Work Text:
Fyodor internally groans at the sight of his horse running off.
Never mind that. She would return eventually.
Bigger question is, where the hell 𝘸𝘢𝘴 he?!
He was holding her loosely by the reins, so he supposed it truly was his fault.
Soft crunching of leaves followed him, abruptly stopping as he turned around.
He knew what it was, he was gifted, after all.
"I do not know who you are, I simply wish to find the Gogols, now Dostoyevskys mansion. You see, my horse ran off with the map. I bring no harm to your land, good.. Spirit." Fyodor mused, still unaware of the ones behind him gender.
"Might you offer me assistance in this dilema?" He continued, fully aware of how many eyes -𝘐𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵- were staring at him.
He would have to call Dazai in need of his exorcistic abilities.
---
Arriving at the mansion with a fairly well dressed and surprisingly gentlemanly ghost was not on his to-do list, but anything that happened to him was hardly ever planned, so it didn't matter to him.
The old, slightly rusty from wear & tear keys jingled in the doorknob, and it was truly a hastle to open the large oak door on his own, obviously made for a multitude of servants to open on the special occasion of a banquet for special effect.
He had heard 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 rumors about how this place was haunted, but he just dismissed them as well, rumors.
What he did not expect was to find a full 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦 of ghosts. Servants, dancers, musicians, everyone was there.
Everyone including the heir to the Gogol family, Nikolai. The previous and only owner of this mansion before he died of starvation. He was the only one Fyodor managed to recognize, his spiritual energy was truly one of the most powerful ones he had ever seen, if not the 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵.
The ghost -Nikolai- was truly a sight to behold. His long, white-as-snow braid flowed in rythim of the music, a slow waltz. He was dressed in a extravagant white ball gown, his steps to the music were practiced, however his dance partner was simply a brute, probably some snobby noble eager to marry the maiden.
And then, they locked eyes.
Those 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.
One like an emerald, shining bright.
The other like a star, enlightening the night.
Oh God, Fyodor was already rhyming, ready to write love sick characters that reminded him of himself.
𝘕𝘰! 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 ghost! 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 "𝘐𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦", 𝘐 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘪𝘵.
He mentally declared, trying to convince himself more than others.
Suddenly, a pale figure glided towards him, extending a hand.
"Would you care for a dance, 𝘋𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘷𝘴𝘬𝘺?"