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It’s stormy that night in the city of Yokohama.

Fyodor lies awake next to his sleeping companion, Poe, at 11 o’clock in the evening. He doesn’t ask himself why he’s not asleep despite being tired the whole day. Only insomnia comes into his mind. Insomnia isn’t uncommon for someone like Fyodor; it has happened so often that when it comes by again after a busy day, he doesn’t question why he isn’t able to sleep -- it has become some sort of routine for him now.

Thunder roars ever so faintly within the confines of Poe’s home and somehow it reminds Fyodor of the abnormally loud thunders he hears back in the prison cells he’s been in whenever he gets arrested. Living this kind of lifestyle must be nice, he thinks, but he doesn’t dwell on the subject matter for long. Instead, he diverts his attention to the sleeping man right next to him, his overgrown hair brushed away to reveal his closed eyes. There are dark rings under his eyes but other than that, his face is completely clear -- free from any acne or breakout and sometimes Fyodor wonders how the other manages to have such a clear face despite having his hair cover the half of it most of the time.

He lifts his hand to touch that seemingly porcelain skin and gently rubs his thumb on Poe’s cheek. The novelist’s nose scrunches but he doesn’t wake up and for some reason, Fyodor is grateful for that; somehow, he doesn’t want Poe to catch him like this: transparent and obviously lovestruck. Fyodor stares at Poe a little more, tired magenta irises trailing from the male’s forehead to his slightly parted lips -- so tranquil and equally balanced.

“Fedya? W-What are you doing, still awake?”

Fyodor blinks dumbfounded for a moment, unaware that his constant caresses has woken up the novelist next to him. He retracts his hand, setting it down on the mattress underneath him. He feels sort of idiotic for falling into a trance and being unable to sense the world outside his own mind. Poe’s eyes flutters open like shy windows and Fyodor is, once again, allured by those crystalline eyes. He can fall asleep right there and then, just staring at his lover’s eyes, but wretched insomnia reminds him that he can’t.

“I…” For the first time in his whole life, he doesn’t know what to say, and he realizes it often happens whenever he’s talking to Poe. “I can’t sleep.” He finally admits after a moment of silence. For reasons unknown, he can’t bring himself to lie to Poe -- not with those eyes of his asking for honest answers. Ever since the two became more than acquaintances, Fyodor has told nothing but the truth towards the other, even when Poe doesn’t require him to be honest. Perhaps it’s the relationship itself that makes the Russian quite the truthful person towards the novelist, or that he can’t bring himself to hurt the latter male.

“Y-You can’t?” Poe asks, shifting to a more comfortable position but refusing to look away from Fyodor’s magenta eyes. He has always found solidarity and acceptance within those tired eyes. It’s not long before the novelist sits up, an idea coming into his mind. “If you’re not so tired, will you accompany me somewhere, then?”

“What about you? Aren’t you sleepy?” Fyodor asks, sitting up now. He runs his hair through his royal purple tresses, too tired to even move a muscle but he doesn’t want to leave his lover hanging so he swings his legs to the side of the bed and stands up. Poe does the same on the opposite side of the bed and replies, “I can’t sleep knowing you are still awake in the dead of night, Fedya.”

Fyodor fights a smile and follows suit. “Well, if you insist.” The two then briefly leaves the master bedroom and now walks down the hall. The Russian recognizes the two right turns immediately -- they’re heading to the piano room but he doesn’t say anything until they reach the inside of their designated destination.

“I take it that you’ll play for me, Poe-kun?” Fyodor asks, following the novelist and detective to the center of the room where the piano idly sits by, patiently waiting to be used. Poe sits down on the chair and places his slender fingers on the keys and Fyodor grabs a chair, placing it near the piano. He doesn’t sit next to Poe, however, for he has always found it fascinating to watch Poe instead of his fingers pressing the keys.

“How else would you want to spend a stormy night than with a nice piece?” Poe asks  and says nothing more, seemingly collecting himself before finally pressing the notes to a surprisingly unfamiliar piece.

The first bass key takes Fyodor’s mind back to when he was but a child wandering the snowy grounds of Russia. Underneath his bare feet was freezing powder of white stuck to the concrete ground. He ran away from another one of those child protection programs again and he couldn’t stop thinking why they’d want to care for him anyway. Perhaps they wanted publicity? Wanted to be praised? The possibilities were never-ending, but Fyodor never wanted to be part of someone else’s plan.

He was ignored by most of the people -- who would want to pay attention to a 13-year-old orphan anyway? They probably thought he was the most unfortunate being to ever exist yet did nothing to help him. It wasn’t that he wanted help, either. He remembered walking past shops and botiques and appliances stores, all of which he paid no attention to. He was just aimlessly walking around, barefooted and barely clothed to withstand the freezing temperature, but he didn’t seem to be affected by it.

But then he heard a faint noise within the sea of chattering people and noisy vehicles. Somehow, that noise stood out among the condensed and compressed noises, catching his sensitive hearing almost immediately. Curiosity piqued, he tried to look for the source of the noise. He had a hard time tracking the actual source given that the whole plaza was crowded and noisy, but in fifteen minutes’ time, he managed to find it:

It was a small place, looking like a shop but it was a place where young teenagers learn more about playing a certain musical instrument. Somehow, the faint tune caught Fyodor’s undivided attention and there he was, standing in front of the large glass windows of the building, trying to listen carefully.

Inside, he saw a boy about his age, striking blue eyes looking at the scattered music sheets on the mahogany floorboard as an older woman stood next to him, looking down on the papers as well. The woman spoke for a bit and then the boy stood up and walked to the piano and began pressing the keys. Fyodor couldn’t see which keys he was pressing, but he was somewhat amazed by how well the boy was able to play such a magnificent tune; it was mellow and soothing, even if it sounded faint outside the building.

As the boy was playing, his eyes trailed from the piano keys to Fyodor who he noticed from the glass windows. It was probably Fyodor himself that caused the boy to stop playing the piano almost immediately. The two stare at each other for a brief moment before the boy’s eyes turned to look up at the woman next to him, seemingly scolding him then.

“Wait a moment,” Fyodor picked up from the movement of the boy’s mouth. “I have to do something.” The Russian teen wasn’t well-educated considering that he had been mostly out of school due to his destitute lifestyle, but somehow he could read, understand, and write English. The boy grabbed his coat from the rack near the door and almost ran out of the building. Fyodor was about to leave when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder, causing him to look to the side and see the same striking blue eyes he saw from the inside.

“U-Uhm…” The boy began, seemingly nervous. It was probably hard for him, an aristocrat, to talk to some lowlife like him, but Fyodor didn’t say anything yet. “You’re probably cold.” And without saying another word, the boy draped his coat over Fyodor’s slim frame before running back inside to shelter himself from the freezing cold.

The coat felt nice and warm -- so warm that Fyodor could just lay down and fall asleep while wrapping it around his body.

His eyes droop close, and when he came to, he’s back to reality. Back to the stormy night, his insomniac state, and Poe’s performance. The piece is almost ending, it’s soothing mellow tunes lulling him to sleep. Now he recognizes the piece; it sounds so familiar now.

And then it slowly fades until Poe stops playing.

The novelist opens his eyes, revealing striking blue eyes that almost bore themselves into Fyodor’s magenta ones. “You seem to finally feel sleepy.” He says, cutting through the silence. The Russian rests his arms on the piano and stares at his lover, “Your performance doesn’t fail to lull me to sleep, дорогой."

Poe smiles at the endearment that Fyodor has said and stands up, moving close to him. Once he’s close enough, he places a small kiss on the latter’s head down to his forehead and then to his lips; chaste but sweet. Fyodor returns the kiss sleepily. “Let’s head to bed soon.” The novelist says as he pulls a chair next to Fyodor.

“No, I’d rather we stay here for a little more.” The magenta-eyed man replies, tired eyes staring at the large window in front of him. Poe doesn’t say anything more and sits still beside him and there’s another moment of silence.

“Дорогой, will you show me your eyes again?” Fyodor asks as he turns to look at Poe. The other male doesn’t question why although he’s a tiny bit curious. Brushing his hair to the side, he reveals his eyes once more to his lover who stares for a few seconds before turning away with a small smile. “I knew it.”

Poe lets out a small sigh and smiles as well, “It really is a small world, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“This piece I just performed… It’s the same one I was learning when I met you years ago.”

Gymnopédie. It’s the name of that piece that bound them together.

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