@fixedpointe.
“Minako-sensei,” he murmurs, staring down into a glass of sake he’s barely touched. The golden ring on his finger is warm beneath the repetitive strokes of his thumb. Yuuri rests his temple against his knuckles, seeming far more focused on something else -- possibly the never-ending torrential stream of anxious thoughts ever-present in his brain -- than the topic at hand.
It was impolite to interrupt her he knows, but they both have dropped formality with one another long ago. She was his teacher, a sort of second mother to him when he spent more time at her studio than at home, or with the few friends he had.
( It’s not like he was ever very good at making them in the first place. )
Yuuri lifts his gaze to her from across the table. He’s tired, still a little jet-lagged after his flight from Russia, but his hungry stomach insisted they stop to eat before taking their leave. The bustle of Fukuoka around them is familiar yet not, different from the sleepy little town he grew up in, but it’s Japan all the same. It’s home.
“Where do you see yourself in a few years?” His voice is quiet, almost inaudible among the hum of the shokudou. The question may seem out of the blue, but it’s the only way he can really convey to her that he’s having his own nagging thoughts and fears. Yuuri picks up his chopsticks, prodding at a slice of beef then picking it up to briefly dip into the steaming broth set in the middle of the table. “What do you think you’ll be doing?”
