In all the time Daniil's known him, Pyotr has always been inclined towards detached melancholy. He might suffer fits of madness and rave in his delirium, but overall it's like a curtain hangs between him and the rest of the world. Safe in his reliance on Andrey to intercept and prevent anything that might hurt him, he keeps his gaze on his own inner world, his art and his visions, and lets everything else pass him by.

It may well be the first time the Bachelor's seen Pyotr's face crumple in genuine distress. "You don't remember?" he asks, less disbelieving and more shocked at the blow to his companion's precise mind. It was like taking a fine china plate out of the cupboard and discovering it had been chipped all around the rim. "Oh, Daniil...I'm so sorry, old boy." He reaches out unsteadily, delivering three or four comforting pats to Dankovsky's arm. "Never mind then, it doesn't matter anymore. Memory is for the living, so why shouldn't we dead men forget it all? Here, have another drink." He nudges the bottle in Daniil's hand.