𝗲𝗽𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗹 [bsd x reader oneshots]

FYODOR | WITHIN A FIELD OF GRIEVING STARS

[CONTENT]

This oneshot contains major manga spoilers, language of flowers, grief/mourning, dissociation, major character death, biblical references, established relationships, heavy angst, along with a gender-neutral reader. This is oneshot has not been beta-read. Beware grammar errors.

The translation for the Russian phrases is located at the end. Please read the note about translations at the end of the chapter.

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A warmth burbled inside the hearth as swirled streams of flame billowed in gusts to then melt. Beams of amber shined against dusty glass frames splayed on a mantle, immortalized faces incandesced in the flickering shimmers of light. An older couple stood out against paled snow, hands resting against the shoulders of their budding son, whose eyes bore the most piercing hues. Another sat beside it, captured from the same year. That same boy snuggled against another child's shoulder as they both burrowed in the shade of a Linden tree, its branches unable to conceal the purity of their smiles as they relished in the company. Their frigid fingers intertwined as autumn turned to winter, heartened enough by each other's presence alone. Each photograph was a mere piece of a procumbent gallery; not an inch of the wooden surface remained uncovered as a story unfolded between each one.

However, a painting towered above them all.

Soft strokes blurred the resemblance of an anachronistic cathedral, walls sown with ancient tales of worship and devotion destined with promises of life beyond living. But the centerpiece was them, a pair of blooming faces with those same intertwined fingers, eternally bound in the holiest of displays. Those piercing eyes, now delicate as the boy who had grown into a man, looked upon his beloved with once-in-a-lifetime veneration.

The crackles of a record clicked into place as it spun endlessly on its track, humming a gentle melody into the comfortable ambiance, thawing the glacial remains of lonesome silence. (Name) nestled into their husband's office chair, fingers dancing across the worn surface of a letter. Fondness shone upon their face as they traced each smudged letter, allowing themself to be swallowed into leather. They flicked one of the papers with a resounding fwick, a glimmer in their eyes.

Nights ensnared in the confinements of a cell would only draw out yearning in the most desperate of men. But I will feel the touch of your enlightened hands in due time, моя любимая. Like Joseph returned to Asenath, I will be home in time, as the Lord allows.

Всем сердцем и душой,

Федя

Yearning sighs escaped their lips, carefully placing the letter back into an overstuffed box piled high with months of correspondence. They spread their hands against the arms of the chair, grasping onto the ledges as if holding onto another, head tilted back as tired eyes fluttered shut with a harmonious whistle in their throat, only to be interrupted by muffled knocks resonating from the front door.

The sequence was familiar—precise but shaken. Their eyes widened, breaking from the web of warmth as they rose from the chair. It was one of his subordinates; it had to be. Their feet pounded against rickety floorboards, the inanimate house bustling with life as they scrambled to mend their appearance. A heart pounded into the open air, swinging the door open, only to be met with the stars that forever drifted in the sky.

So gentle they were. So peaceful.

But it was not a person they expected, instead immediately looking toward their feet with a knowing huff. And there it was, lying limp on the doormat—a bouquet of flowers.

These were unusual flowers, not unknown, but not the typical crimson salvias or milky corianders that usually arrived with each delivery. A frown deepened the somnolent contour rooted in their eyelids as they bore their gaze into the menagerie of mismatched petals, enflamed anticipation glaciating into cool desolation. They lifted the bundle with utmost care, breeze twirling the ringlets of their hair as a forlorn omen. The door rocked back and forth as the wind went unnoticed, skin prickled as the heat of summer skies frosted over as they walked further into the house's silhouette.

Each flower was carefully plucked from its companions and spread in lonesome piles on the cold kitchen counter. Vibrant lilac shades of heliotropes blossomed, mementos of Tyrian eyes frozen in eternal devotion, softened only at their touch.

Paper scratched the soft skin of their palms, hands quick to toss out imperfections that sunk to the bottom of the wrap. One took a brilliant aquilegia, twirling it in their finger as violet speckles flaked into the air with each twist. The last they had seen these flowers was the eve of their engagement. Whispers of their resolute, intertwined paths were loosened from tight lips by a wine that had pried apart their own so intimately.

The knife blade sliced through solid air, a resonant haze efflorescent with each cut. They did not care to flinch as it slivered through their skin, silent as they beheld the vermillion that splattered the stem of a weeping hyacinth. These burdensome flowers danced in the eyes of Moscow passersby's sorrow, lining the trail toward an isolated mortuary rooted into the hill that overlooked their childhood home.

Each was carefully placed into a stiffened vase, crossed to shape a flawless display of rich purples and pinks. But even in the midst of such vibrancy, such life, one flower peeked underneath the rest, ghostly white petals acting as the centerpiece of this puzzle.

White roses.

Only once had they seen these flowers, often turned away with a constricted heart whenever their eyes merely glanced upon those petals. That same older couple, their faces immortalized not in bushels of homely flame but instead spectral through the flickers of a vigil. Those piercing eyes, the same that dared to carve into their very being, dulled in despair, creased as sleep evaded the body and spirited abandoned the soul.

Perhaps it was for that reason he knew to prepare flowers that no words could relieve the aching years bound to follow.

They loured upon the embodiment of their destination, life washed out by the emptiness that stood before them. Goosebumps scattered across the skin, an unforgiving frost rooted in place as their fingers twitched against wood. Then, the monotony snapped, the wound pulsing with pain as their body careened. Their eyes drifted from those retched flowers, falling upon his chair.

And they knew.

None would sit there. Not ever. The seat would remain forever occupied by the smoke of a spark snuffed out eternally, erased in only a few short moments of recollection. Cruel. The mind is an uncaring machine, able to reach thoughts no human could bear.

And they trembled in the consequences of thought, far too conscious to move. Nails carved irate indentions into the table as knees buckled beneath them, body collapsing onto the cold wooden floor as deafened sobs excavated from their lungs. They clawed at their throat, unable to breathe as ignorance escaped them, paralyzed as if the reaper himself had mercifully struck his scythe down upon them.

A presence watched from beyond a now motionless door, snow-white tresses that shone against beams of moonlight, a man wincing at the guttural, broken screams of an empty heart that echoed from inside. The house was far too still now, too large for only one soul to occupy. Unable to bear another moment of torment, he scraped the dirt from his uncovered palms, neglecting the tears that stained his cheeks as he fled from the home, now only a mausoleum of memories sitting within a field of grieving stars.

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моя любимая = my darling

всем сердцем и душой = with all my heart and soul

федя = fedya

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[AUTHOR'S NOTE]

[TRANSLATION NOTE: The translations in this chapter are not guaranteed to be completely accurate. While the English translations in the section above are the intended dialogue, these are only rough translations. Corrections to these will be made over time.]