Yuri takes his own paper, in the all too familiar Cyrillic that had surrounded him so recently. Familiar and foreign in one. There isn't much he can make out of it besides one, maybe two, words. Learning a few phrases to be able to say them in passing was not nearly anything like learning a third alphabet entirely so you could piece the words together, or like he knew what the system for it was.

There's a nod, more than an answer this time, as it starts feeling like air doesn't quite know what to do with itself, or maybe that's just Yuri. Not that it is anything like new. He's done both things that could possibly need doing or be done now, and Yurio is back to setting his chopsticks in his hand and attempting to eat, and Yuri's own gaze moves back to his bowl, but it makes him wonder more about home than need to pick it up.

Maybe there is, almost warily, a glance off his shoulder to finally (finally) see if the door is still there.





(It is, of course. Solid.
Shaped. Shining handle.)