O Fortune

Ten for a Chance You Must Not Miss

There were many ways to get someone's attention, even if that someone was listening to music in bed with his eyes closed, and only one of them involved Gulshat dropping her full weight onto Otabek's stomach.

"Eugh," he gasped, glaring up at her reproachfully as he removed his headphones. "Gulshat, why."

"Are you coming to Makpal's place or not?" Gulshat asked cheerfully. She readjusted her seat as Otabek tried to push her off. "It's bad movie night, we- ah!" She shrieked and tumbled to the floor, where she lay giggling as Otabek scrambled to sit up. "Shit, that worked better when you were smaller than me, you just sorta dragged yourself around like a turtle until Dad rescued you, remember? Anyway, movie night. You in?"

"A nicer sister wouldn't use her butt as a weapon," Otabek grumbled. "It's at Makpal's apartment? I thought..."

"Asha canceled, she had to take an extra shift at the restaurant." Gulshat gave him a probing look as she climbed to her feet. "And no, her brother is back in Astana now, so you won't have to avoid him."

"I'm not avoiding anyone," Otabek said, laughing quietly and lifting an eyebrow. "I haven't been home."

In fact, his flight had landed in Almaty mere hours before he was due at the Kazakhstani Nationals, an arrangement that had him clutching the armrests with white knuckles while Ali sent a stream of emails to the organizers, assuring them that everything was on schedule. At least Otabek had reached a brief lull in the constant activity, while Yuri's texts grew less coherent and more vulgar as Russian Nationals approached.

"I don't care if you are, I'm just curious." Gulshat shrugged, but her tone belied her nonchalance. "You and Akan had your thing this summer, then you started ghosting whenever he was around, so I wanted to make sure... he didn't fuck up, or whatever."

"No, we weren't even dating, neither of us wanted that." Or at least he hadn't wanted it, and had slowly drawn back when his armor began to crack - when a flicker of warmth bloomed in his chest at a glance, or a touch, or a text, painting his weaknesses with the bright red dot that heralded the crack of a sniper rifle. "He's fine. Anyway, I think I'll pass tonight, I'm skyping Yuri later."

"Cool." She reached for the door and sighed. "Akan asked me if you were doing okay. If he hasn't screwed up- look, I know you're not... looking for anything right now, but don't be a dick about it."

Otabek's nerves were raw, exposed; he flinched away but didn't raise his guard.

"I'll talk to him," he said softly. "Thanks."

"When you want to," Gulshat replied, with no pressure behind her words. "Beka, it's not your- never mind. If you decide to come over, text one of us, her doorbell's broken."

She left. Otabek thought about fresh starts and old scars.

:: :: ::

In January, Otabek found himself back in St. Petersburg watching Yuri Plisetsky dance.

"Something like that, anyway," Yuri said with a shrug, dropping his leg to the floor from a standing split. "What do you think?"

Otabek paused for a moment, mentally translating the movements to the ice and the shriek of guitars. Yuri scuffed one foot against the wooden floor and stretched his arms overhead. "It's smoother technically, but you look bored."

For an instant, Otabek thought that Yuri would spit his words back at him - who was he to question Yuri's choreography, after all - but the pale eyebrows were furrowed into a frown instead of a glare.

"Yeah," Yuri grumbled. He dropped to the floor, legs splayed, and twisted his fingers together. "It fucking sucks. It's even worse than Angel of the Fire Festival. I don't want to skate this shit."