Pitter Patter | Victuuri Adoption AU on hiatus

Bickering

James presses me to stay for the hour, but I can't. I can't be caught inside the rink, regardless. I tighten my hoodie and my sneakers and clutch my belongings to my chest, ready to make a break through the deluge. But Trista suddenly steps in my way.

"Hey, you can't just run like a crook. We're trying to talk to you," she says, crossing her arms.

I skid to a halt, tossing a guilty glance backward at James. He looks on, flustered but otherwise unfazed. He eyes Trista with something like a warning glance, but she doesn't notice.

"You think just because your daddies own the skating world that you're the princess of it? You don't even know how to skate," the arch of her eyebrow is as sharp as the hurtful jape.

This bitch.

"No. I never said anything like that," I argue. "I'm not staying here and playing monkey in the middle with you just because you're bored and need somebody to chew on your homophobic rhetoric. Let me through, or I'll call my uncle."

"He's busy, remember," James interrupts, approaching Trista from behind. I didn't mean Uncle Yuri, though, I meant Uncle Otabek— an entirely different threat. "Leave her alone, Tris. If it's a ride you need, Valkyrie, I can drive you," he offers.

Trista looks as if she's about to cry, catching we each, James and me, off guard. She turns all of her hostility toward him before I can respond, despair climbing up her face until it weighs in her brow.

"Jamie," she begins, "what the hell is going on? Why are you being so nice to her?"

I don't stay to listen to them bicker. I spin on my heels and race out the door, like a crook. I'm hit by the rain in one wet punch, but I don't look back. I squint through the raging downpour, momentarily blinded by the thundering rain. I pull the hood of my jacket up and blearily watch the sidewalk pass beneath my feet as I jog through the weather, head bowed and spine bent forward.

Don't I love summers in St. Petersburg. I don't blame Elkena one bit for hurrying to Japan. I'm sure she's bound to have a great time with Poppa getting ready for her next season on the ice. I bitterly wish to join her there. But I can't.

My shoes are getting to be soaked, socks thoroughly waterlogged and blisters throbbing painfully. My teeth chatter and my eyes hurt, and even my hoodie is beginning to soak through. By the time I make it home, I'm drenched to the bone and I'm sniffling like a crybaby. Whether from cold or self-pity, I am unsure by this point. I'm eager to let myself inside through the garage, but the door seems to be stuck.

Panic wrestles with my problem-solving abilities. I try to force open the garage door but the door is jammed or locked or something, not how we normally leave it. I know the front door will be locked, but in desperation, I try anyway. I dig through my backpack, looking for a classic bobby-pin to pick the lock, but even there, no such luck. I collapse in a heap of wet slush on the front porch, feeling like an idiot.

By the time Papa calls, I've cried myself into a nap on the porch. I miss the first call, unaware of my cellphone vibrating in my backpack. It's when Papa rolls up to the driveway and perceives me to be hurt or maybe dead that I finally hear his call.

"валькирия (Valkiriya/Valkyrie)!" he exclaims, jumping out of the car.

I jolt, sitting up sorely. His face softens as he registers my dampened clothes and defeated gait.

"You walked home? Kiriya, you were supposed to wait at the studio. How long have you been here— why didn't you go inside?" He helps me to my feet, but I lean all of my weight against him.

"Garage door wouldn't open," I cough, my voice sounding foreign and coarse.

"Valkyrie, you should have waited for me," he chastises gently, unlocking the front door and half-carrying me inside. "You're sick as a dog," he shakes his head.

He deposits me on the living room couch without pausing to shed his coat or his boots. He turns up the fireplace before continuing to lecture me.

"Your health is fragile, darling. You need to be more careful, especially with an audition coming up."

"Я знаю, Папа (Ya znayu, Papa/I know, Papa)," I shiver, feeling colder before the heat of the fire. "I didn't know the garage door wasn't going to open— I thought I could get in without a key."

"I'd rather you have come in like a crook than suffer on the porch. I'll get you a key, Kiriya," Papa sighs, draping a blanket over my shoulders. "Or we can start leaving a key under the mat, okay?"

"Спасибо, Папа (Spasibo, Papa/Thanks, Papa)," I sniff weakly, feeling damp and miserable. "Can I take a nap before I do my homework today?"

He eyes the ring of water surrounding my position on the couch before acquiescing. We slowly slip into Russian, a habit when I want to be taken seriously.

"Да, (Da/Yes)," Papa nods. "Change into something dry," he adds. "Don't catch cold."

"Okay," I yawn.

*****

I bring my homework to the table for dinner. Papa sets a bowl of steaming soup and a mug of hot tea next to my textbook, notebook and pencil held contemplatively in my hands.

"How are you doing, then, Valkyrie?" Papa asks gently, placing an icy hand to my forehead.

He tuts and pulls away.

"You're burning up, I was afraid you'd gotten sick."

"Я в порядке (Ya v poryadke/I'm fine)," I argue.

"нет, ты не (Net, ty ne/No, you're not)." Papa disappears into the kitchen, returning moments later, medicine in hand.

"Papa," I whine. "Я не хочу медицины (Ya ne khochu meditsiny/I don't want medicine."

"Медицина хороша для вас (Meditsina koroshya dlya vas/Medicine is good for you)," Papa replies sternly. "вы примете лекарство (Vy primete lekarstvo/You will take medicine)."

I want to continue arguing with him but I know he'll win. If nothing else, he's more fluent in Russian, and I'll look stupid doubling back into English. I think I'm taking a fever reducer, something to dry up my nose, and cough syrup. It's the cough syrup I fight against. I try again, setting the notebook and pencil down to make a better appeal.

"У меня нет кашля, Папа (U menya net kashlya, Papa/I don't have a cough, Papa)," I try to convince him, although my voice is hoarse.

"Я не тупой. Выпей лекарство (Ya ne tupoy. Vypey lekarstvo/I'm not stupid. Take your medicine)," Papa retorts, but there's no anger behind his words.

I have no choice but to down the cough syrup. Papa seems pleased with my compliance, reluctant as it was, moving to finally sit across from me at the table. He watches me pick up the pencil and try to continue thinking through dimensional analyses. He tells me to set it aside and save it for when I feel better. But I don't want to fall behind.

We continue half-heartedly bickering in Russian until I finally just tell Papa, "I already miss Pop and Elkena."

Papa softens again. He nods, pushing around his food and agreeing.

"I know, Kiriya," he says wistfully. "But they only just left this morning, let them get settled in before we bother them. They'll call when they're ready."

"But I have girl things to talk about with Elkena," I mope into my soup.

Papa just laughs at me.