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The tone is especially precious (said word applied in the same way you’d snidely call someone who just insulted you to get in with the cool kids at lunch). Violet speaks sounding as if he’s just watched a person get shat on by a bird that was hanging over his head for literally only a second - sad enough for even he did not manage to evade the giving unto him of empathy, but with a distant air of amusement about it that makes him very obviously be holding back a bit of a cheeky grin.
Pavel isn’t especially jazzed about being the bird excrement guy, so he rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Aww, are you mad?” He laughs. “About the silence? It’s bollocks! But it’ll go away soon. Remember that last set of Raiders? They all came back silent as statues and not even a day later they were back to hooting and hollering at the pub.”
Pavel focuses his glare on him, and then pouts with a tapping of his foot.
“Oh, is it me?” He laughs again . “No, no, you’re right. I ought to be supportive here. Have you tried this?”
He’s not sure what he was expecting, but he was hoping it wouldn’t be an apple. Hopes are, however, only to be held in order to be shot dead behind the shed like Mr Fluffy who’s surgery you can’t afford, and while it’s an exceptionally ripe and juicy one that really does look like he’s holding more a ruby in his hand than a fruit, it’s an apple anyway Pavel looks at it and pulls his lips thin, crossing his hands over his chest in protest.
Violet scoffs. “Come on. I know you don’t like apples much, but they’re good for you! And I always, always feel so much better after I have one.”
Unimpressed, Pavel raises a brow.
Without another word Violet whips his pocket knife out. “They’re good! And I promise, you’ll feel like even those old scars on your arms are healing away.”
Pavel shakes his head and then angles it directly to the side; a haughty, put-off madam upset at the ratio of sugar in her tea.
“Listen, just consider it medicine,” says Violet patiently, as the steel cuts into the apple and he begins removing the cream fruit of its crimson dignity. “You take those all the time even if they’re nasty, don’t you?”
Because doctors prescribe them , Pavel tries to say, flapping his mouth like his own breed of idiot. And you are not a doctor; you’re just a very stupid genius, aren’t you?
Violet smiles, sweet as bouquets of roses on beloved anniversaries. “Pavel, you’re mute. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. It must be that you’re so thankful I’m willing to do this for you, right? But of course! What sort of partner would I be to abandon you to a soundless life? Don’t worry - I’ll be your voice in these trying times.”
All said while cutting the apple into their slices, symmetrical and perfect, the sort of well-done cuts that could be served to a king. Briefly, Pavel has a hallucinogenic nightmare no doubt brought on by stress wherein he is speaking and Violet’s voice is coming out of his mouth, and try as he might he can’t say or do anything but aurally suck the man off or sing his praises. He almost faints. He almost wishes he did, if only to pass the time - or find out if he’s simply really in a nightmare.
“Just try it,” Violet tells him, holding a slice out. “You know I wouldn’t make you do anything you don’t want to without good reason, right?”
Pavel casts his gaze over to him while he keeps pulling his lips away. His eyes are earnest, bright and apologetic, and this is incredibly frustrating because his petty reluctance is quick to soften at the expression.
He murmurs, “for me,” with a smile that is inclined warm and heavenly, laced into the same thing that makes Pavel feel dwarfed by the enormity of the sun as it rises diligently over another day to watch over them eternally well-meaning.
A wordless sigh. A pounding heart. Rushing cheeks, masked only by the grim and dirt smeared across him natural to scuffles and sorties. Then Pavel folds his hands on his lap, straightens his back, and reaches for a slice.
“Oh, grand,” he hears, and doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s grinning, delighted his apples have won out over Pavel’s dislike of the ugly, bulbous things.
He eats it a lot like one would eat medicine, at least - holding his nose and cringing while Violet snickers at him, holding it aloft to nibble at it more like a rabbit might, and so quick to polish it off he silently coughs from the volume of it down his gullet (Violet reaches over to firmly rub his back here).
Then he clears his throat. Screams as hard as he can.
Nary a note comes out. Instead of the miraculous spontaneous recovery they had prayed for like children pray for snow every winter school day, he sounds like a squealing mouse with a sore throat.
“Oh,” Violet sighs. “Well, it was worth a shot."
He promptly begins chomping one down himself. A hand politely covering his mouth he says, “well, I suppose I’m the apple enjoyer between us,” and then when he’s swallowed, goes on to ask, “maybe something else mundane will have a similar effect. A twig to gnaw on? How about some daisies? Shame I can’t bake you a pie out here.”
Mute though he may be, neutered he isn’t, and Pavel looks at him like he’s just shoved a finger right down into his ear to fiddle with his brain matter.
“The look of pure satisfaction, I should think. At least, coming from you ,” he announces cheerily, and begins plucking dandelions from the ground to test his theory.