- Victor’s bangles
- Victor’s sunglasses
- Yuri’s rice ball plushie
- the fucking pink barbie car
- Makkachin’s face
- the fact that this is basically a *cough* honeymoon *cough* i mean family trip to the beach
- Yurio was most likely forced to go by his dads
- he is suffering
- Yurio’s bouquet of cats
- Yurio’s huge ass cat plushies
- how the fuck did they fit all that shit in the barbie car
- that is gonna be one uncomfortable trip i mean look how they’re just squished together like that
- there’s a surfboard
- holy fuck they’re gonna surf
- it has skating stickers wow
- there’s also a “I ❤️ Hasetsu” sticker with makkchin on it
- Victor has his arm around Yuri omg
- they’re probably sharing that driver’s seat tbh
- i mean there aren’t any other seats
- how the fuck is Victor is driving like that
- this is dangerous af
- EYES ON THE ROAD VICTOR
- YOU’RE GOING TO KILL YOUR FAMILY
- HANDS ON 10 AND 2 NOT AROUND YOUR FIANCE
The Ritz doesn’t seem so intimidating when approached from the side, and when Kara comes up from the Underground onto Piccadilly, she reminds herself that it’s just a building. She’d much rather disappear into the quiet expanse of Green Park, if she were here for any reason other than seeing Cat. Kara checks the bouquet she grabbed on impulse from the florist next door to her bookshop, the sunflowers making her smile as she crosses the road.
It’s a little before the evening rush hour so the offices and stores haven’t spilled all their staff out for the day, but the tourists are roving the pavements in throngs, chattering and confused and bossy in turn. Kara weaves her way through them with practiced ease, lucky she doesn’t feel it when there’s an errant foot treading on hers, or an elbow to the side when a backpack swings from a shoulder.
Stepping inside the heavy doors, held open by a liveried doorman of course, Kara is stunned at the antique silence that greets her. The high ceilings and cream walls, gilded edges at tasteful intervals, could be a church or museum just as readily as a hotel. The noise and smell and chaos of the city suddenly seem light years away, and with faltering steps, Kara makes her way through the long, carpeted foyer towards what has to be the reception desk.
Her bright yellow dress that seemed so fun when she slipped it on seems garish now amongst the muted tones. She feels louder than the room itself, dropping her voice to a whisper as she leans in to address the clerk.
“I’m here to see Ms Woolf?”
“Well she’s not in her suite,” the man replies, staring at her as though she must surely be lost. “But if you head up to the third floor, I imagine you’ll find her there.”