[There are bruises already beginning to bloom on the pale of Yuri's wrist, dark marks bitten into the otherwise unblemished skin; the very sight of them makes something in Dimitri's blood boil, and he thinks for a wild minute of storming back into the ballroom and demanding satisfaction from the brutish animal that had put them there earlier, extracting an apology with words or at knifepoint, whichever proved more satisfying to his own whims.
But he can't. That's not the right way of going about anything, and it would only make more trouble for Yuri, he knows. So instead he simply cups one broad gloved hand beneath Yuri's wrist to support it, while the other gently adjusts the angle so that he can better examine the damage in the slanting light from indoors.]
I'm sorry that you've been made to endure this.
[He carefully avoids specifying what "this" is; it could be the alleged condition that makes him bruise so easily. Or it could be something else altogether.]
no subject
But he can't. That's not the right way of going about anything, and it would only make more trouble for Yuri, he knows. So instead he simply cups one broad gloved hand beneath Yuri's wrist to support it, while the other gently adjusts the angle so that he can better examine the damage in the slanting light from indoors.]
I'm sorry that you've been made to endure this.
[He carefully avoids specifying what "this" is; it could be the alleged condition that makes him bruise so easily. Or it could be something else altogether.]
I would put a stop to it, if I could.