[A soft, stuttering breath. How tragic it is that both the traitorous mind and heart are mollified by the information that Fyodor is alive back where it matters; when he should be grieving the loss of a way to freedom. The hand held to Gogol's face presses indents into fair skin. A motions downwards brings it to slip off enough to reveal an expression tormented by a strange combination of bone-deep exhaustion and sickly elation.]
How kind of you to discourage me. [He starts, the visible eye narrows and his mouth quirks up in a sardonic way.] So conscientious, in fact, that I can't help but wonder why you'd do so.
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How kind of you to discourage me. [He starts, the visible eye narrows and his mouth quirks up in a sardonic way.] So conscientious, in fact, that I can't help but wonder why you'd do so.