Viktor Mikhailov moved through Gorky Park with the focused precision of a bodyguard, except his principal was a six-month-old dictator strapped to his chest. Her tiny finger, emerging from the cashmere bear suit like a miniature royal scepter, dictated their course. A flick towards a cluster of pigeons pecking at fallen chestnuts? Viktor pivoted smoothly on the gleaming leather of his Oxfords, altering trajectory without a murmur of dissent. Her wide, storm-grey eyes lingered on a balloon vendor's riot of colour? They detoured. He was less a father, Yuri mused from two paces behind, and more a highly trained asset responding to the whims of a five-star General operating out of a BabyBjörn.
So, when Misha's long, dark lashes suddenly stopped fluttering against Viktor's collarbone and snapped upwards, her gaze locking onto something with unnerving intensity, Viktor followed the line of sight. It landed on a cheerful stall tucked near the ice rink, its owner deftly skewering glossy, crimson hawthorns and dipping them into vats of molten, amber sugar. The resulting tanghulu gleamed like edible jewels under the weak autumn sun.
Viktor's expression didn't change, but the air around him chilled by a perceptible degree. "Nyet," he stated, the Russian negation flat and final. "Gnilýe zuby." Rotten teeth.
Misha's response was immediate and devastating. Her rosebud lips, usually poised in a thoughtful pout, descended into a wobbling, bottom-heavy expression of profound betrayal. It wasn't just a pout; it was a silent oration on injustice, capable of melting sterner hearts than Viktor's – or so Yuri believed, watching with amusement.
A sigh, barely audible, escaped Viktor. Shifting Misha slightly against his chest with one arm, he pulled out his phone with the other. His thumbs moved with swift, efficient jabs. 'Can infants 6 months consume crystalline sucrose?' The search results materialized – a wall of medical jargon, horrified parenting forums, and dire warnings about ER visits featuring tiny, hyperglycemic humans. The verdict was unanimous and brutal: No.
He slid the phone back into his pocket, the sleek black rectangle feeling heavier than before. His gaze drifted back to the tanghulu. Just fruit. Healthy fruit. Antioxidants. Vitamins. Briefly imprisoned in a crystalline sarcophagus of pure sucrose, sure, but… fundamentally fruit. The internal monologue, usually so decisive, wavered like the sugar strands clinging to the hawthorns.
"Cherez neskol'ko mesyatsev," he murmured, his voice lower, fractionally softer, bending towards her ear. In a few months. It was a concession, however microscopic.
Misha received this compromise not with grace, but with open warfare. She turned her head and fastened her surprisingly strong gums onto the pristine black wool of his turtleneck collar. Not a suckle, but a vigorous, indignant chew. Her tiny jaw worked the fabric with grim determination, as if attempting to devour the very source of her disappointment. Pthhh. Gnash. Pthhh.
Viktor looked down. One dark eyebrow arched slowly, impossibly high. Her cheeks puffed in and out with each furious gumming motion, a miniature, cashmere-clad steam engine of outrage. Then, the verbal barrage began:
"Ah-bah! Gah-tuh-pthh! Mmph-ah-DAH!" It was a torrent of indignant babble, complete with emphatic hand-flapping that nearly dislodged a mitten.
Viktor's stern facade cracked, just for a millisecond. A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "Da?" he murmured back, his tone deceptively conversational, as if perfectly following her complex legal argument. "I chto zhe ty predlagaesh', moy malen'kiy advokat?" And what do you propose, my little lawyer?
Misha drew a deep, shuddering breath, her face scrunching up with effort. Then, with magnificent, wet finality, she blew a long, triumphant raspberry directly onto his collarbone. Pbbbbbbthhhhhh!
Checkmate.
Suddenly, a familiar, broad shadow fell over them. Yuri materialized, holding two sticks of the forbidden tanghulu aloft like ceremonial torches. The sugar glaze sparkled enticingly.
"Kompromiss," Yuri declared, his grin wide and utterly unrepentant. "Ty s"yesh' odin."You eat one. He waggled one stick towards Viktor. Then he offered the clean, unadorned wooden skewer of the second stick towards Misha. "Ona… poglyozhet palku." She… licks the stick. He beamed."Vse vyigryvayut." Everybody wins.
Viktor fixed him with a look that could have flash-frozen the sugar syrup. It conveyed volumes about Yuri's impending demise, the unsanitary nature of public park sticks, and the fundamental betrayal of paternal solidarity.
Misha, however, was already reaching. A tiny, mittened hand shot out, fingers grasping eagerly towards the proffered wooden skewer. A squeal of pure, unadulterated desire pierced the crisp air.
Viktor Mikhailov, who had stared down boardroom coups and literal gun barrels, found himself outflanked. He sighed, the sound lost beneath Misha's enthusiastic gurgling. He took one anghulustick from Yuri with the resigned air of a man accepting his fate. With the other hand, he carefully guided the clean end of the second skewer tow ards Misha's questing mouth. Her tiny lips latched onto the smooth wood with the fervor of a pilgrim reaching a shrine.
Viktor took a deliberate bite of his own tanghulu. The crack of the hardened sugar echoed sharply, a sound both satisfying and vaguely sacrilegious in the context. Misha's chewing paused. Her storm-grey eyes, wide and suddenly suspicious, snapped up to his face. Was that… the sound of consumption? Of victory denied?
Viktor met her accusatory gaze, chewing slowly. "Stradaniye stroit' kharakter," he stated, deadpan. Suffering builds character.
Yuri choked on a laugh. "Yey shest' mesyatsev, Vitya," he wheezed. She is six months. "Yeyo 'kharakter' – eto kakat' po raspisaniyu." Her 'character' is pooping on schedule.
Misha, distracted by the fascinating texture of the wooden skewer under her gums and a vibrant yellow leaf tumbling past the pram, abruptly forgot the entire tanghulu incident. The outrage evaporated, replaced by wide-eyed wonder at the falling world.
Viktor exhaled, a slow release of tension he hadn't fully acknowledged. He adjusted the warm, suddenly placid weight of his daughter against his chest. "V sleduyushchiy raz," he muttered, the words low and directed more at the universe than Yuri, "ty ob"yasnish' yey gigiyenu polosti rta." Nexttime, you explain oral hygiene to her.
Yuri, unfazed, took a large, crunching bite of his own confiscated tanghulu. "Legko," he declared, sugar glistening on his lips. "Skazhu yey, chto karies – eto slabost'." Easy. I'll tell her cavities are weakness.
Misha yawned, a wide, jaw-cracking affair that ended with her nestling her cheek deep into the black wool covering Viktor's heartbeat. The Great Tanghulu War of her sixth month was over. The victor, as always, was sleep. And Viktor Mikhailov, cradling his softly snoring General, knew the ceasefire was only temporary. The next sugary skirmish was inevitable.