[ And so starts their veritable fun-time wound-stitching bonding exercise. His free hand flexes against the grain of the wooden chair as the tops of his thighs are used as guidelines for a frail body to fall into a loathsome kneel in between them. Gogol comes forward to lean the arm unpreoccupied with holding up cloth on the side of the weathered chair. The would-be patient tilts himself off-kilter to get a clearer view of the unaffected expression on the dark-haired man's face as he looks up at Gogol.

To start there is sparse indication of discomfort. The most reliable way to tell his full attention remains rooted on the spot is the way his frame tenses in a way he fails to smother the moment Dostoevsky pinches the irritated flesh between cold fingers. In anticipation for the raw stitch work he flattens his feet firmly against the floor. ]

No take backsies. [ Cheerily, he laughs. But the high note drops off quickly. ] Ah, but Fedya, a penny for your thoughts? As you desire I can be on my best behavior if you can tell your good friend Gogol aaall about the plans percolating in that heads of yours.

[ How will that perfect veneer crack or crumble once he realizes it? "There is no Book here." ]