Not to the point he'd know where to go, or what to do first. Unlike Barcelona, Tokyo, all the cities he's traveled to for competitions, he hadn't ever spent much time sight-seeing in his home country. Not much in Moscow, and not much in Sochi, either –– although Sochi at least had the benefit of being a travel destination even for Russians. "We can ask the concierge where to go. I think I want to get out for a little while, don't you?"
Hotel to plane to cab to hotel: his lungs are crying out for fresh air and his legs need to be stretched. "And then you can go to bed early so you won't be too jetlagged tomorrow."
The room itself is the same as every other hotel room: basic furniture, tiny bottles of shampoo and lotion, bedside table, thick drapes to cut out the light from the Moscow nightlife, such as it is. For a moment, there's a strange sense of deja vu, as if they've just arrived in Shanghai all over again, doomed to repeat the same week in a constant loop without ever leaving the hotel –– but there's Russian on the instructions for room service and for the phone, and the view out the window is nothing like Shanghai's glittering streets. It's gray and cold and it isn't home, but it's not a stranger, either.
The shower is satisfying, and so is changing into fresh, clean clothes. The kind he doesn't wear as often anymore: not his black and comfortable work clothes, not one of his suits, which he sends along with Yuri's costumes to be pressed before they're needed tomorrow and the day after. The sun has broken through the clouds by the time they leave, and he slips his sunglasses back on while his other arm goes companionably around Yuri's shoulders to direct him back out towards the elevator. "Let's go!"
Except it takes longer than he'd hoped to actually get food, because the lobby is beginning to be choked with arriving skaters and fans, and the reporters are out in full force. It takes nearly ten minutes to navigate his way just back to the front desk to even get a restaurant recommendation, and fifteen to get out of the lobby entirely, while deflecting questions in English so Yuri can understand, and smiling for pictures, dragging Yuri in alongside him every time a new camera or phone lifts.
But the food is good, and the restaurant is mostly quiet and tries to comp their food, each piece of which Victor explains and watches Yuri try with a look of pure delight on his own face, laughing at each reaction whether good or bad. (The tip he leaves is substantial.)
All of it only making that buzz under his skin grow a little louder, a little more insistent, with each bite of food that used to be familiar, and is now almost novel.
no subject
Not to the point he'd know where to go, or what to do first. Unlike Barcelona, Tokyo, all the cities he's traveled to for competitions, he hadn't ever spent much time sight-seeing in his home country. Not much in Moscow, and not much in Sochi, either –– although Sochi at least had the benefit of being a travel destination even for Russians. "We can ask the concierge where to go. I think I want to get out for a little while, don't you?"
Hotel to plane to cab to hotel: his lungs are crying out for fresh air and his legs need to be stretched. "And then you can go to bed early so you won't be too jetlagged tomorrow."
The room itself is the same as every other hotel room: basic furniture, tiny bottles of shampoo and lotion, bedside table, thick drapes to cut out the light from the Moscow nightlife, such as it is. For a moment, there's a strange sense of deja vu, as if they've just arrived in Shanghai all over again, doomed to repeat the same week in a constant loop without ever leaving the hotel –– but there's Russian on the instructions for room service and for the phone, and the view out the window is nothing like Shanghai's glittering streets. It's gray and cold and it isn't home, but it's not a stranger, either.
The shower is satisfying, and so is changing into fresh, clean clothes. The kind he doesn't wear as often anymore: not his black and comfortable work clothes, not one of his suits, which he sends along with Yuri's costumes to be pressed before they're needed tomorrow and the day after. The sun has broken through the clouds by the time they leave, and he slips his sunglasses back on while his other arm goes companionably around Yuri's shoulders to direct him back out towards the elevator. "Let's go!"
Except it takes longer than he'd hoped to actually get food, because the lobby is beginning to be choked with arriving skaters and fans, and the reporters are out in full force. It takes nearly ten minutes to navigate his way just back to the front desk to even get a restaurant recommendation, and fifteen to get out of the lobby entirely, while deflecting questions in English so Yuri can understand, and smiling for pictures, dragging Yuri in alongside him every time a new camera or phone lifts.
But the food is good, and the restaurant is mostly quiet and tries to comp their food, each piece of which Victor explains and watches Yuri try with a look of pure delight on his own face, laughing at each reaction whether good or bad. (The tip he leaves is substantial.)
All of it only making that buzz under his skin grow a little louder, a little more insistent, with each bite of food that used to be familiar, and is now almost novel.
The borscht is particularly good.