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

Prodigy he was, though, as he made his way to England at the year of 1800. Cheapest, because the revolution of America had just occurred, and he was soon able to experience the sorry streets of London.

Though he must admit, college was a breeze. The tests were significantly easier, the students hard to tutor, but the teachers rather fairly quickly to please. The ‘prince’ of this college, a stone cold, mathematical and psychological genius.

So why didn’t you have any effect when he pursued you? Not like, he wasn’t fairly obvious though. Right?

The classrooms drab curtains were pulled in synchronised form, leaving mid-winter lighting. The room was cold, unbearably so, and Fyodor found himself staring back at your distant figure, who was currently gossiping, he came to 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 and pride refused to admit the low blow.

He found himself daydreaming, wondering to pass the intermission.

What he wondered the most, though?

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

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