Yurio continues like this is something important to him when Yuri's not certain he's ever seen anything matter to Yurio that wasn't a) skating, b) his grandfather, or c) things he could take edgey-strange pictures of for his Instagram. The concept that it is important and of being important right now, eludes really taking root. From the furthest field, making it feel like he's somehow sitting with someone who looks like Yurio, mostly sounds like Yurio, and somehow isn't.
Yurio pauses only to stretch his hand, something he'll probably get used to and overly aggravated at, knowing Yurio, as he continues to learn. Especially if it's few and far between for his practice times. In the long run it wouldn't be anything compared to what they managed, but it Yuri wondered if he was glad he wouldn't be there for it.
(Probably.
After all, somehow he was here, again.)
The last words synch in, too, don't they? He needs the address and that means giving up his own. The same as anyone else would have with the reason given, even if it does seem strange now. (His mother would probably still be pleased, even all these months later. Even if he didn't have to, and she wasn't expecting anything. From then, or the box of supplies, likely.)
There's a press of his mouth and he sets his bowl down, looking at the wooden piece of furniture, again, thinking he'll never get used to this. "Could we have some paper and pens, please?"
There are certain moments he realizes what he says here and what he hears are almost two different things. He can feel the respectful formality of the words he chooses, the phrasing, which means they are not English -- because he's not certain he wants to know what happens if you anger the whatever it was in the wood that could make anything appear -- and thus it's strange, because he's certain other people do understand what he's saying, too.
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Yurio continues like this is something important to him when Yuri's not certain he's ever seen anything matter to Yurio that wasn't a) skating, b) his grandfather, or c) things he could take edgey-strange pictures of for his Instagram. The concept that it is important and of being important right now, eludes really taking root. From the furthest field, making it feel like he's somehow sitting with someone who looks like Yurio, mostly sounds like Yurio, and somehow isn't.
Yurio pauses only to stretch his hand, something he'll probably get used to and overly aggravated at, knowing Yurio, as he continues to learn. Especially if it's few and far between for his practice times. In the long run it wouldn't be anything compared to what they managed, but it Yuri wondered if he was glad he wouldn't be there for it.
(Probably.
After all, somehow he was here, again.)
The last words synch in, too, don't they? He needs the address and that means giving up his own. The same as anyone else would have with the reason given, even if it does seem strange now. (His mother would probably still be pleased, even all these months later. Even if he didn't have to, and she wasn't expecting anything. From then, or the box of supplies, likely.)
There's a press of his mouth and he sets his bowl down, looking at the wooden piece of furniture, again, thinking he'll never get used to this. "Could we have some paper and pens, please?"
There are certain moments he realizes what he says here and what he hears are almost two different things. He can feel the respectful formality of the words he chooses, the phrasing, which means they are not English -- because he's not certain he wants to know what happens if you anger the whatever it was in the wood that could make anything appear -- and thus it's strange, because he's certain other people do understand what he's saying, too.