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A soft feeling of tranquility permeated the room you two currently occupied. The two of you were settled in the living room, lounging on the L shaped couch. He was rested on the edge of the cushion, near the corner, with his cello between his legs while you were on the floor in front of him, head lolled on the perpendicular side of the couch. Both of you rested your eyes as the cello played its low hum, like the essence of a dream beneath his fingers
Not long prior to this moment, during dinner, you had asked him if he would play you a song tonight. He, of course, agreed, always willing to put time aside for you. Once you both had finished eating and the table had been cleaned off, he directed you to the living room where the instrument was usually stored, waiting for the next time it would be made to sing. He soon set out to tightening his bow and tuning the stings, but not before passing you a few books to pick a piece from. Among your favorites to hear him play were composers such as Handel, Bach, and of course Tchaikovsky. Tonight you requested a piece from saint Matthews Passion. As he settled into place, you extended the book back to him, open to show him the selection you wished to hear.
After a few minutes of playing the occasional soft conversation, a sudden whirl of air suddenly interrupted your moment of respite. You could guess the identity of the intruder from the unpleasant expression on Fyodor's face, despite his eyes remaining closed as he continued with his bowings. "Aw, look at you two! Is there room for one more in your peaceful haven?" Nikolai inquired. "It is not so peaceful with such an unwelcome interruption", Fyodor added. "Oh, don't be like that! I can appreciate such a lovely moment! I can be respectful when I want to be! C'mon, birdie, tell him to let me stay, I'll be quiet! just let me distract myself with your hair!" You glace dubiously at the man, contemplating if he is to be trusted in this moment. Hesitantly, you reply, "Alright. But only if Fyodor is alright with braiding my hair again before bed." You both glanced toward that man, awaiting his response. You admired the serene look on his face, head tilted back, eyes closed peacefully as his fingers seemed to dance over the strings. The only sign he had even been listen to your conversation was the pregnant pause in his playing as he softly muttered, "of course", his accent deepening with the whisper.
Nikolai giggles to himself gleefully before remembering his vow of silence, seating himself on the floor behind you and carefully undoing your braid. He runs his fingers through your hair, preparing a blank canvas for his own entertainment. He begins twisting your hair and twirling it between his fingers, thoughtfully trying not to tug on it or catch his fingers on any hidden knots. He begins brushing it after acquiring a comb from who knows where. You assume the depths of his cloak. After making sure all knots are removed, he uses the comb to part your hair, braiding and twisting it, holding it this way and that as if he were testing styles on you, before letting it unravel and brushing through it again. The relaxing sensation of the comb on your scalp, accompanied by the dulcet lull of Fyodor's playing, made your eyelids feel heavy with the weight of exhaustion. Resting your head between your folded arms on the couch, you closed your eyes and let sleep consume you. The two men eventually noticed your slow, deep breaths and relaxed figure.
Gently placing his bow to the side and resting cello against the couch, Fyodor rose before kneeling beside Nikolai and yourself, quietly shooing the former away. Letting out a disapproving huff, but not wishing to disrupt your slumber, he quietly made his exit, leaving you in Fyodor's care. He softly adjusted himself, replacing Nikolai in the spot behind you on the floor. He picked up the hair tie the other man had left on the coffee table beside you and held it around a few fingers as he deftly parted your hair and began braiding. As he wove the strands between each other, he was cautious not to pull too hard or brush the skin of your back, lest he wake you.
Once he finished, he secured the ends and rose to his feet once again. He made his way around the couch to retrieve the blanket draped over the back. He unfolded the blanket as he made his way back to you, gently setting it over your shoulders and tucking it around your front. Grabbing a few pillows that rested upon the arm of the couch, he made himself comfortable on the floor in front of you. He mirrored your action of folding your arms on the cushion and resting your head between them. But rather than burying his face in warmth, he rests his cheek on his forearm, opting to relish in your serenity as he, too, dozed off.