"That's it," Pyotr encourages him. "Don't fight it. Just breathe and let it happen." He strokes Gaeta's throat twice more, and a lump of fluid forms in his throat. Thick and viscous, it will have no trouble triggering his gag reflex. And when he coughs it up, Pyotr's hand will be there to catch it, trapping it between his fingers and palm until it solidifies into a semi-spherical shape, the color of mercury and the size of an orange.

"This is grief," Pyotr softly declares after studying the substance for a moment -- before turning that same appraising look back on Gaeta. "So small? I think you can give me more than that."