O Fortune

Seven for a Secret, Never to Tell

"That's not- no," said Otabek, hearing and hating the hoarseness in his voice, the pause before his reply. He thought back to Timur's words, the undercurrent of fear - the search for reassurance that Otabek couldn't, or wouldn't, give. "He's not... he never means to hurt me, we just argue sometimes. That's all."

"And I bet you're never the one to start them," Gulshat shot back. Her words were steady, but her hands were shaking where they gripped the edge of the mattress.

Taimas, still curled up on Otabek's lap, looked between them and whined softly with a nervous wag of his tail. He didn't like fights of any caliber, and wasn't used to them - it was undeniably true that the Altin family preferred to ignore problems rather than confront them. Otabek pushed that thought from his mind and rubbed the wiry fur of Taimas's chin.

"We both make mistakes," he said, as firmly as he could. If his sister understood, if she could see into Otabek's mind, she'd know to be angry with him as well. You only spend time with me because I stroke your ego. "Thank you, but it's not like that."

Otabek waited for Gulshat to lecture him, to tell him he was an idiot and storm out.

She looked at him. The silence didn't feel any different than before.

"Does he make you happy?" she asked quietly.

Otabek's mouth filled with ash. His answer died on his tongue, burned and buried.

"If you broke up, what would you feel?"

The moment crept forward and surrounded Otabek like a dream, and he watched his mind lift its head, inspecting the idea. He tried to pull back, but it was too late.

Lonely, it whispered. Afraid. Guilty. It would be your fault.

The sensation wasn't unfamiliar, and he fell deeper, into -

"Nothing," he answered at last. "I don't feel anything, I don't care, isn't that what you said it's like?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "That doesn't mean it's right to keep going."

:: :: ::

Another competition, in another city whose name Otabek barely bothered to take note of - he would be gone in a few days, after all, and the ice was the same.

Winning, however, was not the same. Otabek watched his coach from the corner of his eye, promising himself that that discussion could happen once he was holding tangible proof. It was easier not to ask whether a gold medal would prove to Ali that he could still skate, still win, or to reassure Otabek himself that there was a reason for continuing besides habit.

Otabek carved his worries into the ice as if the grooves left by his skates could channel the emotional runoff, and in those few minutes of flight, he understood why his sister fought. The emptiness he'd been ignoring for months, that had dogged his steps for years, wasn't empty - it was populated with shadow-faced monsters that pulled at him with leaden claws.

They spoke, too, and it was often Timur's voice that fell from their lips.

Other times, it would have been easier if it was.

You're coming tonight, right?

Otabek opened the text and glanced around the hotel room. The next day was Timur's birthday, which had approached with an increasing sense of unease.

No, I'm in Luxembourg, sorry.

You have a competition? Why didn't you tell me?

Otabek started to type I'm sorry - his phone filled in the phrase, as used to the words as he was - and stopped. He had told Timur. And, due to an unexamined impulse that may have been prompted by the memory of Gulshat's worried gaze, he could be sure.