Chapter Text
The man pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger, an action becoming rapidly familiar to him and Fyodor wonders what disappointing news he has got for him today.
“Well, you know, Mr. Dostoyevsky,” Here it is. Here comes the memo. “We are waiting for at least the title of your new book?”
“Yeah, I know.” He takes a tiny sip of his tea warming his insides but none of his anxieties. Yes, he knows. He had promised his editor both a title as well as a rough draft by the end of this month and yet... here he is, unsure of what the genre even is gonna be. “I–I need three more weeks—I will definitely send you the draft by that time.”
His editor lets out a heavy sigh. Fyodor can see he is frustrated. He has to answer to his superiors and convince them to keep supporting him just so that he might write a masterpiece as big as Sins of God, someday. Honestly, as time goes by, he is getting less and less confident with his writing skills. Was it really him that wrote a three–parter series which sold millions of copies worldwide? The same Dostoyevsky who can’t even type a single sentence now without hitting Backspace a dozen times. He is out of ideas and out of inspiration.
No doubt, his publishing house is losing their interest in him as well. They have earned a lot of profit from the sales; they are sated for now. But soon enough, if Fyodor doesn’t give them a reason to keep supporting his career, they are gonna turn to greener pastures.
Above all, he misses his previous editor. Although she too had been a hard taskmaster, she always intuitively picked up what problems Fyodor was facing without him having to explain himself too much. Talking to people, making them see from his point of view and asking for help have always been his weak point. He doesn’t know how to ask for help because he doesn’t know if he needs help! Maybe, his problems are so trivial that people would laugh at him? A twenty–three year old can’t even book a plane ticket? How lame. Or something like that.
Ironic to say for a writer who majorly writes about humans, life and existentialism in general.
Fyodor has always looked upon the world from the eyes of a third person. Never has he been involved enough to feel like he is one of them. Not in his playschool, not when his parents left him, not in his high school, not even in college.
He was, and, has always been a loner. The observer. The dreamer. He is happy like that.
Fyodor takes another sip of his tea. He hasn’t had anything since last night and looking at his editor’s disappointed face, he is losing his appetite for a light brunch as well.
He has started working with this man for only one month now and he is already tired of him. Hawthorne is his name—a gray–haired man in his mid–thirties and having an easily irritable demeanor on top of being a taskmaster. He calls every ten minutes in a day to know the status of how his novel is going. Yeah, it’s going bad, real bad! Fyodor knows, damnit! He doesn’t have to rub it in his face all the time.
Presently, Hawthorne clears his throat. A cue to leave, perhaps? The editor’s office always nauseates Fyodor. Reminds him of the principal’s office where he’d be dragged to, whenever he fainted in class, where his parents would be called—followed by another night of his dad yelling at his mom and his mom taking out her frustration on him— she’d start stuffing food into his mouth before he had even swallowed the last bite or berate him for being such a problem child when he throws up.
Even now, food makes him nauseous. Again, is there anything in his life that doesn’t make him nauseous? He must indeed be a weird breed of human.
“Dostoyevsky, um, may I call you Fyodor?”
His eyes lift from his half empty teacup to blink up at the gray–haired man. “Yeah-why–okay?”
“So, Fyodor?” Ha, is he testing out his name? It’d taken him a while before he got his surname right. “Fyodor, it’s... how to say? Are you okay?”
He nods owlishly. Am I okay? Have I ever been okay? Okay. What a strange word. “Yea-yeah, why? I know I haven’t given you any real updates about my next work—”
“No, I mean, well, I didn’t mean about your planned novel. Generally, I ask? I don’t want to point it out to you—I am not your guardian or anything, of course, haha—but you seem quite... unhealthy? These days? Have you not been taking care of yourself?”
“That’s none of your business, really.”
“Of course, of course not!” He fidgets with the frame of his glasses. “I have started working with you only recently and I understand how hard it must be to open up to people you don’t know well but you need to tell me—”
Fyodor pushes back his chair and rises to his feet, marking the end of conversation. “You aren’t my therapist, Mr. Hawthorne. I can take care of myself very well. See, I will call you once the rough draft is finished so stop calling me every five minutes for updates. Good morning!”