Work Text:
"Nikolai."
"Kolya," Gogol corrected. Really, everyone knew pet names should be abused the moment you stepped into a relationship. Then again, he had never expected his beloved to be the type knowledgeable in these matters, but he bit his tongue instead of educating Dostoyevsky (and not because he knew it would earn him the cold shoulder for a day again).
He lifted his head from his arms, silver hair jostling, and the eyepatch shifted too high to properly cover the infection. He had been napping in class instead, and judging by the color of the sky, it was a little past dismissal.
There he stood in all his glory—Fyodor Dostoyevsky in his uniform, complete and proper, unlike Gogol (ha, they had written him so many warnings for always disobeying the dress code, but what good did it do if he had no parents to pass the red slips to?).
(Pass it to Fedya, who only apologized to the teachers with a sweet smile and asked for his boyfriend to be excused.)
Anyway, as expected, Dostoyevsky crossed his arms at Gogol’s correction, a faint shade of pink dusting his cheeks—ah, screw it. "Fedya, don't be so formal!"
A beat of silence followed. Bitten lips pressed into a fine line, grimacing subtly.
"Kolya," Dostoyevsky repeated, his tone slightly mocking. Any other person would have folded in fear, but Gogol had long lost the ability to do so after months of exposure to typical Dostoyevsky snideness, trained to withstand his darling’s worst jabs over the slightest inconveniences.
As such, he was rewarded with rare sights like these. In a way, he could compare it to climbing mountains and finally seeing the view from above after a long journey of agony. The warm light from the windows made the sharp features of his darling look less scary (not that he ever was to Gogol, no, no!). The wind blew the wispy strands of his hair ever so gently, getting stuck at his bitten lips. Gogol could go on and on, but Dostoyevsky hooked a finger around the cotton string tied around his head before giving it a light, impatient tug.
"Your eye, please."
"Want me to pluck it out for you?" Gogol sang as he pretended to stab his eye with his thumb, offering the imaginary skewer to Dostoyevsky. "After all, I only have eyes for you!"
Dostoyevsky said nothing in reply, his death stare filling the silence.
“Tough crowd,” Gogol grumbled at the lack of response from his one-man audience. He complied, standing up and instead sitting atop Dostoyevsky's desk, staring down at him with a wide grin. “Fine, you can play doctor.”
"If I remember correctly, it was you who begged me to be the one to do this," Dostoyevsky mused as he lifted the eyepatch away. It didn’t look as gross anymore, though it did make Gogol look stupid rather than pitiful. As such, Dostoyevsky's tolerance lessened and, if possible, he giggled—because Gogol looked funny. It looked like a bee had stung the skin around his eye, swollen and red.
"I need to be canoodled," Gogol hummed. "The prescription said I need a hefty dose of affection. You see, my boyfriend laughed when his poor little Kolya fell off the tree, and he needs to make up for it, because his heart was shattered along with his dignity."
His ass still stung from the awful landing of his accident, but he’d rather not admit that out loud. Even his shamelessness had a bound.
"I told you to come down twice."
"You should've known better. I'd only stop at the tenth warning."
"Is that supposed to be my mistake, then?"
"Truly! You've seen me at my most stubborn moments."
Dostoyevsky rolled his eyes before reaching for Gogol's bag, rummaging through notebooks and papers in search of the small container. He narrowed his eyes when his hand didn’t meet metal, instead brushing against fabric too flimsy to be Gogol's handkerchief or gym uniform.
He wouldn’t have bothered with it had Gogol’s one visible eye not sparkled. He tugged on the fabric, unsurprised to see a bright red sheet tied to another silky white one. Dostoyevsky slowly pulled the prop out, the chain continuing as if there were no end to it.
"Kolya."
"Shh, keep going."
"What is this supposed to be?"
"A secret. I won’t spoil the answer this time!"
Dostoyevsky opened his mouth to protest, only to be silenced by Gogol's finger.
"You're almost there! Trust!"
Dostoyevsky sighed and continued the tedious process, two minutes passing before he finally reached the end, tugging a bit harder when it seemed stuck. The container he had been looking for wasn’t there—instead, a white rose emerged, its thorns trimmed despite Gogol’s loving threats to Fyodor’s well-being.
Gogol cheered and untied the flower with utmost care. He lifted Dostoyevsky's chin and slid the flower behind his ear, tucking it neatly beneath his bangs. Big grin, teeth on full display, eyes crinkled from the size of his smile. "Hehe, happy Valentine’s!"
"Right." That earned him a pout.
Dostoyevsky sighed, his irritation fading as Gogol pretended to cry, keening like a kicked puppy. “Thank you, Kolya.” He rose from his seat to kiss his boyfriend’s cheek, pulling away before Gogol could lean in for his lips.
Gogol’s pout lingered before melting into a beam, and he hugged Dostoyevsky within seconds. Still nuzzling his cheek, Gogol dug through his pocket and placed the container Dostoyevsky had been searching for into his hand. Gogol grinned when he saw Dostoyevsky’s eyes narrow. "Don't get mad."
"...Mhm." Dostoyevsky flicked his forehead before sitting back down. Gogol whined as Dostoyevsky cleaned the infection, his touch slightly rougher in punishment.
Dostoyevsky knew it didn’t hurt nearly as much as Gogol made it out to be. Then again, he had willingly said yes to Nikolai-Crocodile-Tears-Gogol, leader of the theater club. If he wasn’t overreacting, something was wrong. "Stop that. You brought this upon yourself."
"Oww—okay, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Gogol tried to kiss the palm closest to his face, but Dostoyevsky pulled away, tightening his grip on Gogol’s chin.
"If you just wanted to gift me a flower, you could have done it directly and saved me time," Dostoyevsky muttered, pressing the cotton pad firmly against his eye.
"Now where would be the fun in that?" Gogol insisted, hissing quietly as Dostoyevsky continued to swipe the wet cotton across the infection, tilting his head toward the sunlight for better visibility.
Dostoyevsky didn’t reply, instead snipping off the old eyepatch and replacing it with a new one, tucking the elastic beneath Gogol’s bangs and behind his ear.
Another rare sight Gogol was blessed with. Dostoyevsky’s gaze softened as he chuckled against his hand, retrieving a hairpin from inside his blazer—a small golden feather, chosen because Gogol had an endless fondness for birds.
“Happy Valentine’s to you, too.”
Heat rushed to Gogol’s neck, creeping up to his cheeks and ears. “…Would it kill the mood if I said eye love you?”
Dostoyevsky’s expression quickly twisted into exasperation. "Yes."