[ thoughts aren't spared, they skewered mercilessly under fyodor's sharp scrunity as he looks at the clown currently complaining in, what would almost be considerd, his embrace. his free hand, now with its throbbing wrist is pressed against gogol's, holding the wound down without tenderness at all.

such theatrics. ]

I suppose then my only choice is to mend this well-earned future scar my meddlesome friend has. [ and look he's almost, almost rhyming, mimicing the playful speech patterns of his dearest friend and pushing along the game.

the situation remains unclear, but fyodor's priorities haven't changed; even as he guides gogol back to his temporary abode with one of the well-meaning locals. whether fyodor has been there long or short term is impossible to tell, everything is almost staged. if he's sleeping it may be that he found elsewhere to do so, away from everyone who might have access to him and attempt to hurt him while his guard is down.

and that includes everyone in this world.

fyodor does, however, have a small kit. it's not a first-aid one, oh no, it is merely some things he's taken the habit of putting awy for the moment. clearly for emergency use or as part of some future plan. among them, there is a needle and a thread and some gauze.

a chair, a table, a bed. this is probably more luxurious than fyodor's general abodes back home where he doesn't even have a window. he puts the bag of trinkets purchased on the table, then turns to gogol gesturing for him to sit wherever he wishes. ]

I don't have to tell you to behave here, do I? We are guests in this house.

[ and he has a needle at hand, don't make him stitch your mouth shut. ]