[ just as gogol plants his feet in order to brace for the first kiss of the needle, fyodor shifts his knees, the tips of his boots used to keep himself still. the lack of painkillers, the lack of gentleness is no excuse for a shoddy job. fyodor checks the needle one more time and then very much, very grossly, on purpose and without the slightest hint of remorse or shame—presses the needle against the flat of his tongue.

he closes his lips and runs the entirety of the string between tongue and lips, coating it in his saliva. then he and only then does he begin the stitching process. it won't be a long one, the wound would close fine too if left alone but this is something fyodor can and wants to do for (to) gogol. ]

In this place the plans must change. [ in, out-a pause so fyodor leans close, elbow over gogol's thigh so he can keep his balance before he continues onto the next stitch. ] But if you must know, if not knowing will keep you up at night...then I must tell you. How else could I live with the guilt of knowing I'm robbing you of much needed repose?

[ the smile is not directed at gogol as fyodor is now back to working on those stitches. ]