[Kiska]

Vasiliy nodded his understanding; the Russian language was hard for a lot of non-native speakers, he noticed. Likely because they had to learn an entirely different alphabet and some of the sounds weren't natural to them. Learning a language in general was tough; the danseur knew from experience after moving to Canada and having only limited knowledge of English. Immersing himself in the culture and needed to use the language around native speakers on a daily basis had been nerve-wracking, but also a massive help to him. At least in the studio, all the dancers had a common language that Vasiliy understood without having to be told. Terms in ballet were mostly in French, and though he wasn't fluent in the language, he was familiar with it; as always, dancing had come as a relief.

"Oh...." He paused in the doorway into the back room, looking down at his feet again. He was used to doing it himself. No one had ever offered to help care for his feet before, and he was honestly in disbelief that Tobias wasn't completely repulsed by them. Ballet was beautiful, but there were times when the Russian wished he hadn't begged for the opportunity to dance en pointe with the girls. "That... might be nice, actually. Thank you." With a wave of his hand, he invited the Alpha into the back room where there was a line of old lockers with a bench in the middle of the floor and stalls for changing in privacy. To the far left, there was another door, leading into a storage room for props and costumes, and beyond that was the bathroom. Hardly anything in there was used anymore, except for the air conditioner and the space heater, which were shoved in there when not in use.

"Just give me a moment," the Omega requested as he removed his casual clothes from his bag and set it on the bench, disappearing into one of the stalls to slip out of his leggings and leotard, covering his body with layers of fabric--a tank top under a long-sleeved shirt and his sweater pulled back on top of that, and his leggings tugged back on under his jeans. "I'm not a very good Russian; the cold bothers me a lot," came his explanation as he stepped out, sitting himself down on the bench next to his bag and lifting a foot to begin peeling away the bandages. He glanced up, curious and skeptical. "You're sure this is okay? Most people can't stand to look at them. I can't go barefoot in public, that's for sure."