Victor laughs, but it's hard to really care when the food smells amazing, and he's following the tantalizing smell and even now the look at everything, as Victor picks it up and carries it over to lay on the center end of his bed. It requires more care than tatami sitting, where the low table might just be bounced by too much movement. The tray shifts with as little as even the careful movements to sit on the bed, and scoot to the opposite side.
Yuri is already several bites of pork in (and he knows he ate this morning, knows he ate yesterday, that it was harder when he was stressed to get him not to eat than it was to get him to eat) but it's heaven in his mouth. The flavorful bursts of fried pork, salted and seared a little caramelized on some of the edges, under a warm, thin brown sauce. The warm, sticky richness of the rice. He's not certain he's even stopping to breathe before piling each next bite. Crisp snow peas. Soft earthy, buttery mushrooms.
It's like he hasn't eaten since getting to this country suddenly and it's heavenly.
It doesn't stop him from gulping down a bite, and saying, "Not as good as お母さん, but, yes. Good."
Even if it wasn't katsudo, and even if it was, even if it was the best katsudon that could found in this country or Japan, even to the making of something as simple as this, he would still stick proudly by those words. Nothing anywhere was as good as his mother's making of it. The thought of her strikes another. She'll call. They'd all called last night, and that was before he'd gotten a silver medal. They might have already.
Not first place the second day in a row, but he had placed. He was going to Moscow before he'd come home again. Which makes his eyes glance to his coat, but between the food in his lap and the idea of putting down his bowl to go there, he lifts it and takes another bite. Relishing in a slippery chunk of onion and the floret of broccoli captured with it. After dinner. He'd remember to check after they finished eating.
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Date: 2017-04-19 03:59 am (UTC)Yuri is already several bites of pork in (and he knows he ate this morning, knows he ate yesterday, that it was harder when he was stressed to get him not to eat than it was to get him to eat) but it's heaven in his mouth. The flavorful bursts of fried pork, salted and seared a little caramelized on some of the edges, under a warm, thin brown sauce. The warm, sticky richness of the rice. He's not certain he's even stopping to breathe before piling each next bite. Crisp snow peas. Soft earthy, buttery mushrooms.
It's like he hasn't eaten since getting to this country suddenly and it's heavenly.
It doesn't stop him from gulping down a bite, and saying, "Not as good as お母さん, but, yes. Good."
Even if it wasn't katsudo, and even if it was, even if it was the best katsudon that could found in this country or Japan, even to the making of something as simple as this, he would still stick proudly by those words. Nothing anywhere was as good as his mother's making of it. The thought of her strikes another. She'll call. They'd all called last night, and that was before he'd gotten a silver medal. They might have already.
Not first place the second day in a row, but he had placed. He was going to Moscow before he'd come home again. Which makes his eyes glance to his coat, but between the food in his lap and the idea of putting down his bowl to go there, he lifts it and takes another bite. Relishing in a slippery chunk of onion and the floret of broccoli captured with it. After dinner. He'd remember to check after they finished eating.