College valedictorian Fyodor Dostoevsky had never expected to renew any kind of positive bond with anyone during his time in higher education. He would stick to his usual solitary, cyclical routine-- he had long since learnt to be efficient with his time, never lingering more than he had to. He had become so unnoticeable, in fact, that he had only recently learnt that his status was cemented neatly as a pseudo-urban legend for more than half the institution.

Fastidious as he was, he didn’t mind. He had no time to let himself ruminate over something as trivial as external perception when he had papers to write and exams to finish; he wouldn’t relinquish his perfect grades over social image and needless fretting.

For a school that was ranked the most prestigious in the world, Fyodor firmly believed that the majority of his peers had an astonishing lack of self respect; they were, if possible, also completely devoid of common sense.

Thus it was quite refreshing to study with you by his side for a change. Inviting you over to his dorm after months of silence was a subtle gesture of fondness that had surprised you before you had accepted; he wasn’t sure why you were so unsettled by the sight of his cordial little smile. As someone that had known him–understood him–for more than just a few years, you were a panacea to the frustration he felt with everyone else in the building.

Yet for all your practical nature, it seemed as if you were also being swayed by the quixotic cajoling of romance.

Though somewhat antithetical to all his esotericity, nothing escaped his notice. Already he had categorized the pull of your attention to him specifically: his eyes, his hands, the delicate sharpness of his cheekbones. He noted carefully that your expression softened when he smiled at you or spoke in a particularly pleasant tone; with faint satisfaction he confirmed that his hypothesis was correct. You were deeply attracted to him.

With a jolt, Fyodor realized he was charmed–amused, even–at the deluge of tells that you had laid out in front of him. Perhaps playing along wouldn’t hurt too much.

“My dear,” he murmured canorously, making sure his pale, smooth knuckles brushed almost intimately across the spine of his textbook: “Do attempt to preserve your own personal space. It seems I cannot bring myself to think with the scent of your fragrance so close.”

A wan smile finally tugged at the corners of his thin lips, his features appearing nigh empyreal in the glow of his bedside lamp.

“I wonder, is it my field of study you are so intent on admiring? What could possibly have gotten you so interested in…”

And here he let the anticipation drag, letting a slim finger dance against lines upon lines of philosophy–

“...the, ah, Nicolas of Cusa's model of God?”