[ Satisfied with the surrender of the letter opener he drops the previously unpleasant grip. As much as the playful Fyodor prodding comes as second nature the point has not been whether his affection is returned. Such a thought feels as impossible as it would stop the painful beating his own heart. No, the significant detail is his own attachment. If he shatters that shackle he manages to spare them both from this. Which means, yes, all this fanfare here is necessary. He doesn't want to have to contend with a demon's full attention on him as a very pressing problem to dispose of before he can put together another satisfactory duel, or plan, or other attempt at achieving freedom.

Each point of contact with a man who kills with a touch is an indirect call of a bluff. Fyodor didn't deem it right to kill him in Meursault when he appeared although he had many chances to... which means he probably won't kill Gogol here either. Probably. Thus now two dangerous men stand leaning against one another; the second more voracious than the first. At some point Fyodor will be the first to move away from the contact—both emotionally and physically—to climb back up his ivory tower. Until then Gogol takes the opportunity to drop his forehead to thump against a white-clad shoulder. He snickers into the fabric. ]

I suspected that might be the case. Won't you watch my closing act regardless? It's the one where I try very very hard to bleed out impossibly in the middle of a street.

[ For the show of it Gogol presses down on his own injury and whimpers at the flare of pain. A pathetic sound he lets out right beside Fyodor's ear. No way this is going to kill him never mind kill him within a convenient time frame. ]

Uh, hm... it looks like we could be here for a while!