Work Text:
it’s 1:43 in the morning when you nudge open the door to fyodor’s office.
you’re too busy balancing the tray in your hands to notice his ears perking up, eyes glued to the computer screen ahead. once feeling secure enough, you sneak a glance over at the man. one leg tucked to his chest, thumb between his teeth and eyes adorned by a dull grey shade, he looks endearing in ways you’d never dare speak of out loud; but ogling doesn’t hurt no one, and so you take in the fleeting pleasure of taking in the languid flutter of his ink black lashes and the glimmer of stray gray hairs under the dim, violet lights.
he’s perfectly still in his spot while you close the distance between the door and his desk, empty aside from the keyboard, mouse, and brass flower shaped lamp.
you reach his side and only then does fyodor finally look up at you. you put the wooden tray down, involuntarily sighing with relief at keeping every item in its place.
you know better than to interrupt fyodor in his work — though really, there is never any bite in his words when he does comment on it, anyway — but this time, you’re not nervous at all, for you’ve brought something he cannot deny.
magenta eyes glint with interest when you lace your fingers behind your back, smiling.
“brought you a treat,” you announce, to which the russian only responds with a soft hum. unsatisfied with the lackluster response, your eyes fleet away from the man and you focus on preparing him a drink instead, unaware of fyodor’s gaze all the while focused on you from the corner of his eye.
he follows your movement and counts the items on the tray. a porcelain, wildflower-painted set of a teapot and two teacups sits on top, and the liquid you’re pouring into each of them is dark amber and potent, its smell strong and familiar. strong black tea, his favorite. what differentiates this setting from the usual is an open jar of raspberry jam, another one of honey, and two dainty plates. on one of them lays an array of halved lemon slices and on the other a couple sugar cookies.
at last, fyodor spins around in his chair to face you, though it’s only his body that’s finally turned towards you. his eyes are still trained on your fingers, delicately wrapped around the handle and balancing the body as you pour the brew into the second cup.
“dorogaya,” he speaks and the pot tinkles against the porcelain stand as you put it down. “you should be long asleep by now, i’m sure.”
with a pointed look, you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. grabbing the teaspoon, you stir the jam around the jar twice before taking out a spoonful.
“and you, dear fedechka, should not be talking.”
you stir the preserve into the tea, watching it dissolve and change the liquid’s color to a deeper maroon shade. you pause only when fyodor huffs. pulling his thumb away from his mouth, eyeing the damage, then letting his hand fall in his lap, he meets your eyes, equal amounts of amusement and mild, but lighthearted irritation simmering behind the magenta irises. something akin of a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth when you relax under his gaze, so unlike anyone else and so rotten to the core by his affection that you don’t blink, nor even twitch.
“i just got done studying,” you explain, reaching a hand out to brush the wispy, albeit slightly oily strands of hair out of his forehead. you smile, then, as he peers up at you fully with no obstacles in the way. he reaches for your thigh, careful, giving it a squeeze in acknowledgment. “and now i want to have my night time tea with you. may i?”
fyodor closes his eyes, feeling the featherlight touch of your thumb ghost over his brows, then down the bridge of his nose; next, you brush it just barely under his eyes, where a sickly violet has settled beneath the thin, delicate skin. he has not been sleeping well and it twists the worries brewing in your gut.
this is a break well needed. luckily, fyodor gives in to your offer and nods towards the empty chair next to his, bought only for occasions such as this.
“of course,” he says, watching as you seat yourself, content and with great satisfaction. “i would never deny you.”
“debatable,” you counter, popping a lemon slice into a cup and ignoring the unimpressed look.
you offer the cup to fyodor, sliding it towards him with thinly veiled excitement. he eyes the liquid, rosy pink and brown, changing color right under his gaze as he squeezes the juice out of the citrus. his lips twitch and eyes flit over to your hopeful expression.
“and i take it there’s no sleeping pills in this, yes?”
much to fyodor’s amusement, your doe gaze quickly morphs into an offended frown, a “hmph” sound cutting through the repetitious clink of teaspoon against porcelain as you mash the lemon slice into the bottom of the cup.
“as if you wouldn’t notice, anyway,” you mumble, taking out a heaping spoonful of sticky honey and chucking it right into your cup, stirring with unparalleled verve. after a few seconds, your movements soften, and so does your face. if anything, there’s a slight pout stretched across your mouth, and it’s a sight fyodor hates, despite how sweet it seems. “i wanted to see if you like this at all. it’s how you’ve had it back at home, isn’t it?”
fyodor fits his jaw in his palm, leaning his elbow on the table. there’s not many things that make him twitch, but each and every one of them are your doing. his gaze lowers, slipping over each of the items on the tray — the cyrillic on the jam label and the dainty chamomiles painted across the white pot that you were so excited to find at the flea market. a blurry memory settles in the back of his mind. heavy copper sat on top of a vibrant khokhloma tablecloth, small hands reaching for a blin… freshly brewed tea, and a warm, wrinkled smile.
the memory persists. it’s so faint, fyodor doubts it’s his own in the first place.
but you’re here, now, and fyodor doesn’t have to be looking at you directly to sense the rosy look you’re sending him. he hooks a slim finger in the teacup’s ear, lifting it to his lips. the tea is hot, strong, but equally as sweet; the lemon cuts through the sugary preserve and tingles in the back of his throat in the most pleasant way.
you weren’t nervous at all, but now you are uncertain. you haven’t seen fyodor take his tea with these additives before, but you have heard of other russians and slavs favoring the taste. if anything, you’ve dipped into different articles and sources and apparently, it is often served as an invitation to a conversation, meeting, a moment between those wishing to spend it with each other… but he has not even commented on it yet.
your fingers wrap around the cup, cautiously, and look up only to find fyodor’s eyes already trained on yours. he smiles when your gazes meet— a soft kind of smile you love on him, and hold oh so dearly to your heart. you reciprocate the expression and feel a certain kind of warmth, greater than that of the sweet brew in your cup, seep into every crevice of your lungs.
a memory much clearer than the last one presents itself. it’s gloomier and far colder — what one would expect from saint petersburg— but you welcome it with the brightest, warmest sparkle in your eye as it rolls off your lover’s tongue.
fyodor closes his eyes, sighs, and gently smiles.
“ah, this reminds me…back at the flat, the one on nevskiy prospekt, a beautiful samovar was sitting right there on the table…”