At the sight of Viktor's perfectly phrased challenge to his home country, Mila turns around, her hair falling across her face as a smile plays across her lips. 'Did you hear that?' she sing-songs, her eyes glinting with unconcealed delight at she looks at Yuri.
At Yuri, who has managed to fumble his way into a chair.
At Yuri, whose gaze barely flickers in her direction before it returns to the television screen.
At Yuri, who over the course of the medal ceremony and the interviews has somehow managed to eat exactly one-and-a-half spoonfuls of the borscht that he'd ordered because his body is threatening to stage a revolt over the lack of food, even as his mind is currently barricaded in an ever-darkening cell of all-encompassing rage, surrounded by thoughts like kegs full of gunpowder.
Viktor.
And the pig.
In Russia.
Facing him.
(In Moscow, his Moscow, where -- )
The plastic spoon in his hand suddenly snaps under the pressure of his thumb digging into it. The top half plummets into his borscht, and the resulting splatter of blood-red liquid from its impact gives the surrounding tabletop a gory, ghoulish appearance, a private murder scene staged for a solitary performance. And as the bowl of the broken spoon starts to sink into the thick vinegary soup, everything behind Yuri's eyes ignites.
I'll shred you into borscht in Moscow, you pig bastard!
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zaluzianskya and ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
skylark_photos
no subject
Date: 2017-04-11 03:58 am (UTC)At Yuri, who has managed to fumble his way into a chair.
At Yuri, whose gaze barely flickers in her direction before it returns to the television screen.
At Yuri, who over the course of the medal ceremony and the interviews has somehow managed to eat exactly one-and-a-half spoonfuls of the borscht that he'd ordered because his body is threatening to stage a revolt over the lack of food, even as his mind is currently barricaded in an ever-darkening cell of all-encompassing rage, surrounded by thoughts like kegs full of gunpowder.
Viktor.
And the pig.
In Russia.
Facing him.
(In Moscow, his Moscow, where -- )
The plastic spoon in his hand suddenly snaps under the pressure of his thumb digging into it. The top half plummets into his borscht, and the resulting splatter of blood-red liquid from its impact gives the surrounding tabletop a gory, ghoulish appearance, a private murder scene staged for a solitary performance. And as the bowl of the broken spoon starts to sink into the thick vinegary soup, everything behind Yuri's eyes ignites.
I'll shred you into borscht in Moscow, you pig bastard!