Love me better [Fyolai Highschool Au]

Friends

Tw: slightly suggestive

"You're staying the night, Fedja? How nice!" His mum almost jumped with joy. Now that something was in his stomach again, Fjodor felt like throwing up again. He had had no choice. He was powerless against his father.

"I made the bed in your old room. Go take a look." Fjodor followed his mum to his room. There was not much of his stuff left since he moved out. The one thing that immediately caught his eye was the huge bed. "I still don't know why you wanted that big bed back then, when you never even brought a girl home." She chuckled. He forced a smile on his lips. As soon as she left he hurried to the bathroom again.

Pale and powerless he staggered back to his room, where he found a dark figure sitting on his bed. "I just came to say good night to my dear son." He smirked mischievously.

When he went to school the next day, he was pale, exhausted, sick and his whole body hurt. But he couldn't miss school. His status there and good grades were the only thing left to him. Although he didn't actually have to learn that much. But especially now, school was also a safe place for him.

"Good morning my dear Dostojewsky-kun. How are you feeling today?" Gogol greeted him cheerful as always. His hands were shuffling some cards between his fingers, from the left to the right and back again. Fjodor watched him for a few moments, fascinated by the boy's talent. Whispers went around the class, probably about his appearance. He could comb his hair and wash his body, but he couldn't cover his red eyes and pale face.

With a loud thud he let his bag fall next to his chair and the room went silent again. In the break between the lessons Sigma came by and passed him the agenda for next week's committee meeting. He couldn't even read what was written there. His mind felt numb.

Six years. For six years he had had a calm life. Why did he have to wake up again?

"So that's where you're hiding!" Energetically the door to his office swung open and a familiar white haired boy appeared. "Get out!" Fjodor lay on the couch, his eyes covered with his hands. "Maybe you should start new rumors. The old ones already left the talk of the school." Unfazed by Fjodor's harsh tone he walked inside the small room and closed the door behind him. "What do you want?" Fjodor still hadn't moved from his position. "Just checking up on you. You don't have a fever, do you?" Gogol placed a hand on Dostojewsky's forehead. Immediately Fjodor pushed it away and crawled into the corner of the sofa. "D...Don't."

Startled Nikolai froze, then he sat down beside Fjodor on the couch, carefully watching to keep some distance. "Did you tell anyone about yesterday?", Fjodor asked. "You mean how cute you looked with my pompom hairtie?" The short male hugged his knees tighter. "I didn't. You were sick, that's all I said. It happens. But that look in your eyes..." Fjodor hid his face. "Stop it. It's none of your business. Why do you even talk to me? Why do I even talk to you?"

That realization struck him just now. How did Nikolai always manage to find him in his most vulnerable moments? And why did he let himself show this side to anyone? Facade, keep your facade. It had worked all these years. Nobody dared to talk to him. So why, why was it like this?

"Because you want to, maybe? I'm just coincidentally the person to be here, that's all. As for me. I just wondered what it's like to have a friend." Fjodor looked up. "We're not friends." Nikolai shrugged. "Maybe I'm not your friend, but I can decide who's mine." For a few moments they sat in silence.

"Need a tissue?", Gogol asked, swinging his and around before pulling a string of knotted tissues from his sleeve.