All things told, it goes surprisingly well.

It 's easy to stagger and pretend to be wasted off his ass when he 's confronted with the sheer luxury the inside of the hotel screams with, yelling

rich

from every marble surface it has in a way he 's never distinctly seen before. It 's easier still to be overly handsy at Satoru 's figure, clingy and a little whiny when he 's allowed to slur the high pitched foreign words in his mouth into something unintelligible.

Somewhere he 's stuffed so far down he can 't even begin to find it, it 's no less than massively humiliating- a sort of shame coming with unraveling himself in public, even as a farcity, rubbing him the wrong way. However, as that same part of his brain likes to remind him, it 's also a foreign country where he will never see the people he encounters in it ever again.