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If he's honest, Katsuki Toshiya can admit he doesn't know anything about figure skating.
He'd never even seen it before young Yuuri's involvement; never had an interest in sports outside the soccer field, and any expectations he'd harboured of his son sharing the same sentiments had been thoroughly thwarted under the excited sparkle of the youngest Katsuki's eyes when leaving for the rink. Boots with blades sharper and more expensive than any of the knives in the kitchen, costumes worth twice as much as their quarterly insurance payment. Not to mention coaching fees, travel costs and the hours upon hours of televised competitions that would fill the main hall during winter. It might have been easier for Toshiya, and the family, if it had only been a passing interest, but instead figure skating had become a part of Yuuri completely—something that could never, should never, be removed.
Now, over a decade later, he still knows next to nothing. Despite Minako and the young Nishigori family's attempts to explain the point system, the jumps, the elements, he just wouldn't ever be able to differentiate the minute details that turned a good performance into a great one, a mediocre one into a disaster. The daily life of the onsen and his family was enough to satisfy, and regardless of whether he understood or not, his pride in his son's achievements is genuine. As the owner of an onsen, you learn to read people's stories from their skin—nakedness in every sense of the word when soaking in the heated water. He remembers, despite the beauty and grace and ease of Minako's dancing, back when they were both just dumb teens, how battered her feet would be whenever she would leave the baths. Bruises overlapping bruises; taped toenails and swollen ankles betraying hours and hours and hours of practice. She hadn't left for Europe yet then, and was instead just the classmate he had slowly befriended over the endless nights she had visited Katsuki Inn's onsen. Just a amateur ballerina with dreams of taking on the world, hidden in the quiet serenity of Hasetsu. Before the drop in tourism; before receiving the Benoise de la Danse.
Ah, how time had passed since.
Yuuri had, in a sense, followed in her footsteps. Dedicating his life to dancing upon the frozen surface of the ice—his own feet purpled and mottled and ugly in the way only the best and most dedicated can achieve. When the prima ballerina had returned to Hasetsu fresh from her retirement, Yuuri was two months from being born, and Minako had doted on him from that very first day. Toshiya often thanks whatever gods had drawn his best friend to his family's onsen in the first place, if only because without her, he can only guess how easily his son's potential would have been overlooked by the world. Without the ballet, the ice skating, the encouragement, would Yuuri have had the motivations to travel outside of Hasetsu? To be true to himself and his wants? Or would he have swallowed them down to instead meekly inherit the onsen. Fading away slowly like the rest of the town.
Instead, something deep and motivated had grown from the youngest Katsuki thanks to the sport—other skaters, only children themselves, inspiring him along the way—Yuuri's world view becoming much larger than Hasetsu or Saga or even Japan. Like Minako, Yuuri has the bravery to take on the world—and like her, he does. Even so, Toshiya's memories of his son aren't framed around the competitions or practices he doesn't see or understand. His memories are full of the everyday mundane instead. Helping with homework, and fixing his uniform's tie, and housetraining their small poodle. Being instructed to bring the best sake to serve the handsome Russian who had shown up on the doorstep. Quiet moments of hissed exhales that had escaped from his son as he eased beside him during late night soaks throughout his youth, the aches of training slowly being soothed before going to bed. They had used to watch the stars together from the outdoor baths when Yuuri was still in middle school, he remembers. A fruitless endeavor thanks to them both being half-blind without their glasses—any stars lost in the inky skies.
He watches the Grand Prix Final with the rest of his family, live from half a world away. The tears, the excitement, the everything that the pair had worked towards over the year finally expressed on the ice. He doesn't have to know how many rotations are in a jump, or what the spins are named to recognise how much love has grown within Yuuri.
He doesn't understand figure skating, but that doesn't mean he can't understand his son.