ax_main | Jean-Paul and Yuri, October 1

Winter sports dudes connect over food. Aka Jean-Paul lures a stray cat. Aka Yuri actually kind of likes someone.

After he dropped his bag in his room, Yuri headed directly for the kitchen. He wasn't used to traveling back and forth to practice, and even if it was only twenty minutes, his stomach hated it... even more than the rest of him. Which was saying something.

Still in his Russia track jacket and pants, feet aching, music pounding in his head, Yuri turned the corner and entered the kitchen. Then pause. Someone was there. And he looked familiar...

Jean-Paul Martin. In the flesh. Chopping vegetables and taking apart fish literally faster than the eye could see.

"Hah?" Yuri blinked, trying to decide what that blur was from. He froze int he kitchen doorway. "How are you--? What?"

Jean-Paul looked up, blinked, then smirked.

"Look what the cat dragged in. Hey, Yurio."

That smirk was too deliberate. He knew damn well Jean-Paul Martin knew his name, too, but he corrected him immediately, "Yuri." And what was that about a cat?! Had he heard about the ears and Yuri's Angels? God, this was humiliating!

"Welcome to Club Mutant," Jean-Paul added. "Come on, take a seat. I promise, I know what I'm doing with this knife."

"That's what they all say." But Yuri actually did sit, because he was hungry and still a little bit shocked at seeing another high level athlete in this place. Did that mean... no one knew about Jean-Paul Martin. Just like no one knew about him. Interesting. "What are you doing with that knife? Don't tell me you have knife powers."

"I have speed powers." Jean-Paul demonstrated by turning a carrot from the whole root into matchsticks in an instant. "The knifework is all learned. What are you in for?"

Yuri snorted, giving a raise of the chin to acknowledge that now he understood. At least he didn't have that power. That'd definitely get him kicked off the ice. And Jean-Paul off the slopes, but no one needed to know. Not as if they could help being mutants. Martin was obviously born to race. Everyone else could deal with it, and it was none of their fucking business how or why. "I can shapeshift. Into a tiger." He didn't need to tell this guy to keep it quiet, at least.

"Merde." There was an edge of absolutely evil delight to Jean-Paul's smile. "I guess trash-talk on the ice just got a lot more hazardous."

"Heh." Yuri laughed, short and sudden, more like a bark. His eyes crinkled slightly, but there wasn't much of a smile. "Not that anyone can know. Obviously."

"But it would almost be worth it, right?" Jean-Paul carried the fish over to a pan on the stove. "So, am I feeding your skinny ass or what?"

"I'm not skinny!" Yuri made a face. Then his stomach growled.

"Please. You ice skaters are all toothpicks." Jean-Paul dropped the filets in the pan, drawing a tempting sizzle from the fish.

Yuri snorted again. "We're not a bunch of meatheads, you mean. We have necks." His stomach growled even louder... damn, that smelled good. "What are you making? I mean, what fish?"

"Excuse me? You're Russian and you don't know what salmon looks like? Who are you and what the fuck did you do with Plisetsky?" Jean-Paul grinned and turned to the pan. "Get me a salad bowl and some olive oil. If I'm feeding you, you're working."

"I can't see inside the pan," Yuri grumbled. He wasn't sure why this guy was smiling when he was being such a pain in the ass... but Yuri's stomach growled again. He got up and started digging for a bowl. "What's got you so happy, anyhow?"

"Misery loves company," Jean-Paul reminded him.

"I'm glad my misery could cheer you up," Yuri said with a snort. Okay, this one looked like it had more bowls. "Where are you training, anyhow? Are there slopes here?"

"Somehow, I knew there was no chance in hell of you denying that you're miserable," Jean-Paul pointed out. "As for training, have you seen the Danger Room yet? I can have an entire course to myself!"

Ah, a big bowl. That should do. Yuri delivered it and continued familiarizing himself with the kitchen in search of oil. He'd never done much but dig through the snack cupboards and the fridge before. "I heard of it when I arrived. It sounded too good to be true. It could be good for cross-training."

"Good for a lot of things. But yeah. Mostly training."

"And there's a lake? Pond?" Yuri asked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd skated on an actual body of water. He wondered if it froze.

"Yes. Why..." Jean-Paul's smile widened. "Oh. You know, we have someone whose power is to manipulate ice and freeze the shit out of things. You might want to talk to him."

Yuri almost looked impressed for a second. "Now that's a power worth having." Maybe the whole freak thing wasn't too bad... for people who weren't him, anyhow. Ah, oil. He brought it to Jean-Paul and set it nearby. "There. Any more errands?"

"Well, since you're being so obliging..." Jean-Paul's smirk was back. "You could go get me some anchovies from the pantry."

He should've realize Jean-Paul would turn the irony back on him. Yuri rolled his eyes, but went to the pantry. "Those are the little fish in the tin, yeah? How do you know how to cook with all this stuff?"

"Sardines are the ones in the tins!" Jean-Paul called. "Anchovy filets will be in the little glass jars!"

"Good," Yuri said, shoving his head into the pantry. "That sounds slightly less disgusting. And you didn't answer my question."

"Because I'm not going to yell this conversation across the kitchen like a damned barbarian!"

Yuri grumbled under his breath until he found the jar of little fish, then slowly, deliberately marched to the other side of the kitchen and set it down beside Jean-Paul with a thunk.

"Merci, Yurio. You're too sweet." Jean-Paul flipped the salmon, then moved back to the cutting board. He chopped the anchovies until they were almost paste, then mixed them with mustard, pepper, and garlic and began adding a slow drizzle of olive oil. "And if you are very curious, I learned it in Montreal."

Yuri stuck his tongue out for both "Yurio" and "too sweet". But his gaze was on the cooking--what he could see of it. His meals had been prepared for him for so long, he hadn't really thought about what went into them. "Is Montreal supposed to have good food?"

"The places I've been do." Jean-Paul let the salad dressing sit and went back to chopping vegetables. "You've been there. You never bothered going out? Or were you hiding from JJ?"

Yuri's nose wrinkled up at the sound of that name. Stupid, arrogant, French-Canadian douchebag Jean-Jacques Leroy, aka JJ, aka fucking obnoxious prick who thought he was better than everyone else. "Don't talk to me about that idiot.

"I went out shopping. Good fashion. I just ate whatever."

Jean-Paul shook his head. "You are what you eat, Ice Kitten. You need to concentrate on quality."

"Don't call me that," Yuri said darkly. "And someone else usually decides what I eat. Always has."

"So you've just had a world of possibility opened up to you, then? Don't tell me your coach followed you here." Jean-Paul tossed the piles of lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, and avocado into the bowl Yuri had just fetched, then went to check the fish.

"No. Not when everyone else is still in St. Petersburg." Yuri's bottom lip jutted. What did it matter? He didn't need anyone. "He has some douchebag working with me here--and there's a dance teacher, Stevie. Yakov's hag of an ex-wife recommended her."

"Don't pout, Yurio. You train here or you train in Russia. You're still going to kick ass."

Yuri blinked in surprise. Then very nearly smiled, one corner of his mouth turning up. His eyes were all intensity, though. "Fucking right, I am."

"Right. Just we're clear." Jean-Paul turned off the flame under the skillet. The fish had a fragrant, dark crust on it by this point. "Now go get some plates and we'll eat."

Yuri shot him a slightly darker look for the continued bossing, but did it anyhow, because that fish looked and smelled amazing. "What's with the Yurio? Shinobi says it too. Did I miss something?"

"Apparently, it's way too easy to get you mixed up with the Yuri from Japan." Jean-Paul kept his game face on. "So there's been a lot of 'Yuri' vs 'Yuri' on some of the sports forums. So you just got tagged as 'Yurio' for easy reference."

Yuri had seen some of it, but flicked through it quickly. He snorted. "That loser? They won't get us mixed up for long." Apparently the Japanese Yuri hadn't taken his advice to retire... yet. Yuri would make him regret it.

"Careful about that. These things have a way of sticking. People think it's cute, then it never goes away." Jean-Paul dished up salad and salmon, then took a seat at the table. "But if it helps, I won't tell anyone here."

"Good." Yuri tried to frown, but he was distracted by the food. He assumed he was invited, so he took his own and settled across from Jean-Paul. Then stuffed some into his mouth. Through it, he said, "Vkusno. You're a good cook. Good skill for an athlete."

"Good way to make sure you don't wind up eating stuff you hate, non? And you're going to be eating for two, plus your training." Jean-Paul started in on his own fish. "Maybe you could pick up a few things."

Yuri was convinced, so he nodded. He could learn to cook, sure. He could learn anything. "Why not." He could get his grandpa's recipes. And once Otabek left, he'd need them.

Stupid Otabek. Leaving. Ugh.

He shoved his mouth full of salad. "They should have a cooking class. That might actually be useful. What is all this hand to hand bullshit."

Jean-Paul smirked. It was a good thing Yuri knew how to focus his aggression on the ice, because the kid had attitude in excess. That was probably why he liked him.

"So that when you inevitably haul off and punch someone, you know how to do it without breaking your thumbs."

Yuri very nearly smiled. "Might be useful next time I run into JJ."