That first excellent taste of the croquette has barely left Yuri's mouth when he hears Viktor's light, oh-so-innocent suggestion, and in the blink of an eye his entire expression changes, as suddenly as if he'd been slapped in the face. He can't stop the way his hand tightens around the croquette, or conceal the initial flash of raw hurt in his eyes, but the anger that rises up behind it is cold and swift to harden, crystallizing into icicle-sharp hostility in the flickering firelight.
'Maybe I don't need to think like a pig in order to skate,' he snaps out, venom thick in his voice. 'You can pull that shit with other people, old man, but not with me. So go to hell,' he concludes, in Russian, because some things are best phrased in one's native tongue.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cup of soup held out to him, but he doesn't need to look at the pig holding it in order to lean forward and swipe it out of his hand without a word. Still seething, he drops the box of croquettes back into the basket, plunks the sloshing cup beside it, and sits down heavily, pulling his knees up to his chest. Rather than cram the rest of his somewhat squished croquette into his mouth, though, he takes only a small bite of the piece that remains in his hand, as if he could let it dissolve on his tongue like bitter medicine. If that's the way it's going to be, then fuck it. He'll eat exactly what they do, no more and no less, and maybe he'll have the satisfaction of watching both of them choke on something before they're done here.
(If he'd ever thought of telling Viktor anything about what he's been trying to capture when he thinks about skating Agape...well, that's officially been annihilated as a possibility. Nuked from orbit. Dead on arrival.)
no subject
'Maybe I don't need to think like a pig in order to skate,' he snaps out, venom thick in his voice. 'You can pull that shit with other people, old man, but not with me. So go to hell,' he concludes, in Russian, because some things are best phrased in one's native tongue.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the cup of soup held out to him, but he doesn't need to look at the pig holding it in order to lean forward and swipe it out of his hand without a word. Still seething, he drops the box of croquettes back into the basket, plunks the sloshing cup beside it, and sits down heavily, pulling his knees up to his chest. Rather than cram the rest of his somewhat squished croquette into his mouth, though, he takes only a small bite of the piece that remains in his hand, as if he could let it dissolve on his tongue like bitter medicine. If that's the way it's going to be, then fuck it. He'll eat exactly what they do, no more and no less, and maybe he'll have the satisfaction of watching both of them choke on something before they're done here.
(If he'd ever thought of telling Viktor anything about what he's been trying to capture when he thinks about skating Agape...well, that's officially been annihilated as a possibility. Nuked from orbit. Dead on arrival.)