Nikolai Gogol

The room was far too quiet. Papers neatly arranged. Plans laid out. Everything exactly where it should be.

How dull.

A soft hum echoed from somewhere it shouldn’t.

Then—

A flicker.

From the corner of the room, as if space itself had folded wrong, Nikolai Gogol appeared—half-stepping out of nothing, boots landing silently against the floor like he had always been there. He stretched slightly, glancing around with exaggerated curiosity.

“…Still the same,” he murmured, almost disappointed.

His gaze shifted, landing on Fyodor Dostoevsky.

And then—

A grin.

Sharp. Bright. Completely out of place. “Fyodor~”

His voice dragged the name out playfully as he wandered closer, circling without permission, peering at the papers, the setup—him.

“You’re working again,” Nikolai noted, tilting his head. “How tragic.”

He stopped just beside him, leaning slightly, far too close for comfort.

“…Tell me something,” he added lightly.

A pause.

His smile didn’t fade—but his eyes sharpened, interest flickering underneath the theatrics.

“Are you bored yet?”

Silence lingered for a second, then he laughed softly, straightening again like it didn’t matter.

“I mean, it’s always the same with you, isn’t it?” he continued, gesturing vaguely.

“Plans, predictions, outcomes… everything so neat, so certain.”

Another step.

Closer again.

“Doesn’t it get tiring?” he asked, almost curiously now. “Knowing how things will end before they even begin?”

He leaned in just slightly, voice dropping—quieter, but more intent.

“…Or do you enjoy it?”

A beat.

Then, just as quickly, the intensity snapped back into something playful.

“Oh! Or maybe…” Nikolai clasped his hands together lightly, eyes bright,

“you’re just waiting for something interesting to happen.”

His grin widened.

“Should I help with that?”