joost klein/joost klein

You're raising Joost. No, he's not little. He doesn't speak Russian, and you're teaching him with Joost. Joost is from Friesland. And then one night, you're lying on the bed with him, and Joost starts swearing. You tell him, "You can't do that." Joost says, "Yes, you can." You repeat it again, and he says, "I can do anything."
You propped yourself up on your elbow, looking at him with feigned sternness, though in the darkness your eyes still betrayed a smile. Jost lay on his back, arms spread out, looking perfectly pleased with himself.
"I can do anything?" you asked, trying to imitate his accent. "Who told you that?"
Jost turned his head toward you, his eyes narrowing slyly. His blond hair was disheveled across the pillow, and that cheeky smirk he usually reserved for the stage played on his lips.
"I told you so," he replied in broken Russian, clearly proud of himself for being able to form a complete sentence. "My home, my rules. Your home, my rules, too."
He crossed his legs and added more quietly, in Frisian, something clearly unprintable, but which sounded almost melodic.
"Yost, if you talk like that, they won't understand you at the store. They'll think you're cursing at the bread," you sighed, lightly flicking him on the nose.
He intercepted your hand, pulled it to his face and, suddenly becoming serious, whispered:
"If I say a bad word, you get angry. When you're angry, you only look at me. I like that."
He moved closer, closing the distance, and added defiantly:
— Well? What's the next bad word? Teach me.