It's a good, solid meal, but it's not the kind Yuri's used to, and he already looks tired by the time the bill is settled up, so as much as it might be a good idea to walk around to keep from giving into the temptation of a too-early bedtime and a likewise too-early wake-up, Victor's not going to keep him out too late. Just long enough to wander the few blocks near the hotel, point out the arena and let the good food settle in their stomachs, before it's time to start heading back.

Well, back by way of a small café near the hotel, which offers a wide variety of the sort of sweets Victor never thought he'd crave, but found himself missing in Japan: pastila, bird's milk cake, vatrushka, piles of chak-chak glinting with hardened honey. All of it toothsome and tempting, all of it too heavy for Yuri to eat right now, but that doesn't stop Victor from hauling them off their route to beg for samples from a rosy-cheeked, laughing girl behind the counter, who willingly hands over not only a few bites of pastry, but also the large coffee in a to-go cup Victor requests.

(Yuri needs to sleep well tonight, but he still has some preparations to see through, has old sponsors to meet and catch up with, has too much on his mind to succumb to the coaxing, gentle fingers of jet-lag, even if the prospect of stealing a few hours to curl up with Yuri in a dim and quiet room away from the hubbub is a tempting one.)

It's still in his hand when they walk back in through the hotel doors, only for the call to go up –– his name, Yuri's, the scurry of shoes against the lobby floor, the sudden flash of cameras –– before they're surrounded. Not unexpected, but Yuri looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than answering questions or taking pictures, and Victor leans down to him, first.

"Yuri, why don't you go on up? I'll be right behind you."