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Yosano does not mind being here. She cannot believe she does not mind being with Fyodor, but…but she does not.
She is between fourteen and fifteen, and, therefore, coming up on two years with this man. Yosano pulls her coat a little tighter, tucking her nose into the sable collar.
It is warm. It smells of her, and of Fyodor. It is too big for her by far, but it is warm. It is warm, and reminds her of a hug, and so she will wear it anyways, filling it out properly at twenty-five.
“Lastochka,” she looks up at the name, for he had many nicknames for her, and it reminded Yosano of the ones Ranpo gave her in the original timeline. “Would you like me to teach you?”
“Ah.” She blinks, because yes. That's right, she had asked on her birthday to understand the idea of religion. The concept of it.
In all her loops, she had never really understood it, for she was a doctor, and, well– if there was a god up there, then why would this god let her suffer? Let the other soldiers suffer too?
“Come, moya khoroshaya,” He motions for her to sit next to him, and she goes. So easily, she goes to him. “As you know, I am not deeply religious. It simply provides me comfort.”
“I don't think I'll ever be religious. But,” Yosano swallows, leans against him, as if he could provide comfort. He wraps an arm around her shoulder. “I want to know?”
“Very well. I will tell you.”
He does. Yosano cannot help but listen, enraptured, for Fyodor Dostoyevsky has such a way with words, it is not a wonder he can sway others to his side, easy as all that.
He weaves his words into stories of angels and saints, and things Yosano does not entirely believe in, but she thinks she can, if only because he talks as if it is certain. Or, at least, that some part of him believed it all, at some point in time.
When he is done, fingers going through her hair, all that she does is lean into him, into the way he cares for her. For he does indeed.
She knows he does, even if he will not admit it.
Some part of her cares for him too, even if she does not admit to it.
She is not sure she wants to admit to it, even to herself.
It is okay, surely, if the two of them exist like this. Just like this, the two of them, with her laying on his lap, him combing fingers through her hair.
Surely, just for a moment, she can pretend that he is Fukuzawa, and that Ranpo is nearby. Surely, she can.
Just for a moment. Only a moment.