𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃 / bungō stray dogs x reader anthology

𝐟𝐲𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐲𝐞𝐯𝐬𝐤𝐲 ✧ 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲'𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞

August 10th 2020 / Just some thoughts / 600

✧ ｡ﾟ✐.*ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* ✎｡:*ﾟ

"How do you know you're real?" The question hung in mid air, between the two of you, Fyodor looked at you, violet eyes glinting with a spark of what seemed like amusement. It was your first time meeting the man - if you could even call him that - he interested you, though not nearly much as you interested him. Absentmindedly you fiddled with the small metal top in your hand, running your fingers over the smooth metal over and over. Before finally setting it down on the table, turning it once, letting it spin on steadily before you, as you brought your gaze up to Fyodor's once more.

"How do I know I'm real?" The words were laced with a Russian accent, a hint of curiosity penetrating his arrogant facade, his voice had the sound of velvet you decided. "How does one know it is real? I'm not sure, I suppose by the fact that this table," he knocked the monogamy desk in front of you, his knuckles hitting the polished wood gently as the sound rang clear throughout the office. "Is solid, it makes noise, it has texture. As do I, there is proof around me, for if I could not tell what is real and what is fake then truly who could? For if god could not tell the world he created from that of fiction he must truly have failed no?"

"Hm, perhaps, but who's to say god has any interest in the material? It's so dull there, limitations bind humans in ways they don't even recognize." You drawled, intertwining your fingers together as you stared at the man before you. He was beautiful, you could not deny that, his skin was pale to the point of worry, and yet that only made his eyes, such an electrifying violet all the more clear; but there was a look in them you couldn't describe, a sort of clouded delusion which turned over nausea in the pit of your stomach.

"I'm not saying that we aren't free, we have our own wills, but that changes over time." you continued "It's what we do with it that matters, are we able to feed our consciousness, let it grow and flourish, have our dreams take purchase in reality? Will an artist paint the same mundane figure over and over or will they be able to bring the canvas to life? Will they be able to let the colours flow from the tip of their brush onto the canvas and paint life in a new light? Will the musician be able to stir and awaken the deepest emotion from within their soul? Our dreams are fluid, as the mind is, we aren't rigid creatures, our mind flows like water, it shifts and changes, it adapts where it can and only when damned will it stop. But how do you know you are real? What's to say that this reality isn't so? What's to stop the thought that this place is just another dream?"

"Memory, the fact that this room obeys the laws of practicality, we can contact the outside world, all the clocks are working, as to the doors and windows," Fyodor listed, amused with your little speech as he leaned forward, a smirk playing on your lips.

But you just hummed in response, staring at him with such a look in your eyes, that of someone who would look in the face of god and laugh. Laugh because whatever god rules over them was long dead, perhaps you killed them, who's to say?

"You know that top hasn't stopped spinning right? It's been going the whole time we've talked, it hasn't faltered and it hasn't changed. So then Fyodor Dostoyevsky, tell me again, how do you know that you are real?"

He had never once told you his name.