Katsuki Yuuri could count the number of times he'd gotten drunk on just one hand. There was, of course, the banquet, where he'd made a fool of himself in front of his fellow competitors. There was another time, as Mari liked to remind him, where he'd gotten his hands on some sake from the onsen. The other few times were because of Phichit. His best friend always denied it, but his text history said otherwise.
This time it was because of Mila. Yuuri couldn't remember how, but she'd managed to drag practically the entire Russian team to a nearby bar which they'd been at for hours. Said Russian to blame was currently arm wrestling Yurio, Georgi was sending messages to his new girlfriend, and Viktor was gushing about Makkachin to anyone who would listen; had he been sober, he would've realized that hardly anybody was paying attention to him rant and rave about his poodle. The only person who was paying attention was his fiancé, who was at the bar, hoping that vodka would help him feel less out of place as he watched his rinkmates.
He took a moment to glance over at Yakov, who was a few seats away from him at the bar. He seemed oblivious to the world around him as he wrote. As Yuuri watched him, he noticed the Russia coach rarely lifted his pen as he wrote line after line. Curious, he leaned in towards the older man to get a better look. Upon closer inspection, it looked as if Yakov was drawing little loops, one right after the other, just for the hell of it.
After a while of just watching his new coach write, Yakov looked over at the Japanese skater. "What do you want, Katsuki?"
"What is that?" He asked, referencing to his writing. His accent had become more present, thanks to the alcohol, but he was still able to be understood.
"Upcoming themes for next season," he answered honestly. He'd never admit it, but he'd taken up somewhat of a liking to the Japanese man now leaning in beside him.
"But why does it look like that?" he questioned, almost a little too loudly.
"Cursive," Yakov answered simply.
"You mean you can read that?" Disbelief was evident in Yuuri's voice.
"Everybody else in this bar can, Katsuki. I guarantee it." And with that he went back to writing.
Yuuri took another sip of his vodka, wondering if Yakov's cursive would be any more legible in the morning; had he been sober, he would've realized that no matter how much or how little alcohol was in his system, he'd never be able to read cyrillic cursive.
I'm serious y'all, look cyrillic cursive, there'll be a couple images that highlight my point exactly.