Yuri actually does want to argue. Though that is too aggressive of a word for it. He wants to flail and promise that Victor doesn't need to worry about it, that he's fine. (But, also, maybe to just hide under or behind any table, desk, or large enough plant they pass, too.) He is exhausted. That isn't a lie. Victor's not wrong.

But even that douses like the light in the room -- vanishing under Victor's firm hands and tugging of the curtains closed -- when Victor's words finally actually encompass what he knew was coming all along, and somehow hadn't gotten after skating or in the restaurant. He doesn't know why Victor waited until now.

It's not like Victor to be patient. Or subtle.

Yuri doesn't argue any more than he usually would have. There's a faint wince, jaw firming, at the words about his jump, but they aren't wrong, and he divests himself of the jacket he'd been carrying, and his clothes next. A pile not far from his shoes. He'll need all of it back before they leave, and it makes no sense to fold it away in his suitcase.

He's down to his briefs, and he's caught the eye mask, but it's in his fingers, and he can't help himself finally, "Victor, I really don't think this is--" Going to help? Going to happen? He doesn't know what he needs, but he doesn't think it's this.