[Kiska]

"Of course. That would be nice," Vasiliy replied, stepping back just a little as he directed his gaze down at his feet. Even through all the bandaging there was clear damage visible in the way his toes seemed all crammed together at an odd angle, toenails bruised and skin blistered. The dark red colour suggested pooling blood from too long spent dancing en pointe. Without thinking, teh danseur wiggled his toes, flexed them to air them out a little and winced. "I'd better clean these up and get them rewrapped. And... maybe change clothes. It gets cold at night when I'm not moving around." He motioned to his legs, covered only with a thin pair of black leggings. They were one of the few parts of his body that he still loved--long, elegant legs, firm with muscle and tapering beautifully from the width of his hips. And he was right to take pride in them.

"Anyway, if you need someone to show you around so you can get your bearings, I'm usually free on Sundays and Wednesday mornings; I can point you to some English-speaking shops if that would make things easier as well." The blond shouldered his bag and headed for the back room to change, clearly conscious of the way his sweater covered his body and hands. There was evidence of his thin stature in the angles of his face, but his cheeks had begun to round out more than his body in the last few months of rehabilitation on a high fat diet, so he didn't mind too much when people looked at him like that. It was just his body and his hands. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain why he'd gone through eight agonizing years of binging and purging in pursuit of the perfect figure; people just didn't understand, and it was painful to talk about on its own without being judged. He already knew he'd ruined his body--he didn't need to be reminded.