[ On his end of things, Konstantin allows himself to be open and warm and even intimate, even in such small gestures. The way his fingers spread over the other man's shoulder, palm warm, giving a gentle squeeze before he'll let it go — it comes almost as naturally to him as anything now, that tendency. It could easily be read as flirtatious, even if innocently so: the same sort of way he smiles and lets his eyes linger while doing it, or places his hand to the small of someone's back when guiding them. Small things, not inappropriate, only familiar. As though he's a friend, a comfort.

As he sits, he keeps his focus on Vasiliy Yegorovich, and gives an amused laugh in response to that, although there is nothing truly amusing about it. Time is running out, he thinks, with each day that passes. ]

They're so secretive around here. So serious. They keep trying to hypnotise me to see what's hidden in my mind, when there's nothing.

[ He folds both hands on the little table, leans forwards. ]

They didn't give you any instruction? You aren't supposed to question me? [ He smiles again. ] Do they just want us to make friends?