[ the irony of gogol taking the brooch before a proper, formal gesture had been made is not lost on fyodor who relinquishes it without protest. he supposes, at the end of the day, they simply are not those sorts of sentimental people even when they're playing at these sorts of theatrics. ] Would you have really stopped to think of those things with my death? It sounds pathetically simple and very much not like you. [ this man needs a lesson in empathy one day. ] But then, said incomprehensible affection—[ wait, hold up.

(what is incomprehensible to gogol about the affection he holds? is it not true that few binds would ever be as efficient, as devastating to his freedom as affection that runs deep? the type that makes one yearn for the company of the other with desperate sighs, forlorn glances at the moon and poetry, so much poetry—

is it possible that it's an affection that exceeds friendship? that's intolerable, more tolerable than the cold and wet but still).

he's never been so glad to be so certain of his intellect because the realization comes mid-sentence, but it takes less than a second to process so he continues smoothly with what he's saying.

it is also in this moment that fyodor decides he's going to absolutely maim the jester. ]— must be such a difficult burden to shoulder. Perhaps, I could help?