#sitting here wobbling grouchily

[fisherrprince]

aw zoinks I KNEW 5.3 was gonna be mean to ME

[enternalempires]

In Your Dreams

This is a Lukanette soulmate fic. Lots of fluff, a lil confusion and a good portion of frustration. But it’s cute so whatever. Hope you enjoy! Haven’t figured out how to use links yet but my Ao3 username is the same.

The background was bleary but the scene was all the same; scattered leaves floating through the air and clumping to the ground in odd piles with mud puddles here and there, the air was chilly and stuck to his lungs in little pricks but it felt nice.

In Luka’s dreams— their dreams, he supposed— autumn was nothing short of a safe, warm feeling despite the fact that it could send his body shivering and teeth chattering. He’d be wearing gloves and his favorite jacket, jeans and thick boats but still get shudders going down his spine.

He always met her in his dreams, too, and this night was no different.

She wore a long, soft pink coat and black leggings, her midnight hair fluttered around her shoulders and under a black beanie with little dots on it and her eyes— god, her eyes were a brilliant blue that never failed to make him restless.

His body always got so high strung around her, aching to pull her close and never let go, burning up from the inside out and screaming at him to just find her, why don’t you find her already? We need her! We need her so bad that it hurts!

Luka wanted to; and he looked as well.

He’s been looking since he was a little eight year old hiding bruises and busted knuckles and teary eyes but had such a gentle girl visiting him after he finally felt safe enough to close his eyes.

He’s looked and looked and looked and looked.

She wasn’t in his classes, wasn’t in his school, didn’t hang out where he hung out and didn’t have any mutual friends.

He didn’t even know her name.

So what was he supposed to do?

They didn’t say much; in a dreamland like this, touch was so much more important but their short conversations told him enough.

Told him she lived in a bakery that her parents owed and that she loved them (and by god did he spend the next couple of weeks searching through every cafe or bakery or cake shop in Paris but never saw those blue eyes), that she wants to go into fashion, that she had bullies and insecurities but was the loveliest person he ever met and doesn’t even realize it.

And everything— everything— about her made him fall in love so deep that he could feel it in his bones.

These dreams, he knew, connected people to their soulmate.

So how did she get so lucky ending up with her?

The nameless, beautiful girl who haunted his dreams. The talented, brilliant girl whose laugh rolled over him like a wave of joy. The brave girl who held so much power in her hands and never dared abuse it. The girl he so desperately needed to know how to hold— how she would feel against his chest, in his arms. Not in their dreams, not when her warmth was shallow and her body melted against him almost like she was half-tangible and even less sure of herself.

They had a little place against the whirlwind of leaves that they always sat; a nice groove between two trees that always kept them dry and blocked the wind from biting at their cheeks.

Today he got their first, humming a melody into the nothingness around him and then there she was, washed in pink and black and with those freckles of hers, blue eyes watery as she sat down next to him and crawled into his lap without saying a word.

Luka held her— because even if he wanted to do so much more than just sit here in silence, this is what she needed— and continued to hum her song for the girl he fell in love with.

Some nights they do things that leave them waking up to a belly full of laughter and a smile so wide that their cheeks ache— other times, after bad days, he wipes the tears away from her face and wishes he could be there to do the same when she wakes up or she’ll hold him to her and hum his song right back.

This was one of the bad days and he wonders what it is this time.

A bully? A fight with a friend?

“Today was really hard,” She sniffles and he startled, not used to her talking much but ran his fingers through her hair in acknowledgement and comfort to her words. “My friends they… they all found their soulmates already so everyone was doing a paired up game thing but— but I was all alone and I missed you so much. This girl, she keeps lying and telling everyone I’m greedy for not being content with the people already in my lives. She’s making it seem like I don’t appreciate my friends and that I think I’m better than them but i don’t! I love my friends, I’m happy for them— I just want my soulmate, too. Is… Is it selfish to just want you with me already?”

“It’s not selfish at all, my melody,” Luka gently kissed her forehead, lips feeling like they’re brushing against nothing but solid air. “I want you already, too.”

She’s quiet for a moment before sitting up— consequently straddling his lap as well, her hands clutching onto his jacket and a frown coming onto her features as he brushes away the leftover tears staining her cheeks— and saying, “I want to know your name.”

“Are you sure?” Luka asks, not because he didn’t want to share it but because they… just never talked about this before.

Never said ‘I miss you’ or anything of the sort, though both knew that they were missed from just one look into their soulmate’s eyes. She never told him her name, so he did the same. She didn’t want to know at first and he didn’t ask why.

So this, the talking, the questions, the fact that they’re going to just be one step closer to finding each other, is a very unfamiliar feeling.

“I’m sure,” She looks him in the eyes and Luka practically melts. It should be illegal to be so beautiful, to look so cute even after she just got finished crying. “Do you, um, do you want to know mine?”

“Yes.” The answer is instant.

She smiles in reply and he grins back, bringing her hand up to kiss every knuckle before saying, “I’m Luka Couffaine.”

“Couffaine?” Her smile freezes, jaw going slack, and her eyes widen. “Wait, like, Juleka Couffaine?”

He blinks, “You know my sister?”

“Sister?” She shrieks, then laughs, her hands gently grabbing his face and planting a kiss onto his forehead. “I know who you are!”

“Wha—”

And then she disappears.

She’s awake and he’s stuck there and she knows his name but he doesn't know hers and he’s never been more frustrated in all his life before.

Luka wakes up and screams into his pillow, then a couple seconds later the partition separating his and Jules sides of the room is thrown open and his stupid sister is throwing a brush at him. 

“Shut up, idiot!” Juleka hisses, wobbling on her legs as she groggily stumbles back to her bed. “I was having a serious conversation with my baby flower.” Her ‘baby flower’ was Rose, her soulmate, and they’ve been annoyingly in love since they met in second grade.

His rolls over and crawls back under her covers, shoving his pillow over his head and swearing a couple times before falling silent. Luka glares at her before glaring up at the ceiling, the morning lift drifting in through the window and the familiar, comforting sound of the waves splashing against the Liberty is enough to remind him that the real peace is being with her.

Not here, not in this bed, not with his sister— but in her arms, seeing her smile, hearing her laugh.

Grunting slightly as he sits up and stands out of bed, Luka gets dressed and opens to hatch to get out of his room, his guitar on his back as he grouchily goes into their kitchen and makes himself breakfast.

Juleka and his mom notice his grumpiness and, like true Couffaine’s, decide to embrace the chaos and be grumpy right back.

Like always, Luka walks with his sister to school after meeting up with Rose in their regular route but this time he’s silent and staring at the ground with pure annoyance ripping through him like a burning coal.

Why couldn’t he just know her name?

Was that too much to ask?

“Hey,” Juleka nudges his quietly as the school comes into sight, kids scattered all around. It was her first year but Luka’s last year in Lycee and while he was familiar with the school, he still kept a map in his bag in case his sister got lost and needed help. “You okay, loser? You’re acting strange.”

“Last night my soulmate learned my name,” He grumbled out the words. “And, apparently, she knows me as your older brother so she knows you but I didn’t get her name.”

“Poor Lukey,” She chuckles, making Rose pout up at her for being mean. “But, like… if I know her, she probably goes to our school. You get that, right?”

Luka just looks at her blankly.

“What?”

“Our school, dumbass. She goes to our school. My only friends who know I have a brother go here.”

Luka blinks. Once, twice. Three times.

Then he’s snapping his head up to the students around him and looking around, trying to pinpoint anyone that even resembles his melody as Juleka laughs at how frantic he turned and Rose cooed at how adorable it is that he is so excited.

Excited?

Nervous?

Feeling like he’s gonna throw up?

Feeling his heart pound in his chest?

Check, check, check, and check.

Then— then he catches the sight of midnight hair in the corner of his eye and whips around fast enough that his neck kinda protests at his movement but he just doesn’t care.

Because it’s her.

She’s wearing a soft blue dress because unlike in their dream it’s a little warm out and she has a black sweater cardigan that goes down to her knees and looks so comfortable and she’s wearing matching flats and her hair is in two pigtails and her eyes are bright and happy and so blue and he’s going to drown.

And god, she looks prettier than he could’ve imagined.

Is his heart supposed to beat this fast?

She has the same happy smile and same giggle as she sees him looking and he’s too shell shocked to do anything but watch as his soulmate bounds up to him and holds out a box of macaroons the color of his jacket.

“Hi,” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and shyly meets his eyes. “I’m Marinette Dupain-Cheng and um, I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that before I woke up.”

“It’s really you,” Luka breathes out, hand raising to gently cup her cheek. Both of them give a low gasp at the wave of warmth and energy that washes over them as soon as their skin meets. Marinette leans into his touch with a soft smile and closes her eyes. “You’re really here.”

“Where else would I be?” She kisses the inside of his palm. “In your dreams?”

Luka laughs before pulling her into a bone-crushing hug, the poor box of macaroons falling to the ground but he’s too happy at the moment to feel guilty.

“God,” He breathes in her scent— chocolate chip cookies and the faint smell of vanilla. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

She’s tangible; right here, right now, in his arms she’s tangible.

Her arms wrap around him, too, and he starts to cry because every nightmare she helped him escape, every problem, every thought wearing on him too heavy that she soothed with the sound of his laugh just melts.

Nothing can compare to this.

She’s real and she’s his and they fit together perfectly.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever let her go.

Soulmates.

That’s the term people use, right?

It suddenly doesn’t feel descriptive enough.

“Luka,” Marinette says, pulling back enough that when she looks him in the eyes she can be the one to wipe away his tears instead of the other way around. “Are you okay?”

“Perfect,” He pulls her closer, head falling to nuzzle into her neck. “I’m perfect.”

There were people scattered around them, kids from their school and friends and other couples but they didn’t care. They were together and there were no leaves or mud puddles or a groove between two trees, there was no wispy wind and half-tangible hugs and voices sometimes too soft to hear.

They were together, they didn’t have to miss each other or be alone.

And there wasn’t a single selfish thing about that.

[unicyclehippo]

beaujester + “You’re trembling.”

the salt-spray is powerful at the bow. it stings at scrapes jester hadn’t realised she had, stings at her eyes, fills her nose until it’s the only thing she can smell. she clutches at the salt-crusted rail, feels the crystals grind beneath her skin, and wonders, in a very focused way that bars any other thoughts from creeping in, whether orly could make a tattoo using salt in place of gem dust. or whether that’s, just, y’know. a normal tattoo.

so focused is she on this that she doesn’t notice when, precisely, beau came to join her. the other girl is leaning scraped-red elbows and forearms on the railing, not seeming to feel or mind the sting. the wind whips in beau’s hair, tugs at it until more and more of the long strands come free of her topknot. it’s harder to escape the goggles, the leather keeping her hair mostly pinned, and after a short while, the wind dies down.

that’s normal, obviously, but it makes jester smile to think of it sulking. maybe the wind is a prankster too.

‘beau! when did you get here?’

‘little bit ago. would’ve said something but, i dunno, you looked like you were thinking hard. figured i could wait.’ beau drags her hands through her hair with a small noise of complaint. she stands, pulls her goggles down to hang around her neck, and continues to talk as she tries to fix her hair. ‘you alright? anything you wanna run past us?’

jester can’t help but look askance at her friend. ‘us?’

‘you know. the group.’

‘i don’t see the group here. just you.’

‘i can go get someone...?’ beau lets the offer trail off when jester scoffs. ‘what?’

jester shakes her head.

‘no, seriously, what is it? is everything okay?’

‘i don’t know.’ jester digs her nails into the wood, watches the splinters curl and the salt whiten and crack away. ‘is it?’ out of the corner of her eye, she can see the way beau’s hands slow as she works her hair into a tight braided coil. she turns the tiniest bit more, wanting to see something that explains anything, but beau’s expression is as stoic as ever—unruffled, vaguely thoughtful. her frown isn’t cranky, just protects her eyes from the wind that has started up again, long lashes dipped low. ‘did you want something, beau?’

the other girl starts. finished with her braid, she lets her hands fall slowly back to the railing. pulls herself back into her nonchalant lean, though it loses some of its carelessness with the way she turns toward jester, the way she—seemingly without intent, without effort—focuses on jester, eyes boring into her, through her.

sometimes, jester wishes beau were simpler. easier to understand. less of a liar. she pretends so much that she doesn’t care, doesn’t care, doesn’t care—but then she’s the one who has all the questions, the one who looks and stares and examines and learns and questions everything. jester thinks, maybe, beau cares the most out of all of them, about everything; she pretends she doesn’t, that these things don’t matter, but the attention betrays her. jester wishes beau were easier to understand. wishes she knew whether beau cares about everything equally, or whether the weight of her attention means something special.

‘you’re trembling,’ beau says softly. the words have barely reached jester when the wind—that asshole prankster—whips them away.

jester sniffs. tosses back her hair with a jaunty shake of her head. ‘i’m fine. did you want something or not?’

beau is quiet for a bit. then, ‘yeah,’ she admits, voice gruff. ‘but—if this is a bad time,’

jester musters a smile. gives it to beau, who stares at it and the way it sits on her and seems to see how it is misaligned. how it doesn’t quite reach jester’s eyes. ‘it’s not! i’m happy to help!’

beau drops her eyes. dips her head over her hands, over the rail, and stares down toward the sea below them. her shoulder blades press together as she stretches. sunlight glints off jade.

‘i was hoping,’ she says, and the words come out haltingly like she doesn’t want to say them, or like she is still debating whether this is the right time, ‘you could - send a message to my dad.’

jester jerks. ‘oh.’

‘it’s cool if you don’t want to, or if you don’t have that prepared, i don’t know what you have prepared, but i just figured it’s probably time to be like oh hey i’m still alive. or. whatever.’

beau turns toward her with a grimace, one that crinkles up her face, and jester is struck with sudden affection for her friend. she looks young and uncomfortable and vaguely grumpy at the notion of having to send him a message. she looks alive, and jester loves her for not leaving. for still being here. loves her desperately and sharply, a stinging pain beneath her heart, for being here when jester thinks she might want to leave still.

‘i—‘ jester clears her throat. tries again, trying to pull strength into her words. ‘um. i can do that.’ she smiles brightly, glances teasingly over at beau, who looks abruptly worried and charmed by jester’s shifted expression. ‘what i’m hearing is that you’re giving me permission? to message your dad?’

beau snorts. ‘yeah.’

‘he’ll know it’s me now so i can’t pretend to be the witch,’

‘probably for the best.’

jester doesn’t necessarily agree with that. she thinks beau could make something with him—thinks he really does love her, even past the fear and misery—but it doesn’t mean jester shouldn’t be able to torment him a little bit.

‘what do you want me to say?’ she asks, summoning the playful wind back to her, compressing it into something that can carry this message. she curls her fingers, feels it nudge and buffet at her, eager to race halfway across the world for her.

beau mutters under her breath, fingers moving as she counts. ‘uh. okay. we are alive. met the witch, got what we wanted. your deal still stands.’ beau’s voice quavers the tiniest bit but she pushes on. ‘beau is fine. anything happen there?’

‘five more words.’

beau shrugs, dismissive. then, ‘say hi to the kid.’

jester smiles sweetly. nods. she brings the held wind to her lips and whispers the message into it, watches faint green and pink wash through it. as soon as she opens her hand, it is gone. just as quickly, it returns.

‘ah. good. i’m—glad to know she’s okay. i was worried—we were worried—when no one returned. everything is as it was here. do—‘

jester rolls her eyes. ‘some people just don’t understand the concept of a word limit,’ she tells beau grouchily. beau smiles, hides it quickly, and jester narrows her eyes. ‘what?’

‘nothing, nothing. did he say anything?’

‘just that he had been worried. it sounded like he was going to ask something. do you want me to send another message?’

beau sighs. ‘no. yes? no. if everything was burning or whatever he would’ve said that first up.’ she cracks her head to the side, neck popping. ‘did he—say anything about me?’ she grimaces immediately.

‘he said he’s happy you’re okay.’

‘hmm.’

‘that’s good, right? that he cares?’

beau shrugs. ‘maybe,’ she says, very softly. ‘thanks. for sending that for me. and—for sticking by me in there. i didn’t say it then but—thanks.’

they’ve been standing side by side for the entire conversation but jester feels it powerfully like she is crossing a line, stepping over it, when she reaches those meagre centimetres to put her hand over beau’s. squeeze.

‘of course, beau.’

‘it’s not an of course, though. you know that, right?’ beau peers at her. flips her hand so she’s holding it, loose enough that jester could slip away. fingertips pressed firmly where they sit, like she can read jester from the pulse beneath her skin. ‘no one else did that. they were all there but you—you stood next to me and i really - i really appreciate it. i was gonna lose my shit and you helped me. not everyone does that.’

‘well. i’m not everyone,’ jester tells her, all exaggeration and coy smile.

beau slides her thumb across the back of her hand. over the waves of her knuckles, the sea-blue skin. ‘you’re not,’ she agrees, voice low. careful, cautious almost, in the way one would be careful with something precious. ‘you’re not like anyone i’ve ever met. i kinda think you’re a god, you know.’ she shakes her head when jester giggles. ‘i’m serious. you—you’re amazing and powerful and it’s who you are. i’m—fuck, i’m sorry you’re having a rough time with it,’

‘i’m not!’

beau ignores her lie. no—she hears it, nods, steps over it. ‘i can’t say for sure i trust this dude, but i just want you to know that i trust you and what you do and who you are and i’ll do anything to protect that. and i didn’t come here to ask you to send a message for me, i wanted to make sure you were okay, because you’re—you’re not alone,’ she says, with the same fervour she had thanked jester for standing with her. ‘you’re not alone in any of this, and maybe we can’t do it for you but we’ll be right there alongside you—‘

‘will you?’

beau blinks. ‘what?’

‘will you be there?’

‘i mean—i was saying we, it’s kinda implied,’

‘will you be there?’ jester asks again.

beau glances down at their joined hands. jester sees her shoulders shift as she drags in a deep breath. ‘yes. as—as long as you want me there.’

and there’s the problem, jester realises, the same stinging pain taking up residence beneath her heart. because she thinks, with sudden clarity like the purity of the unmitigated burn of sunlight, like salt reminding her of her wound, that to have beau leave at all would wreck her.

‘forever, then,’ jester says, voice a little wobbly, a little unsure.

beau’s hold on her hand tightens and then loosens once more. ‘okay,’ she says. ‘okay.’

[kikizoshi]

GoDost Historical AU: Sonya & Raskolnikov Room Meeting 2

An hour or so past midnight, in the sleeping town of St. Petersburg, a tiny apartment’s door suddenly became victim to an intense, forceful banging.

           The rattling and creaking of the door, followed by one final slam, roused the room’s tenant, a young, healthy civil servant of about twenty and three, who, having woken in such an abrupt manner, promptly flailed, toppled off the decaying couch on which he slept, and landed on the floor with a groan (whether from the floorboards or the man, it was hard to say).

         Cursing, the civil servant pushed himself up onto his feet and stared grouchily toward the door. The banging had ceased, and in lieu, some muffled, raggedy breaths could be heard. ‘My door’s attacker has tired himself out already,’ he thought, ‘and just at the beginning of his tirade! It surely serves him right, but what has he come for? I paid the rent already…’ Thoughts carrying on in a similar manner, the young man shuffled over to lean against a battered vanity, atop which many half-transcribed sheets of paper rested. He was careful not to displace any of them.

         He couldn’t simply rest, he knew, yet the idea of confronting whatever beast came walloping upon his door wasn’t a pleasant one. He sighed and gazed about the room. He had no choice but to meet his attacker, lest a second and third barrage rob him of the little sleep he could gain--or, Heaven forbid, break the lock, the replacement of which would surely tear a hole in his wallet--and shouldering this responsibility, the civil servant trudged back over to the couch, along the back of which was laid a drab grey undercoat. He swung the thin fabric around his shoulders--making no effort to wear it properly; his visitor could reap the hospitality he sewed--and turned round again to the door, wondering what to do.

         Just then, a stream of moonlight glinted off a polished samovar--the man’s one luxury--and for a moment, the twinkle whispered a wicked idea into his mind. As quickly, however, he shoved it away and spat at it for good measure. ‘And why would I do something like that? I’ve not even heard out this stranger yet! Though who would call upon a man in the dead of night--and not only call, but hammer!--without any slight inclination such as my own... Well, but I know not him…’ And again, the civil servant’s thoughts wandered.

         Suddenly, he laughed and said aloud, “But who would draw such attention to himself if that were the case?” Certain, then, he went to the door and amiably, in a full display of manners which he would have liked himself to receive, and knocked thrice upon the--surprisingly--sturdy wood door.

         “Might I inquire,” the civil servant began, raising his voice so as to be heard through the door, “what brings such a violent tirade upon my lodging at such an hour?”

         “Inquire trite.” A thin, exasperated voice, with an edge that the young man couldn’t place, sounded faintly back. “Let me in, Gogol.”

         Gogol, as the voice named, stood back and contemplated. Soon, he had a tailored reply, but at the impatient “now” proceeding the voice’s words, Gogol took firmly the door’s handle, unlatched the poor lock (which by then wobbled on a few loose screws) and opened the door.

         Not a word managed to pass Gogol’s lips before the man who called upon him--Fyodor Dostoyevsky, that was, a young student Gogol struck up a camaraderie with over the past few months--shoved past him and into the small room. Gogol smiled and shook his head, shutting the door (and for what it was worth, relatching the lock).

         “You could have at least a greeting,” he said, affecting offendence, “But- hey, what’s gotten into you?” Dostoyevsky, as though in delirium, paced around the room, muttering to himself. Gogol strained an ear, but managed to decipher nothing, and so moved cautiously closer, leaning against the vanity. His nose twitched at a faint iron smell. “Really, what’s this? It’s as though he’s gone mad! Surely you’re still with me, Fedya.”

         “I’m here, I’m here!” Dostoyevsky gritted his words, wringing his hands as though the noise buzzed around him.

         “Are you really?”

         “Yes, really. Quit with your stupid questions.”

         “Really?” Gogol squinted. Amid Dostoyevsky’s ramblings, a cloud had passed over the moon, casting everything in shadow. As such, Gogol could not see the panicked expression plaguing his friend’s features, nor make out the blood flaking his overcoat. “They’re not stupid. I may be blind, but my ears work perfectly fine. You’re practically hyperventilating!”

         In fact, quite the opposite was true. Dostoyevsky’s breaths weren’t fast, but they shook, and came at an uneven pace. The snow which Gogol noticed covering his friend when he came in had mostly melted by then, and he shivered and dripped onto the grimy floorboards.

         “Well, anyway,” Gogol started after a moment, “What have you come for? And so late?”

         “I…” Dostoyevsky began, but trailed off. He himself was quite incapable of answering such a question. Understanding that he must speak, however, Dostoyevsky made an effort to continue. “I needed… that is, I wanted… but no, no it’s all… Why have I come? The answer is quite… that is to say… Why have I come?” The last phrase, spoken as though without taking any notice of Gogol, worried said man further.

         “You’re shaking,” Gogol said, “Here, sit down here,” he pointed to the couch, “Don’t worry about dirtying it--I needed to clean it anyways. Hey, why simply stand there? Sit, I say!”

         “I’m not a dog,” Dostoyevsky spat, “You need not command me.” And, petulantly, as though to emphasise his words, he moved away from the couch. In his new location closer to the window, a stream of moonlight escaped the sky’s sheet of grey and illuminated a streak along the young student. Gogol set his jaw as the first spike of genuine dread shot through him.

         In a lower pocket of Dostoyevsky’s overcoat, the light caught on some heavily-embroidered purse, shot through with golden threads and splotched with a muddy, dull reddish-brown. The colour seeped from the pocket, streaking down the coat to join the melted snow on Gogol’s floor. When his eyes found the courage to travel back up to Dostoyevsky’s face, he drew a breath.

         “Perhaps I’m not the only one with evil in him,” Gogol said drew a breath. “I dare say you’ve done something despicable.”

         “And what if I have,” Dostoyevsky whispered, “what will you do? Call the porter?”

         “Well, and what if I do?” Gogol cocked his head. He was careful to hide the discomfort creeping up his spine by crossing his arms. “Will I meet the same fate?”

         Dostoyevsky was silent. For several moments, a tangible fog suffocated the room. It pressed in around both men, squeezed their lungs, crept into their minds and robbed them of their rationalism. Dostoyevsky’s eyes slowly, as though dragging across sand, shifted over to the samovar, matte by then in the darkness’ shroud. The same horrid thought passed over his features, and Gogol tensed. For two more minutes, they stood in apprehension. Finally, Gogol spoke first.

         “It won’t be as easy, anyway.”

         “What? What won’t be easy?” Dostoyevsky shook his head, tried to dispel the buzzing fog and, when he found he could not, scowled and turned from the samovar to face Gogol. “No, I won’t do that, why should I? You won’t tell anyone.”

         “Won’t I?”

         “No, you won’t. Of that I’m certain.” Dostoyevsky crossed his arms.

         “As certain as when you decided that,” Gogol pointed to the purse, “was a simply capital idea?”

         “It is,” Dostoyevsky hissed, “Or do you not trust me? Do you need me to spell it out?”

         “That would be appreciated,” Gogol said, voice carefully restrained. His eyes never left their intent focus on Dostoyevsky. “I, simple, mortal man as I am find it hard to understand, you know, how it is I am to… trust, a man in such an attire.”

         Dostoyevsky clenched his jaw. Was he to spill every detail of his plans to a man whom he knew for not even a full year? Was he to incriminate himself so thoroughly just for the sake of a slightly cleared conscience? Even if Gogol wasn’t one to speak, if anyone found out about their visit, he would surely be questioned. ‘And then it would all be over,’ Dostoyevsky thought. ‘My efforts would vanish into nothing, and nothing is what would come of me.’

         “Or maybe you don’t have a reason?” Gogol brought out.

         Dostoyevsky said nothing. The moon, finally unobscured by the passing clouds, shone brightly in the room once more, and the new illumination upon the weak man’s features--how gaunt he was, and, starkly, the copper blood--transformed him into a pitiful sight. Gogol pursed his lips, and Dostoyevsky couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was laughing at him.

         “And what’s your excuse?” Dostoyevsky snapped. “What with your misplaced emotions, you ought to be ashamed, and swear your devotion to the Tsar at once.”

         Gogol drew a breath, an angry twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth, “Ashamed of what? The only thing I have to be ashamed of is not turning you out right now! ‘Ashamed of my emotions.’ Bah! What’s there to be ashamed of? Tell me. And make it clear, mind you.”

         “Oh, you know very well. It’s the reason you’ve let me stay, is it not? Certain feelings for--”

         “Oh, you!” Gogol flung his hands up in exasperation. He hadn’t thought Dostoyevsky would be so crass as to say it aloud. “Out with it! Why have you come? And if you don’t care to answer, then I don’t care, and get out.”

         “Perhaps I don’t care to answer,” Dostoyevsky screwed up his eyes, “What will you do then?”

         “But you know very well what I’ll do!” And, in a state of frenzy, Gogol went over and grabbed Dostoyevsky by the arm with every intention of hauling--or, more likely, throwing--him out the door. Dostoyevsky paled.

         “No, I can’t go out there yet,” he brought out in a whisper so faint, Gogol nearly missed it. “I’ll leave you, certainly, but not yet.”

         “Now or later,” Gogol said, grip strong on Dostoyevsky's forearm, “What does it matter? Unless--no! You have a witness? A civil stalker? If so then they have every right by me to--”

         “That isn’t it.” Dostoyevsky pursed his lips. “I have a… premonition, and I’m sure I’m right. I can’t go out yet--it would be the death of me.”

         Gogol raised a brow. “So what? The ghost of whatever poor soul you killed wants revenge, is that it?” Dostoyevsky shook his head. “Well what, then? A demon’s come sniffing your malice and decided to take you in? Good riddance, I say! It’ll be all the better for the world.” Dostoyevsky’s downcast expression was soon joined by his eyes to examine a raggedy carpet gloomily, and Gogol scoffed halfheartedly, a pitying nature seeping into his angry tone. “And once more, your delicate sensibilities escape my reason. How a man can kill and yet be devastated by the tiniest outcry--it defies all reason.”

         A despairing look overcame Dostoyevsky’s face. Gogol felt a pang of guilt. ‘But why should I be guilty?’ thought he. ‘Fedya has surely killed a man--or a woman, more likely!--and for what? A decent purse and some change? No, not him, the crime doesn’t fit. So why…’ Gogol’s hand loosened, and fell to his side when Dostoyevsky pulled away.

         “You’re wondering why I did it,” Dostoyevsky said, “And… you’ve reason to wonder. But I’ve not time as it is--” A spasm crossed his face, and his eyes widened, purple irises laced with fear as he stumbled over to lean on the vanity, displacing a few neat stacks of paper. “I’ve not time,” he continued, “I can feel it. I just know… I’ll tell you later, but for now...”

         “What are you, dying?” Gogol faltered, could not figure out whether offering his arm would be justified, and stood in worried confusion.

         “I don’t… believe so. As said, I’ll leave you come morning, so please just let me…” Again his strength failed him. Concern dispersed the last of Gogol’s outrage, and he hurried over.

         “Well here, don’t strain yourself anymore. Sit.” And he guided Dostoyevsky to the couch, the latter collapsing onto it with a grimace. “Ah, water!” Gogol exclaimed, “But I don’t have any. I’ve not even any left-over tea. What to do, what to do...” He tapped his foot agitatedly.

         “It’s alright,” Dostoyevsky said, “I just… I need rest. Let me be.” He sank back against the couch, face scrunching involuntarily at the grime--though the couch was in no worse condition than his own, in fact, Gogol’s was cleaner--and pulled a tattered grey blanket round his shoulders. Gogol frowned at his friend’s condition.

         ‘To think this frail man committed such an act…’ Gogol thought, ‘It seems like such an impossibility, yet here he is, right before my eyes.’ He sighed and drug a hand over his face. “Here, give your overcoat to me,” Gogol said aloud, gesturing to Dostoyevsky’s huddled form, “You can’t sleep covered in blood, and I don’t want my couch smeared with it, anyway.”

         Dostoyevsky nodded, shakily removed the blanked and overcoat from himself and, handing the latter to Gogol, drew the blanket once more around himself and lay down, his back to the other. Gogol raised a hand, as though to touch Dostoyevsky, but cursed quietly and lowered it.

         For the next few hours, nothing but the sounds of Gogol’s scratching pen and Dostoyevsky’s ragged breaths could be heard dispersed in the silence. In a brighter hour, when Gogol was halfway into a new stack of transcriptions, Dostoyevsky suddenly was thrust into a wave of convulsions, for which caring spent several hours more into the morning. It was nine o’clock by the time Dostoyevsky’s faculties returned enough for Gogol to--hesitantly--deem him suitable for going out.

         “Wait,” Gogol stopped him at the door. “You’ll want an overcoat, but you can’t go out in that, covered in blood.” He pointed to the abandoned coat.

         Dostoyevsky shrugged. “Well, give yours to me then. I’ll be sure to return it.”

         “Give you mine!” Gogol exclaimed, “I don’t have one of my own!”

         “Haven’t you? You talked about saving for one, didn’t you buy it too?”

         “Oh, yes… Confound our Russia.”

         Dostoyevsky cocked his head to the side, amused.

         “I bought a new one, yes,” Gogol elaborated, “But some bastards stole it during a trip. I went to some important personage, to see if I might be avenged, but when at last he received me, I was turned out just as quickly! It’s a miracle I didn’t die of hypothermia on the way back… Such is the beauty of our glorious nation. So I don’t have one anymore.”

         Dostoyevsky chuckled, a frail, tinkling sound, and unlatched the wobbling lock. “Give your undercoat to me, then, and I’ll return it with an overcoat.”

         “Sure, sure, but only if you return both! I need them, you know.” And taking off his undercoat, Gogol paused once more, and quickly added, “If you get any blood on it, I’ll thrash you,” before handing it over.

         Dostoyevsky took the coat with a smile. “If I did,” he said, “You’d never be any the wiser,” and he went out of the small apartment.