There's a second, uncertain, wavered, mouth opening just a little and closing, as he almost and then doesn't speak. To tell Yurio he doesn't have to rush himself. That he can take it slow with the basics he's getting. It's not a contest. (A competition.) But that reminds him of Yurio on the ice. The all-but-body-breaking attack that was his last Appassionato. Yuri doesn't do good at anything like slow even at the things he's already good at.
(Not that there's time for slow there, is there? Only so few days and weeks to Barcelona.)
He is, at least, relieved a step back when Yurio chooses to take some of the vegetables, tumbling them onto the rice bowl, instead of simply leaping from two bites into his rice back to the baston of his ire and contempt in the first bowl. The last thing Yuri is expecting, bowl of rice in one hand and chopsticks in the other, is to suddenly have Yurio thrust his first bowl at him.
He's still blinking in the wave of the first surprised-confusion when Yurio, stern-faced and flushing a color more like Yuri's only normal, (forces himself into?) begins offering Yuri some of the vegetables piled on the top of that bowl. When the first sounds is foolishly, owlishly, falling out of his mouth, with more surprise than thought, as well as unexpected memory. "Oh."
"Uh--" Is a sound trying to contain itself back to some semblance of control, torn between reminded, polite acceptance (for bland polite involvement? because he helped, the smallest bit?), the question of why (and why again), and, again, the reminder, still. His family was waiting. Dinner. (Victor.) Confusing or not, it still cobbles its coltish legs together to get back to. "--okay. Thanks."
Yuri had to shift slightly toward him to use his chopsticks and coax some of the broccoli and carrot pieces into his rice bowl from the other. "I can't take a lot. I'll still have to go back, and there's no knowing what they will have made."
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There's a second, uncertain, wavered, mouth opening just a little and closing, as he almost and then doesn't speak. To tell Yurio he doesn't have to rush himself. That he can take it slow with the basics he's getting. It's not a contest. (A competition.) But that reminds him of Yurio on the ice. The all-but-body-breaking attack that was his last Appassionato. Yuri doesn't do good at anything like slow even at the things he's already good at.
(Not that there's time for slow there, is there? Only so few days and weeks to Barcelona.)
He is, at least, relieved a step back when Yurio chooses to take some of the vegetables, tumbling them onto the rice bowl, instead of simply leaping from two bites into his rice back to the baston of his ire and contempt in the first bowl. The last thing Yuri is expecting, bowl of rice in one hand and chopsticks in the other, is to suddenly have Yurio thrust his first bowl at him.
He's still blinking in the wave of the first surprised-confusion when Yurio, stern-faced and flushing a color more like Yuri's only normal, (forces himself into?) begins offering Yuri some of the vegetables piled on the top of that bowl. When the first sounds is foolishly, owlishly, falling out of his mouth, with more surprise than thought, as well as unexpected memory. "Oh."
"Uh--" Is a sound trying to contain itself back to some semblance of control, torn between reminded, polite acceptance (for bland polite involvement? because he helped, the smallest bit?), the question of why (and why again), and, again, the reminder, still. His family was waiting. Dinner. (Victor.) Confusing or not, it still cobbles its coltish legs together to get back to. "--okay. Thanks."
Yuri had to shift slightly toward him to use his chopsticks and coax some of the broccoli and carrot pieces into his rice bowl from the other. "I can't take a lot. I'll still have to go back, and there's no knowing what they will have made."