O Fortune

Two for Mirth

Fate - monstrous
and empty,
you whirling wheel,
you are malevolent,
well-being is vain
and always fades to nothing,
shadowed
and veiled
you plague me too;
now through the game
I bring my bare back
to your villainy.
-O Fortuna

Otabek waited at the baggage claim, trying not to think too hard about the fact that he'd lived in four countries in the previous three years. The travel-worn green suitcase making its way around the carousel was one of two things he still had from Almaty - his old clothes had been outgrown, electronics replaced, and small mementos lost or discarded as their sentiment faded. A suitcase, a ragged teddy bear, and an accent were what he had to remember home.

"So you're from Russia, huh?" One of his new rinkmates bobbed by Otabek's elbow, grinning and chatting. Otabek couldn't remember his name and didn't much care. "Big change, yeah?"

"I'm not Russian," Otabek replied flatly. He unclenched his jaw, which had begun to ache. "I'm from Kazakhstan. I've lived in America for the past year."

"But you speak Russian?" The boy's blue eyes sparkled, and Otabek wondered if the color came from the vast quantity of hot air that seemed to fill his head. "Did you learn it, or-"

"We speak Russian because of communism," he muttered through gritted teeth. It was too late to run through customs and jump back on the plane, Otabek told himself. "It's a national language."

Otabek pulled his suitcase from the belt, only to have it plucked out of his hands with a grin. (Did he ever stop smiling? Didn't his teeth dry out?)

"I've got it."

"Nah, man, this is welcome to Canada, JJ style."

What was JJ, Otabek almost asked, then bit down on a snort. His airplane-addled mind had finally caught up, informing him that he was speaking to Jean-Jacques Leroy.

"Is this all?" JJ asked, hefting the suitcase slightly higher than was strictly necessary. His arms would probably be impressive in a couple more years, but at the moment he was showing off a sixteen-year-old's skinny frame. "Wow, you pack light."

"That's it," Otabek confirmed. The meager remainder of his possessions had already been shipped to his dorm, and if JJ wanted to carry his suitcase, he was welcome to it - Otabek's knees ached from skating, his shins ached from growing, and his head ached from Jean-Jacques Leroy.

At least he wouldn't have to give his luck to JJ, Otabek thought, climbing into the car. They wouldn't be friends.

:: :: ::

The music pounded in time with Otabek's nascent headache, and he squinted against the bright light of his phone. Nearly three in the morning - on a school or training day, he'd be waking up in two hours, but as it was, he couldn't even use that as an excuse to leave the party.

"Check moi l'es donc," a girl yelled in his ear, gesturing across the crowded room. Otabek had no idea what she was saying, but looked over anyway, just in time to get a searing eyeful of some guy's attempt to strip and drink simultaneously. She screamed over the music, "Tire une buche, Martin!"

Otabek nodded at her and slipped away, but there wasn't any open space in the crowd. Someone grabbed at his arm, trying to get him to dance, and lukewarm beer splashed onto his sleeve. He gagged on the stench of sweat and stale alcohol. It hadn't been so overwhelming earlier, when Otabek found himself with a laptop full of music and a free drink, but it was a different matter in front of the booming speakers.