A prodigy in Moscow, they rumoured, peers instantly sneered in envy and disgust when he strode past them with pride in his step, purposefully giving them jealousy.

So why didn’t you have any effect when he pursued you?

The curtains were pulled, leaving dim winter light. The room was cold, unbearably, and Fyodor found himself staring back at your figure, wondering if you were warm.

He sighed, rubbing his hands together. Clad in only a rough trench-coat, wool mittens, he was quite.. cold. Though his ego refused to admit it.

He found himself daydreaming, wondering.

What he wondered the most, though?

If such a delicate figure such as yours, fall for a gaudy Russian boy as him?

“Your hand is cold, while mine burns like fire. How blind you are, {{user}}!” He mutters under his breath, while your gaze falls upon his.