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Kostya knocked twice, brisk and sharp, and did not say who it was. He realised in clear detail that Obadiah was upset with him, but still lacked the necessary information to determine why.

Shame and guilt were not emotions he felt unless he had failed, and in this task, he had encountered great success.

He waited.

He tilted his head like a dog being given an unclear command.

"No," Kostya said, and it was strange to see how much the dynamic had shifted. Over time, Obadiah had grown complacent in his presence: relaxed shoulders, an easier look, less sharp around the edges. But now, he was barbed wire heated with an open flame, ready to rend Kostya's flesh if he wasn't careful.

Additionally, he assumed that now would be a poor time to ask the other man what 'gloat' meant in this context. Instead, Kostya made a mental note to look it up in the dictionary later.

It was clear that he had executed step one, but had not exactly anticipated for the following steps. It was always in human interaction that Kostya stalled in his tasks. This one was self-granted, at no one's directive besides his own. Again. Perhaps this would be a bad idea, and that'd make it two for two.

Kostya searched for more words to say, to explain his clinical concern for Obadiah and his behaviour, for the quirks he had put together after the fact, but nothing came. Instead, he jammed his boot in the door, just to make sure the door wouldn't get slammed in his face. It was fortunate that he was wearing the pair that was steel-toed.

Kostya opened his mouth to answer the direct question, but stopped short at the odd request. He would have denied the other man, as it was illogical and would do nothing but waste his time as well as Obadiah's, but he was distraught, and it was an order.

"Okay," he said, and mulled over his answer further, and did not withdraw his foot. As instructed, he used Russian to elaborate his point.

"I first began the observations when looking at your hands as they fumbled. With containers, with boxes, with simple things that should be simple for a hunter with proficient motor skills." The changes to his expression were minute at best, but anyone familiar with him would have noticed: the slight furrowing of his brow, the creases in his forehead, the downward tilt of his head as he focused on elaborating. "I had no intention of spying on you as your body betrayed you. Nonetheless, I observe, because it is all I am capable of. I collect facts about the people I come in contact with, and draw conclusions based off my observations. I see beneath most things, but I do not comprehend."

Kostya paused, and tilted his head again.

"You are grievously underweight for your height and stature. Additionally, you choose not to eat frequently, if at all. You prefer to play with your food like a recalcitrant animal rather than consume it, and the only animals that do that when they are hungry are sick. when given food that you do choose to consume, it stretches for far longer than any reasonable man might make it. I cannot say why you have chosen to do this to yourself. I am unsure if you suffer from anorexia nervosa or generalized anxiety or simply have decided that you are above the likes of food: but you are suffering, and it is a self inflicted wound."

It was the most he'd said to anyone since he'd come on the island, since before, minus the reading of book reports.

"You instructed me not to tell Molly," the name slipped through, stilted English among the fluidity of his native tongue, "and I did not. You made no other specifications over who else I could or could not inform. I chose to consult America," there it was again, the clumsy English, rather than the Russian pronunciation, "due to her sway over you. It is a power she wields wisely, without abuse, despite your apparently disagreement."

By the end, Kostya had resumed his dead-eyed stare, waiting.

Kostya did not mind that a tactic of his was used against him. If Obadiah had been less eloquent, it would not have stood out the way it did.

"Can make guess. But understand?" He especially did not understand the exercise of listening to what equivocated to nonsense, but perhaps Taym preferred it. He could fill in the gaps as he pleased, with whatever truths he wanted, imagination running free. Perhaps Obadiah would let himself think that Kostya had done wrong for wrong reasons, or even for the right ones.

What was clear was that Obadiah thought that Kostya had done wrong, even as the rage drained out of him, leaving behind a skeleton of a skeleton. He supposed a flat comment about how he looked as though he might blow away would be poorly timed.

"You are unvell," Kostya said, no question in his tone. " It is showing."

One plus one equaled two.

Kostya squinted, suspicion infiltrating his face, darkening at the corners.

It was inefficient for Obadiah to be the way he was. He had assumed that their thoughts bled from the same vein; efficiency over everything. Order over chaos. Kostya had not expected to understand the other man's defence of his behaviour, even if it had been ignorance-- but now, only did he not understand, he did not approve.

As always, his fists were in gloves: leather, black, and well-tended to, buttery soft without any cracks. In a vague hope, Kostya hoped that he would not accidentally make Obadiah bleed all over them, and punched him square in the jaw, with the hand that normally wore Syntax.

"Foolish," Kostya said, and did not pity him or ask any questions, pleading or otherwise. Obadiah would get what he had been looking for: a cold fury lit behind his eyes, and the fleeting sensation of nausea and fear he felt with physical contact was temporarily overwritten with darkness.

(Syntax came to life, and crowed triumphantly about a wise use of Kostya's paging file, and a clever reallocation of resources. He ignored it.)

Kostya chose to defend himself rather than strike another blow: it had not been an invitation to a fight, but a physical mark of his disappointment and shame in Obadiah's life decisions. In the moves he'd made in the chess game of his life, because he had been given three queens and had knocked them clean off the table with his callous disregard.

"Shame," he gritted through tensed teeth, and his weapon screeched with the sirens in hopes of a summon, in hopes of a charge, in hopes of Konami Code to fuel his power. Kostya wanted none of that, and would not have done the horror of fighting with a weapon indoors. Edith would turn Rep's 300 community hours into 500 of his own.

With a whumph, Kostya's back hit the door opposite of Taym's, and he snarled, once, a low sound of warning, and kicked the other man in the gut, hopefully with enough force to shove him into a room so they would not become a spectacle.

"Am surprise," he grunted, his words unaffected in tone, but between huffs of breath from the physical exertion, and began to taunt Taym in a way that was both cold and merciless. "Seem content to roll over before. Come, Obadiah. Show belly. You know." Kostya scoffed, loudly. "You know."

Kostya looked down at Obadiah, and there was pity beneath the ire, and even if the other man couldn't see it now, he would be better off for this. For Kostya's help, his intervention, his meddling, his minding of business, because clearly he could not take care of it himself.

"I ask you difference between living, and existing," he said, shaking out a hand. It was sore: he and physical altercations were few and far between, but he had been taking care of himself, and Taym had not. "You not even existing. Exist mean take care of self for basic need. Eat. Sleep. Drink."

He didn't need Taym's forgiveness; if the man would resent him, he at least better resent him as he improved upon his life. "Too veak to even do this for yourself. Did think you vere foolish, because only stupid and lame cannot take care of self in basic vay. Even child can eat vhen hungry." The fury was rooted in betrayal, too. "Thought you are efficient. Are not."

Kostya stopped, the fury and resentment bleeding out of him, although his sentiments remained unchanged. For a terrible moment, he was afraid, because he had never felt so openly before. It was all the time he had spent with Mimsy that sent a phrase through his mind, fleeting.

I'm not myself, you see.

"Obadiah," He said, and in the word was understanding, "I see."

The Russian watched the minipet within its tank, contemplative. "No excuse," Kostya said, finally, "failing, in vorld vhere success is vun hundred percent guarantee. Is a vaste." The tingling on his neck returned, and the wall behind Kostya must have grown eyes. He did not look. "Veak."