[ derailment of his plans had been perhaps not entirely unexpected, the page of the book he'd used to pen the events had made no reference to gogol's death: a true death, he'd simply added it as a suggestion after the rest of the narrative had been iron-clad and locked in. the power of the book is not infallible, as much as fyodor wishes it were, and to recreate reality as he wishes it the entire blank book might not suffice but he must try.

had he the book in his hands now would he erase gogol from existence or rewrite him to grant him a thinly veiled lie to satisfy his desires?

how mask-like that frozen smile, terrible! enough to drive anyone who peeks beneath it away. how lonesome and loathsome. the sentimentality that peers through repulses dostoevsky the moment he senses its mere existence. (and yet, that smile as his slender hands were clasped between gloved ones, my dear friend i missed you).

and fyodor who utterly hates being cold and wet stares, unsympathetically at gogol's current plight. troublesome creature that kolen'ka is, his help might be required. his hand touches the brooch on his chest, and unpins it so it is back in the palm of his hand. ] The result of what exactly? [ because he needs nikolai to confirm it, that they truly are on the same page, on the same moment— even as fyodor continues speaking, out of habit in order to make sense of his friend. or rather to allow him to feel himself understood by fyodor: ] You of all people should know severing a bond worth keeping is like being plunged into the cold wet depths of the Neva.

You may not survive.