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aureatchi · 4 months

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ᰔ 𓂃 ࣪˖ FOR ONCE, I WAS THE MUSE IN THE ARTIST’S EYES; I WAS THE POEM ON THE POET’S TONGUE. . . ft. FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

⟢ PRÉCIS. it only took a singular person to make you feel like, for once—in a sea of murals and sculptures, you were the one sought after. OR, after months of admiring the other in silence, it is on your birthday when someone finally makes a move—on a rainy day in the heart of renaissance history.

. ࿓ a museum date with fyodor dostoevsky.

ᡴꪫ a/n. little late but…written for my birthday! plain self indulgent djsjjw.

ᡴꪫ info. fem!reader. bestfriends to lovers. pining. soft fyodor. light angst; fluff. confessions. kissing. reader overthinks a lot. you’re on vacation in florence, italy. history/art rambles-mentions religious imagery & greek mythology. sly…fyodor pulled many strings here. you both do art. mention of implied dazai. save this for ur bday :-). ﾉ wc. 3.7k+

“How do I explain it? I feel…I’m always the artist, always the poet. Never the muse, never the poem—that sounds dismal, I know…I have friends, people who care about me, and have fallen in love before, so I know I can love. But that’s me. Most times, I’m the photographer, I’m the giver, I’m the lover—never in pictures to be cherished, never the receiver of love letters: never the beloved. It probably doesn’t make sense to you, but-”

“You must also think you are perceived, never understood?” The keen ravenette sitting beside you listening added to your homology.

“Yes. Does no one wonder about the artist? No one notices that they long to be adored, too? Or perhaps I am projecting—maybe it’s just me. Sorry for my babbling, Fedya. My mind is all over the place right now.”

“...Do you fancy someone currently, by chance? That’s causing the negativity of your internal monologue to surface?”

He was always too straightforward. Yet somehow, he also always nailed the target of your distress.

“Sort of. He would never reciprocate, though.” You dryly chuckled. “The thought has me feeling lonely overall, unfortunately. And before you tell me I’m dramatic, I’ve had feelings for him for quite a while.”

“Hm.” Violet eyes focused on your glowing frame until now cascaded to the candle that illuminated the both of you. “If it’s that brunette you’ve been around lately, I’m sure he’d feel the same.”

“What?”

“I’d actually hope it’s him—I feel he’d make you happy.”

You simply sighed. “And this is why.”

“Why, what? Do you doubt he would reciprocate your feelings because he would fulfill your happiness? You’re self sabota-”

“Nevermind, let’s just change the subject. Please.”

…

It had been months ago since that chippy conversation was spoken within the walls of your apartment. Like the dusk of the room at the time, the words you said to each other had also been left in the dark.

However, even though the question of what you meant that night was never brought up again, the entire dialogue replayed like a film on loop in your head every other night you tried to fall asleep.

You honestly didn’t know what to call Fyodor. He was everything a best friend, but that title didn’t acknowledge and frame the emotional dynamic you had with him justly.

It was odd. He was always there for you—since university when he first showed up as a transfer and quickly made it apparent he was challenging you for the top of the class. It wasn’t intentional at first—until he found out you wanted to outsmart to beat him.

Your intense rivalries and teasing eventually settled down into a close friendship, and you’d grown to admire him. Lies—you admired him the moment you saw how well the foreigner spoke your language so well.

Fyodor had seen you at your worst. Through your breakdowns due to school, when you got sick, and whenever you just needed to talk…you didn’t hide anything from him. It didn’t feel like you could because no matter how many times you expressed aloud that no one could understand you, he did.

He grasped onto your emotions like strings that grounded you back to reality. He being there let you feel not so lost in your head and sentiments. It was as if he knew your entire soul by a single glance. That was the true reason why he became the prince in your reveries and the fixation in your unsent journal entries.

Though, he never talked heartrendingly himself. He never showed even a fourth of the vulnerability you let him access so freely. And that’s why Fyodor would never reciprocate, even if he also hadn’t plain-out said you would be a good match with someone else, sealing proof of his uninterest.

He wasn’t the best person in the world—you knew he had grandiose plans that were morally questionable, so sometimes you wondered if you were simply a step in his achieving them, nothing more.

Knowing if so, why did his face still cover your sketchbooks and prose?

…

You were woken up by the faint vibrations of your phone.

Happy birthday!

How fast time passes! Birthday messages were sent in by friends and acquaintances. You would be celebrating with them this weekend, but for now, you were halfway across the world.

Sporadically, you were on a solo trip to Florence, Italy. A few weeks ago, the airline rewards program you were a part of emailed you saying you were eligible for an entirely free trip to the country with an exclusive ticket to the Uffizi Gallery.

Although it was entirely out of the blue, it was a lovely surprise. It was no shock you loved art—you and Fyodor both.

“You draw?”

“Yes. Did you think I was not the type of person to?”

“I’m not sure,” you replied. You were still in university at the time—it was well past midnight, and everyone else had left the library you were at but you and Fyodor. You had noticed him take out a sketchpad, standing out from scholastic books. “I could never see you taking an art major, but you’re also practically able to do everything, so it’s not even shocking.”

He simply smiled. “I’m probably not as refined as you.” Fyodor stopped his sketching and then looked at you. “But you never show me your own drawings.”

You averted your gaze. You couldn’t show them—not when almost half of them starred him.

“Show me yours first,” you spoke.

“Someday," he smiled.

…

The special ticket to the museum allowed you to skip the line—and the crowds too. You would be let in early morning so that you could enjoy your first couple of hours admiring the paintings in serenity.

Ring!

Someone was calling you, not through your cell phone but the telephone. You stood up from the bed in your Airbnb—the company had even given you a vacation rental that was more than enough for one person. You swore you won some secret lottery for this to happen. Multiple rooms, a balcony—you walked through them all. Except for one, it was locked. It was likely storage for the owner.

“Hello?” you picked up the phone.

“How was your rest?” a recognizable voice chimed.

“...Fedya?”

“Are you up yet? Would you mind doing me a favor?”

“Uhm, sure?” you responded, bemused. How did he know you were staying here? You had told him you were going to Italy, and he had even helped you clean your home before you left, but you didn’t specify everything about it.

“Go to the dresser from across the bed and open the first drawer. There should be something inside.”

Okay, now this was weird.

“Did you plan this ou-”

The phone suddenly hung up before you could finish your question. For a moment, you just stood in the room, still lost. You moved when another buzz went off on your phone, a text message from Fyodor.

Would you meet me at this cafe in thirty minutes? Bring an umbrella, it’s raining.

And your suspicion was confirmed when he sent the address. He, too, was in Florence, and the cafe was close to the Uffizi Museum.

I’ll be there. :)

You walked towards the dresser and opened the drawer that Fyodor instructed. There was only one thing—a silver key necklace.

I guess this is his birthday present. You smiled to yourself, clasping the jewelry around your neck. He played with your heart so fondly. Did Fyodor not realize how much he was driving you crazy with the sweet things he did?

Or perhaps he did. And you were foolish for feeling this way when you knew he did not feel the same.

…

“Buongiorno dolcezza.”

“Showing off your linguistics?” you playfully scoffed, sitting in front of Fyodor by the window. You could hear the faint pat-pat-pat sounds of the rain outside, even through the buzz of the cafe.

“I said, ‘dobroye utro,’” further rousing your response with a smug smile. You had allowed his ego to speak.

"Good morning," he said, you thought. “Good morning, Fedya.”

“Was everything alright so far? Your flight?”

“You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“Hm?” In the slightest way, it was almost like he was taken aback.

“This is so elaborate. I’m truly grateful, please don’t get me wrong, but you did all this for me—and it’s not like I’m that special. It’d be more appropriate for someone you were dati-”

“Hello miss, would you like anything to order?” A waiter stood before you, cutting you off. He spoke in Italian—you could barely understand him.

Fyodor responded for you—In Italian, too—and you were able to pick up your usual order and something about “…mia amata.”

“Grazie,” you said after the waiter had taken your order. Compared to Fyodor, your vocabulary was laughable because of how limited it was.

“So, you were saying?” Your eyes moved back to Fyodor.

“Oh, nevermind.”

“Someone I was dating? Well then…could we go on a date?”

“What?”

The waiter came back to you with a cup of your favorite hot liquid. You sat agape, eyes still fixated on Fyodor as your drink was set down in front of you.

“Oh, did you not hear me? I asked could we-”

“I could do a date.”

Gosh, that sounded so reluctant and backward. Truthfully, you would more than love to—and not just one, either. But that was so unlike him. He was only doing this for the sake of the statement you had told him, or perhaps he was just fulfilling one of your wishes because he knew your feelings and wanted to give you a taste of something you could never have.

His expression was momentarily unreadable before Fyodor pulled out a small ticket and smiled.

“Let’s go soon, then.” A second ticket to the Uffizi Gallery lay on the table.

…

Luckily, the rain had stopped for some time. Even so, there was already a line forming by the museum—tops of umbrellas covering the heads of all the people there.

It wasn’t opening time. Yet you followed Fyodor, hand holding onto his arm to not lose him, pushing through the crowd of people right to the front door.

“Wait, Fedya.” You tugged on his coat as soon as you made it past everyone.

“Hm? Yes?” He stopped, looking back.

“There’s about an hour until we can go in. I thought we came early so the line wouldn’t be too long—why did we just cut everyone?”

“What time does your ticket say?” Fyodor asked.

You glanced at your ticket, then a watch on Fyodor’s wrist, and then at his lovely face himself, who smirked at being correct.

“Oh…just about now.”

What strings did he pull for this? It felt unreal as you were let through security, ahead and excluding everyone else who waited outside. You pieced together that this man probably hacked your airline company’s website to get your flight and stay, but this was an entirely different matter. How did he get you not only early but private access to the institution? Bribes? Connections? It was useless pondering—he would never tell you.

Just as he would never tell you the true feelings of his soul.

A historic ambiance encapsulated the air as you stepped into the gallery. Classical-style architecture embodied the halls from ceiling to floor, and your enamored eyes scanned the place in wonder.

Your footsteps echoed throughout the open corridors and checkered floors. You somehow felt like royalty. It was so empty, so quiet—just two hearts who had an eye for both art and understanding. Fyodor watched as you eagerly fluttered around, running up to any statues in sight to absorb knowledge about them. You became as hyper as a little kid—you ran back and forth and back to Fyodor to swing him around.

“Woah-” It was a rare sight. He was caught off guard by your action, and for once, his violet eyes widened in surprise. Pleasant surprise. A moment after, he joined your movement, spinning the both of you around. You smiled in joy, and he did too, seeing yours.

The first hall you entered was Niobe’s Room. It was beautiful—the ceilings were elegant and accented gold, the largest canvases of the gallery looked even more surreal in person—paintings depicting war stretching almost from one wall to the other, and the thirteen statues were wondrous, which you were desirous of rambling about…

“The sculptures all show different ways of them being killed. This is the Greek myth of the murder of Niobe’s children. She was the wife of the king of Thebes, and she had bragged of being a better mother than Latona, who, ironically, is the goddess of motherhood itself. So, she punished Niobe by sending her two children, Apollo and Artemis, to slay the fourteen kids she had.”

You walked toward Niobe’s statue as Fyodor watched with total interest, gone unnoticed by you. “The myth ends by saying that Niobe never stopped weeping, and her tears turned into an eternal fountain.”

“How tragic,” Fyodor replied. “To think this could’ve all been avoided if she kept her mouth shut.”

You were suddenly overcome by self-awareness and felt embarrassed. Maybe you were speaking too much as well. He probably didn’t even care-

“I wouldn’t say the same for you, though. You carry fascination in your words, and it translates to your explanations. It’s always been that way. I enjoy listening to you, especially the things you are passionate about.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that, even more so when his eyes dwelt on yours a bit too long.

…

“The Uffizi was actually not intended to hold the Medici family’s artworks and sculptures,” Fyodor started a little later. “The literal name means ‘offices,’ and the Duke of Florence wanted the complex to unite all administrative departments under one roof.”

“There you go with your intelligent rambling,” you chuckled as you walked into the Tribune despite having just done the same. This was the room you wanted to see most. A table was set in the center, and off-white sculptures were scattered throughout. “Next, you’re going to explain that this room…” you spun around the eight-sided space—“is octagonal because the number eight is considered the number that draws near Heaven, according to Christian tradition.”

Fyodor smiled. “I would already expect you to know. However, there are also literal sentiments—there is a lantern outside the dome doubling as a sundial. It teaches those unfamiliar with the movements of the celestial bodies.”

You only nodded.

“You knew that too?”

“No. I was also waiting for you to say the second thing. You mentioned more than one idea.”

“Unfortunately, you pick up on all my words.” You were confused by his statement, even more so when he stepped forward. You stepped back until you hit the table behind you, losing your way of escape.

“The room repeats its theme of drawing near to Heaven through the symbolism of the design and the cosmos. I would argue it must be true because…there’s also an angel right here.”

Your mind couldn’t stick to one thought as you tried to process what Fyodor meant by his words. And the recognizable complex scent as intricate as his individuality that followed him you could smell. He was so close now—you weren’t sure why you felt so nervous. How was this any different from the other times your friend broke personal space?

Though, he had never called you a term of endearment before, right? Doesn’t matter anyway. He probably only said that for the sake of a date.

But could you still say that when he closed the gap between you? And when he asked, “What do you find most beautiful about the museum?” and you were barely able to respond with “The frescoes you are greeted with when you look up towards the skies.”

And when he said, “You’re as beautiful as the frescoes,” intertwining your hand with his.

He embraced you. It felt so different from all the other ones he gave you—they were always so friendly, but this one felt almost ardent. When he pulled back, it almost looked like he would kiss you. But he completely withdrew.

It’s just for the sake of a date.

You were reminded a little later that the museum didn’t only belong to you. It had opened to the public, so you started seeing a few people around. That didn’t hinder your visit, though—you went to Michelangelo’s Room, saw Leonardo’s works, and Raphael’s—all the Renaissance artists.

And even though the Doni Tondo and even the Birth of Venus prevailed before Fyodor, he was not found admiring the Holy Family or the undressed Greek goddess of love and beauty. He stared at you instead in a way that made it seem like you were more breathtaking than any mural.

You stayed for a few more hours until you were content with everything you’d explored, and the rain had picked up again.

…

“I swear I locked the door.”

“You did,” Fyodor said, jingling a pair of keys.

“What?” Confusion flashed through your face as you checked your pocket for your own set of keys. He had not stolen them—you held up an identical pair.

“I own this apartment,” he jested, motioning for you to walk in before following behind.

“No way you actually set up everything!”

“Don’t deny it; I did it this way because I know you’re enthralled with my schemes.” You rolled your eyes in response, though you did not object.

“Point out what you found enigmatic here.”

You furrowed your brows while you thought of any mystery in the flat. Then, you walked up to the locked door.

“What’s behind this?”

“Unlock it, milaya.”

You looked at him for help as Fyodor joined you beside the door.

“But how-”

His hand brushed your neck before tucking your hair behind your ears and readjusting your necklace.

Ah.

“Smart girl,” he smiled as you unclasped your necklace and unlocked the door. You felt your cheeks become warm.

“Unfortunately, this was really creative,” you admitted sarcastically, a reminiscence of your rivalry.

“You haven’t seen it yet.” He waited for you to go in first—it was not a storage closet like you’d expected, but a hallway to another room.

It was silent as you walked to the end, where another door stood before you.

“Another one?” “Open it.”

You pulled down the handle and entered. Natural light seeped into the room from all sides, and you realized it was a sunroom.

Even though it wasn’t sunny, the room was swaddled with something empyrean—something more beautiful than the frescoes on the museum ceilings.

You fell to your knees—in surprise, in emotion, and in that, your heart was about to explode with that feeling of love. Those months ago since that chippy conversation spoken within the walls of your apartment…

“Does no one wonder about the artist? No one notices that they long to be adored, too?”

In truth, those words should’ve been taken with a grain of salt by anyone. You were just speaking your head—you were being theatrical over secret feelings you had for the person listening to you.

But someone had seemed to take them literally. He had your favorite flowers and plants growing in the room. And there were paintings—canvases stood by each other depicting the same person, you. There were sketches and polaroids of you on the walls without windows—some of them including him—and all picturing your happiest moments that year. Some of them had captions written on papers below them, too. They looked more like letters because their descriptions were detailed and lengthy.

It was like your very own museum, where you were exactly the muse in his eyes.

Fyodor, who had been standing in the doorway, walked and stood in front of you.

…So sometimes you wondered if you were simply a step in his achieving them, nothing more.

Could it really only be that way if he stooped down too, kneeling on the floor and cupping your face in his hands?

“I really feel like you don’t realize. You know…mi piaci molto, right lyubimaya?”

“Huh?” you asked as he stood the both of you back up in the center of the room. He was confusing you so much with everything, and more literally with his combination of Italian and Russian.

“Ah, I apologize, it’s hard to verbally—may I just?”

Fyodor leaned in a little closer, his arms around your waist and his eyes on yours.

Your mind would label it the definition of perfect serenity. The sounds of raindrops beating on the windows outside were distant and calming, while the sounds of heartbeats shared between you and Fyodor were close and warm.

You shyly nodded and closed your eyes, giving Fyodor his answer. He kissed you tenderly. So softly at first, as if you were fragile. But then, you moved your arms around his neck, drawing him closer.

You kissed him back, growing more passionately as your unsure doubts gradually dispelled into dust. He was so pretty—more charming than any of Michaelangelo’s sculptures. For his violetto eyes glowed at your presence, standing out from fair skin and dark hair. God knew not to put him in a museum where he would overshadow and be envied by all.

You only drew back to catch your breaths. And even so, Fyodor took your hands in his and started to play with them.

He was avoiding your gaze. Even though he was looking down, fidgeting with your fingers in attempt to hide it, you could see that his cheeks were flushed.

And you became flustered at the sight, too. You had never seen him look like that. You started to giggle. He finally looked at you with another new facial expression. Confusion.

You laughed even more, even when he asked what the matter was.

“The Fyodor Dostoevsky, going shy from a kiss,” you teased, poking him.

He scoffed. “Meanwhile, you’re stupid. You didn’t get the hint I was…am fond of you. At first, I thought you really had your sights on someone else…” he trailed off for a bit, “but then, I stumbled across some things while helping you clean your room…”

Sketches. Journal entries. Unsent letters. He had seen them in your drawers.

“Hey! Have you ever heard about privacy?”

“I respected your wishes. It said, ‘If Fyodor somehow sees this, read it.’”

“Damn.”

It was his turn to chuckle. Then, he kissed you again on the forehead.

“Happy birthday, darling. You are more beautiful than every piece of artwork that exists on this earth. Because you breathe—words and thoughts and interpretations, and that is what fascinates me with you. You are not just to be perceived on the walls but to be understood by another heart. My heart.”

fun fact: the real dostoyevsky really did art. he liked to sketch!

you are so lovely if you read this. reblogs are cherished; please indulge me in your thoughts through rbs, they are what support me the most! <3

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