Bungou Stray Dogs : Short Stories

❝ Insomniac Nights. ❞

Ship : Fyodor Dostoevsky x Edgar Allan Poe

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I

t’s stormy that night in the city of Yokohama.

Fyodor lies awake next to his sleeping companion, Poe, at 11 o’clock in the evening. He doesn’t ask himself why he’s not asleep despite being tired the whole day. Only insomnia comes into his mind. Insomnia isn’t uncommon for someone like Fyodor; it has happened so often that when it comes by again after a busy day, he doesn’t question why he isn’t able to sleep -- it has become some sort of routine for him now.

Thunder roars ever so faintly within the confines of Poe’s home and somehow it reminds Fyodor of the abnormally loud thunders he hears back in the prison cells he’s been in whenever he gets arrested. Living this kind of lifestyle must be nice, he thinks, but he doesn’t dwell on the subject matter for long. Instead, he diverts his attention to the sleeping man right next to him, his overgrown hair brushed away to reveal his closed eyes. There are dark rings under his eyes but other than that, his face is completely clear -- free from any acne or breakout and sometimes Fyodor wonders how the other manages to have such a clear face despite having his hair cover the half of it most of the time.

He lifts his hand to touch that seemingly porcelain skin and gently rubs his thumb on Poe’s cheek. The novelist’s nose scrunches but he doesn’t wake up and for some reason, Fyodor is grateful for that; somehow, he doesn’t want Poe to catch him like this: transparent and obviously lovestruck. Fyodor stares at Poe a little more, tired magenta irises trailing from the male’s forehead to his slightly parted lips -- so tranquil and equally balanced.

“Fedya? W-What are you doing, still awake?”

Fyodor blinks dumbfounded for a moment, unaware that his constant caresses has woken up the novelist next to him. He retracts his hand, setting it down on the mattress underneath him. He feels sort of idiotic for falling into a trance and being unable to sense the world outside his own mind. Poe’s eyes flutters open like shy windows and Fyodor is, once again, allured by those crystalline eyes. He can fall asleep right there and then, just staring at his lover’s eyes, but wretched insomnia reminds him that he can’t.

“I…” For the first time in his whole life, he doesn’t know what to say, and he realizes it often happens whenever he’s talking to Poe. “I can’t sleep.” He finally admits after a moment of silence. For reasons unknown, he can’t bring himself to lie to Poe -- not with those eyes of his asking for honest answers. Ever since the two became more than acquaintances, Fyodor has told nothing but the truth towards the other, even when Poe doesn’t require him to be honest. Perhaps it’s the relationship itself that makes the Russian quite the truthful person towards the novelist, or that he can’t bring himself to hurt the latter male.

“Y-You can’t?” Poe asks, shifting to a more comfortable position but refusing to look away from Fyodor’s magenta eyes. He has always found solidarity and acceptance within those tired eyes. It’s not long before the novelist sits up, an idea coming into his mind. “If you’re not so tired, will you accompany me somewhere, then?”

“What about you? Aren’t you sleepy?” Fyodor asks, sitting up now. He runs his hair through his royal purple tresses, too tired to even move a muscle but he doesn’t want to leave his lover hanging so he swings his legs to the side of the bed and stands up. Poe does the same on the opposite side of the bed and replies, “I can’t sleep knowing you are still awake in the dead of night, Fedya.”

Fyodor fights a smile and follows suit. “Well, if you insist.” The two then briefly leaves the master bedroom and now walks down the hall. The Russian recognizes the two right turns immediately -- they’re heading to the piano room but he doesn’t say anything until they reach the inside of their designated destination.