O Fortune

Nine for a Kiss

Otabek wondered privately whether official practice hours took jetlag into account, or if whoever finalized the schedule took sadistic pleasure in maximizing pain. Though his sleep schedule had largely fallen into step, the other finalists staggered into the rink yawning - though in Christophe Giacometti's case, Otabek wasn't sure if his eyes should be categorized as 'bleary' or 'bedroom.' Yuuri Katsuki whimpered slightly as Viktor Nikiforov pried a steaming paper cup from the hotel buffet from his hands.

As Otabek finished stretching, he found himself watching Viktor, whose eyes sparkled as he pulled Katsuki's jacket from his shoulders. The rumors had flown when Viktor announced his indefinite change of career - a hidden injury, an ISU ban, a covered-up death and a clone replacement - but none of them had mentioned that he seemed happy. He wondered whether the same evidence could be found on his expressionless face, and if Viktor's apparent joy had sated the hunger that drove them all to compete. If he'd had to choose.

He almost didn't notice as the last skater stormed in. Otabek had assumed that Yuri would have somehow scheduled a later practice, since his Instagram noted that he'd flown straight to Barcelona from the Golden Spin in Croatia - even if Yuri hadn't already been famously short-tempered, Otabek was moderately impressed that he'd refrained from tearing JJ's throat out with his teeth in the lobby last night.

When Yuri took the ice, it was the first time Otabek had ever seen him skate in person. He let himself drift to the edge of the rink, wordlessly accepting the water bottle Ali offered as he watched Yuri from the corner of his eye.

"You've studied Plisetsky's routines, yes?" Ali murmured, following Yuri's path across the ice. When Otabek tipped his head in a silent question, he continued, "It was harder to see in the videos, but- there, look at his hand coming out of that toe loop, how he stepped into the spin. You copied him while learning those?"

"Yes."

Everything Otabek was, down to his skating, was a borrowed part of someone else's soul. His father's eyes, his mother's laugh, Leo's music - even JJ's quadruple Salchow and the twist of Yuri's fingers as he finished the jump. How many reflections of himself lived on in others?

Otabek let the thought carry him back into his practice, and he remembered the other Kazakhstani junior thanking him at Junior Worlds two years before.

:: :: ::

Lunch was pushed back in favor of a long bus trip across the city. Otabek smiled to himself as he officially parted with the remainder of his prize money from Worlds.

"You may have the helmets, too. If they fit," the woman told him, pushing a strand of greying hair from her face. "You can drive?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Otabek, declining to mention that it was only legal as of five weeks before.

Ali wiped a palm across his right eye and sighed.

"Beka. You're not old enough to rent anything. Why - how - do you have a motorcycle?"

"It's mine," Otabek watched his coach's face with amusement.

"Is that why you bought a biker jacket yesterday?"

"Yes."

"You know, most people buy postcards," Ali mumbled. "Postcards, Otabek."

:: :: ::

Otabek meant to spend the afternoon touring the city, enjoying his newfound freedom from the strict, rote paths of the city buses and metro.

What Otabek did instead was idly check his phone as he slowly picked at a thimble-sized cup of thick, bittersweet hot chocolate and a gently steaming churro. His eyes flicked between Instagram and the black motorcycle visible through the café window.