The warm dark of the hotel room is more soothing than he could ever have thought, as Yuri's hand guides him through the door and towards the dim shapes of the beds, the Sochi city lights sparkling outside.

(No. It's not Sochi. It's Shanghai.

And Yuri came with him, this time.

Even if it's not how it was supposed to be.)

Sighing as he shrugs his jacket off his shoulders, and let's it drop onto something that's probably a chair. "It's not even that late."

At least, he doesn't think it is, even if he feels a little like he's been run over by a truck.

(One full of vodka.)

But he's tired, even if it's not actually that late, and maybe that's a good thing, he thinks, as he sets a hand against a wall to balance himself as he toes off his shoes and lets them roll wherever, as his hazy mind tries to make the connection he'd had before. "At least you can get some sleep before tomorrow."

Because that's what a coach would say. And he's Yuri's coach. Only Yuri's coach. That's the only thing he's supposed to be.

(But Yuri told him to just stay Victor, and to be Victor is to be in love with Yuri, so that doesn't help.)

More pressingly, though, is the other result of drinking all through dinner, and he detaches himself from the wall to wander away, towards the bathroom, to take care of it, blinking smarting eyes when he flips the lightswitch on and the room floods, giving him a look at himself once he's finished and the water is running so he can wash his hands and splash his face and sip cold tap water from a cupped palm.

(He looks tired. Rumpled. A little flushed at the cheeks. A little glassy-eyed.

A little too desperate. That's a look he hates.)

Happier once he can hit the switch again and head back to the main room, already shucking his shirt up off his shoulders and tossing it somewhere near his jacket, and hands already headed for his pant buttons.