Yuri can't help but growl under his breath at the investigating dog trying to shove its drippy nose into the food, but he's saved from outright hissing at it when Viktor finally takes some responsibility for his pet. (Ugh, dog people -- what good's a leash if you never use it?) All the same, he stays still, guarding the boxes with a narrow-eyed glare, until he's sure that it's safe to sit back again on his heels and not hover over their dinner. His own hunger almost makes him take a swat at Katsudon, a bad gut reaction checked only when he sees that Katsudon's going for the thermos first and not trying to dive straight into their basket itself.

'Yeah, I'll have a little,' he mutters. It's that fried potato thing he's after, first and foremost, not caring whether he's living up to every single stereotype about Russians and potatoes in the process. The box in question is right on top, and he wastes no time in opening it up and taking out one of the warm croquette halves. Crispy outside, fluffy inside, savoury with just a hint of vinegary sweetness from the drizzle of sauce, it smells like a little slice of heaven (or home) and he has to swallow thickly so he doesn't outright drool before he can bite down on it. But when he does --


Oh, fuck, that's good. His face looks near-blissful as he chews, still holding the box with the five remaining halves in his free hand. No, he's not going to hoard them all, but this first taste deserves to be enjoyed.