ex nihilo | fyodor dostoyevsky x reader

ʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ

Longing

ᴍᴀʏʙᴇ, ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ ᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ. ᴄʀᴀᴠɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜᴄʜ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇᴅ, ɪɴ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴜꜱ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ. ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀʀᴇ ɢᴏɴᴇ, ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴘᴏᴇᴛɪᴄ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜɪɴɢ ᴀᴄᴛ, ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ.

. . .

He was far too peaceful.

Even when the lights went off, when you laid next to him, and when the calm engulfed your senses, his presence was reduced to naught. How so? He breathed so quietly that you could assume he was gone - not to mention he hadn't shifted even once before you fell asleep. His still state might have caused some dread in you, as you got unsteady, anxious even. Sometimes you'd turn and tumble in the bed, only to take a look at him - or at least the glimpse of him in the dark. He was there, you'd assure yourself. He didn't leave just yet. But that wasn't enough to you - so you shyly reached out, your hand slow and trembling. The fingers were aiming to find only one thing in the murk. And they did.

Your touch was subtle. It was the most you could have done to satisfy yourself. Faintly, ever so faintly, your senses were stirred by all of him that you could reach at the moment. At first, it was his hair, his greasy, thick hair, that somehow resembled... oh, spaghetti. But it was his own, you could recognize the smooth texture anywhere. Then as you dared to go further, to extend your touch on his face, your sensitive fingertips were met with his breaths - short, warm - a sign of life he always seemed to lack. And to touch his skin of fair temperature, it was sensational.

Right then, you wished for him to wake up. How selfish you were - yet the idea of being caught in the act, of him waking up because of none other but you... it was too tempting. However would he react? Scold you, grumble? Stare at you in silence, ignore you? Maybe even kiss you? You had absolutely no idea. This man, he was impossible to predict. To attract his attention was enough, and you found out were starving for something as special.

Yet, this very man... he was so fragile. Your hand had abandoned him a long time ago, and even then, you couldn't help but think - would he break underneath it? It was no wonder you approached him so, taking care not to disrupt his sensitive self. His pale skin - sickly white in your memory - it spoke of illness. His eye bags, the greasy hair, the tiredness he oftentimes spoke with - and the skinny, border underweight constitution, of course - they proved time and time again that he did not take care of himself. Be it because he was truly ill, or because he had no intention of doing anything for his own sake, he was in a terrible shape.  It took you no time to realize this: you wanted to protect him. A motherly feeling of nurture that was present that day, ever since you met him. An instinct you couldn't go against. A kind of love that didn't ask for anything in return.

Love? Is this what you would call love? Or, just as Fyodor said - it could be something beyond. Something he wouldn't try to understand. In that case... neither should you. Maybe, just in this case, listening to your heart's will was nothing else but fine. If it weren't so, you would've known it - some regret would come in, some painful reminder that would originate from your chest. Even your rational self would find something that would prevent you from this, yet nothing grave happened. Nothing to warn you. Nothing you would use as a solid excuse for abandoning Fyodor. And once you give it more time to think about it - leaving him wouldn't be the safest thing to do. You came to the same conclusion as before; you were given an illusion of a choice. The tool of euphemism was love - and he would toy with it as much as he wanted to.