Just a Dream ♙ Fyodor x Reader

4: Pawn

"Hello! I'm back, Dos!"

Like a Jack-in-the-box jumping out without warning, the young man that had been knocking opens the door abruptly without fear or shame, humming to himself as he closes the door behind him and turns back around, the carefree smile that decorated his face freezing and turning into a dramatized, confused frown when his eyes land on you. It isn't until he does this that you get to properly take him in, studying him over just as he studied you.

"Oh? Who are you?" He suddenly asks, walking over with a raised brow, one hand on his hip almost accusingly. You watch just as confused as he, though awe creeps in the longer you stare.

Whoever this man was, you had already decided you disliked him. Not because of the way he spoke, nor because of the way he carried an arrogant and mischievous air around him, but because he was beautiful, the kind of beautiful all in St. Petersburg would envy to be. His silver-white hair is braided into one long braid resting over his shoulder, shorter pieces framing his face carefully though in a charmingly tousled way, and if his hair is the colour of the moon, you supposed his eyes — or just the one, as the other is covered with a patch of bandages — are the colour of the pale sun. His cheeks are rosy from the outside cold, but there is a coldness in him despite his theatrics that you are sure would rival that of the night's. His attire is underwhelming, a simple vest, pants and blouse, though for some reason you can imagine him happy in any costume.

"[f/n]." Fyodor responds for you from beside you, pulling you out of your trance with not only the gentle phrasing of your name but also the hand that he places delicately on your back, his own eyes solemn as he greets the man.

"[f/n]?" They look between you and Fyodor, brows furrowing in thought before clapping his hands together without warning, eye sparkling with distasteful recognition as he shoots you a smile and abruptly takes your hand in an over-enthusiastic shake. "Ah, of course! The one who has inspired my dearest friend! Forgive me, doll." He lets out a laugh then lets you go, though the laugh holds no warmth, tinted with menace.

What's his game?

"Sorry, who are you?" You decide to interrupt, face hot from the nicknames and overfamiliar touching, standing up and out of your chair to face the man properly, head tilting upwards, and for a brief moment you are lost in the pale gold of the other's gaze, the way the look of the Cheshire car may enchant anyone who stares too long in wonderland.

"Haha, how rude of me it seems I've forgotten to introduce myself. My apologies, I'm Nikolai Gogol...and I have heard so much about you." Nikolai introduces himself sweetly, whispering the last part as he leans in and reaches behind you to the tea Fyodor had made for you, taking it in his slender hand and taking a sip himself, eyeing you in  amusement. "Oh, my favourite, Russian Tea. Nobody makes it quite like our Dos'."

"That was..." You begin, glancing towards Fyodor for help or some sort of sign that he'd call out his supposed friend on his behaviour, but when you search you find that he was no longer beside you, and it's just you and Nikolai in the room.

"Was what?" The silver-haired man forces your attention back to him with his melodic voice, amusement written all over his face as he looks you over, clearly having an unbelievable amount of fun testing the waters with you. It's then that you know he knew it was yours, untouched and made by Fyodor, and so with your heart pounding, you reach to take the cup from him without force so to not spill any of the tea, but determination nonetheless.

"It's mine. You could ask Fedya to make you one too, I'm sure he won't mind if you're his...'dearest friend'. Right?" You snap, taking a long drink of the hot, sweet tea once he's returned it to you, never looking away from Gogol. With Fyodor, you had been star-struck, whisking you away with fancy words and promises, memories of a song you longed for, but without him you find yourself a sliver of competitive pride and a stubbornness you had acquired from years alone.

You wouldn't let this Nikolai Gogol have any control over you. You had been chosen by Fyodor just as much as he had. Or so you believed.

"I'm not so petty to ask that of him. I'm not here for tea or to meet you, [f/n]..." Nikolai begins, stifling a laugh at your reactions as he moves around the room, all the while making sure you watched his every move. "...I'm here because this is my home. Don't ask me how I'm paying for it so close to the centre of the city though, I have a feeling my methods won't agree with you just yet."

A wave of shock ripples through your body when you hear the man's words, head spinning as you look around the house once more, trying to make sense of the clashing words between Nikolai and Fyodor's when he had welcomed you into what he had claimed to be his own home. You feel dizzy, your reality collapsing.

Has he been lying to me? Did he know I would never have agreed if it wasn't only him I'd have to put my trust in?

Am I being tricked?

He never did answer...how he'd be saving me.

"What do you mean?" You let out a shaky breath, hand on the chair to steady yourself, straining yourself up so to hopefully not look as wary as your mind felt.

"Do you know anything of money laundering?"

What?

Erupting in a sudden and surprisingly charming laughter, Nikolai then takes you by the chin and grins, "Your expressions are exquisite! I'm just toying with you, [f/n]! Or did Dos' call you kisa? I'm a performer, I don't involve myself in such boring crimes like that." He lets you go, moving away with his braid falling behind him, your thoughts racing and eyes searching for some explanation, chest burning.

Walking over to a small door on the wall you hadn't noticed upon entering the room before, you begin to wonder if that's where Fyodor had gone and what could possibly be behind it, or if you called out to him he'd hear you then...but you aren't given a chance to wonder more before Nikolai reaches the door and glances over to you with a sly smirk.

"Can you tell yet, [f/n]? What part of what I've said so far is true or not?"