[ crowds of people are not, in this moment of time, anything he wishes to have nearby; dressed in an attire that is not. beach. appropriate, at least he left his ushanka, and cloak at home, leaving him in dark pants and a long sleeve-shirt that is untucked. the longer strands of his hair and gently pulled back, though any loose ones keep getting tossed across his face by the breeze. he is, however, still wearing his customary boots because he hates sand.
it is not like he is here to enjoy the crowd and the games and the food and whatever else; no, his eyes have been fixed on the horizon for a good half hour, barely blinking as he seems to calculate. whether it is the trajectory of the sun or where the horizon line fades or something else, fyodor is deep in thought.
that all comes to a halting stop when someone, bumps into him. someone is touching his elbow and terror fills him, pulse greyhound quick and he harshly pulls away.
no subject
it is not like he is here to enjoy the crowd and the games and the food and whatever else; no, his eyes have been fixed on the horizon for a good half hour, barely blinking as he seems to calculate. whether it is the trajectory of the sun or where the horizon line fades or something else, fyodor is deep in thought.
that all comes to a halting stop when someone, bumps into him. someone is touching his elbow and terror fills him, pulse greyhound quick and he harshly pulls away.
this is not a welcome committee here.
flat, clearly hostile: ] Don't touch me.