all the short stories your father wrote for you—from the fading, tattered yellow spine of his very first storybook to the deep red of his final creation.

‘Mister Fox.’

Your non-dominant hand reaches out, gently sliding the final storybook free from its slot and into the warmth of your palms. “I bet you’d want me to show them this one. You told me it was your favorite…”

Nostalgia begins to pulse through your veins as you sit down on the floor, your fingers tracing the letters written in gold across the cover, accompanied by a whimsical illustration of a fox.

As your hand glides over the gold letters of your father’s name, a dull ache settles in your chest. You brush away small remnants of dust from the cover, a gentle reminder of time passed.

This was a storybook you had only read once with him, a cherished moment before the day that irrevocably changed the course of your life. The crimson of the book in your hands feels almost too bright against the sombre memories, a stark reminder of what you’d found, what you’d seen that day.

You inhale shakily, your hand pausing on the cover as your heart pounds, the weight of those memories suddenly pressing down on you. The book in your hands feels like it’s carrying the weight of the world within it’s pages. The harsh scent of iron and the rancid, sour stench of bile assault your nostrils, pulling you back to that day as if you were reliving it all over again.

You exhale deeply, reaching for the cold bottle of water you’d brought to the buffet. You clench the plastic, causing it to crunch in your grasp. The chill spreads across your palm and fingers, before you jolt, realising too late that you’ve grabbed it with your damaged hand. Pain shoots through your wrist like a thousand lightning bolts.

You wince, groaning as the bottle slips from your grasp, hitting the floor with a soft thud. You draw your injured wrist close to your chest, clenching it firmly into a fist, waiting for the pain to subside.

On the bright side, the memory has faded like a ghost, disappearing into the deepest depths of your mind until it's roused once more. On the less bright side, you can already hear Fyodor’s morning lecture on being more careful echoing in your mind.

As the pain dulls, your attention draws itself back to the small crimson, hardcover notebook that your father had written ‘Mister Fox’ in. It was the same size and brand as the other storybooks tucked away in the sideboard, though in much better condition.

The artwork on the front cover was whimsical and cute, depicting a charming orange fox with a long bushy tail, surrounded by delicate purple foxgloves. It's pouncing forward, a large cartoonish grin on it's face as it's frozen in time, caught midleap over your father's name written on the cover.

It was pure luck, your father had told you, a wide, lopsided grin on his face. He had just come back from the store, his breath faintly tinged with the smell of something sweet, when he ran into an amazing artist who’d happily drawn the cover for him, free of charge.

Although he couldn’t remember the name of the artist when you’d asked him…

You gently open the notebook, reading the dedication inside. Each book held a different message, all addressed to you.

“To my beautiful daughter,

Remember that I have always and will always love you. I have countless regrets, but you, my little Dahlia, will forever be the single most precious thing in my universe. You are a blessing to me.”

Your lips quirk upwards as your fingertips gently trace over the last dahlia he’d ever tried to draw for you at the bottom of the dedication, scribbled in with a black marker. It was shakily rendered with a nearly empty pen, but to you, it was perfect; imperfections and all.

“I love you too, Dad,” you whisper sorrowfully, taking a deep breath to steady yourself before you begin reading through your father’s last storybook.

The story tells of a charming fox who lived deep in the forest, enjoying a peaceful life. He had everything he could ask for; comfort, peace and food. Until one day, he heard a baby bunny crying and rushed out to find a giant wolf threatening her. The brave fox confronted the wolf and, after a tense standoff, the wolf retreated.

The grateful bunny called the fox her hero, but he felt guilty about his past. He took her back to his cozy den, where they shared food and comfort. He raised the baby bunny for a long while, as his guilt was eating at him from the inside.

Later, overwhelmed by his guilt, the fox confessed his dark history to the bunny, warning her of the danger he posed. He knew the bunny would despise him, hate him for revealing himself as the monster he is. No different than the wolf who had cornered her and tried to eat her when she was a kit.

However, the bunny, undeterred, expressed her belief in his goodness and forgave him for his past. Touched by her words, the fox promised to change for her sake. From that day on, they lived happily together, with the fox dedicated to protecting the bunny he loved like his own daughter.

Your eyes linger on the final scribble in the notebook, a depiction of the fox carrying the bunny on his back. That’s what it was supposed to represent, at least. In truth, it looked more like a smaller, paler orange atop a larger one, with sausage-like legs.

Your father was a writer, not an artist, after all.

Gently, you close the book, holding it tightly to your chest for a moment. This was your father’s final gift before his passing. He didn't get the chance to take it to the writer’s convention himself.

You just knew that if they had read it, this book would have been his breakthrough. It would have been both his first and only step into the literary world...

He had passed his flame to you, his torch now yours to carry. His legacy rested solely on your shoulders.

First, you would get his book out there, and it would be published. Then, after helping get Fyodor’s book out into the world, you would continue to carry the flame for your father.

This book would be the first of many that you would see to publishing under your father's name. The rest of the books in the buffet table would come after. You'd make sure each and every one would see the light of day.

This was the least you could do for him. After all the sacrifices he made for you, after all he had done for you, you owed him that much, didn’t you?

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

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