O Fortune

Twelve for Wealth

It hit Otabek suddenly, the sensation as pressing as the splinters of agony that had driven through his foot when the bone cracked.

It hit him slowly, like the weeks spent ignoring the ache in his step - it was nothing, until it was everything.

However, big as it was, the realization didn't come in a moment hemmed by a bolt of lightning or swell of music. There was no shared sunset or jolt of eye contact to drive him to understanding. Instead, it was the unassuming buzz of his phone. It was the photo of Yuri, soaked in rain and malcontent. It was the quiet hum of joy in Otabek's chest that refused to fade as the image timed out, five four three two one.

Oh, Otabek thought.

It was only then that he remembered the moments of lost breath - not stolen, but air his lungs had forgotten how to use - when Yuri turned towards him and the sunlight caught the angles of his fae-sharp face. It was then that he remembered how the sparkle of Yuri's laughter fizzed through his own bones.

I think I love him, Otabek thought, and he turned the knowledge over in his heart, in his hands, feeling its weight, inspecting the faceted gleam and glow. It had been so many months since he'd accepted a kiss without a gift receipt, and just as long since he'd offered one without carefully clipping all the strings.

Otabek set the love carefully aside so it could grow without crushing the fragile leaves under his clumsy heels.

:: :: ::

The old guard was gone: the skaters who had carved a younger Otabek's dreams into the ice with their skates stepped back, one by one, and relinquished the rink to the new blood's flashing ambition.

Christophe Giacometti had been the first to bow out, followed by Viktor Nikiforov, whom Yuri steadfastly insisted had been banned by the ISU for drooling on the rink whenever his fiancé appeared. Yuuri Katsuki was the final holdout, half in and half out until the ring of wedding bells had quieted - a significant betting pool was waiting to see whether his temporary leave of absence would end with children or another world record.

They weren't toppled idols or fallen warriors finally beaten back by time, though they all felt the sting as their dreams of besting Viktor were laid to rest with muted sighs, nor were they untouchable gods bequeathing the world to mortals. They were... friends, of a sort, a family not defined by blood or choice but there nevertheless.

But, as the Grand Prix dawned and drew near its close, they weren't.

"We were never that tiny and annoying," Yuri grumbled, flipping through the diner menu. "All the juniors are goblins from hell, I swear. What the fuck, why is this all breakfast food?"

"I think it's their thing," Otabek said, smiling to himself at the way Yuri's eyebrows arched across his face in exaggerated dismay. He pointed to the logo adorning their menus: The Breakfast Club. "You were definitely that tiny and annoying."

Yuri stuck his tongue out. "Well, you still are."

They ordered, and Otabek thought about letting Yuri see the feelings that had taken root in his bones - of capturing them in quick, neutral words, the same voice with which he'd asked the waitress for another cup of tea. It could be left on the table when they were finished and cleared away with the dishes. A rejection wouldn't break them apart, not if Otabek didn't force Yuri into a cage and bar the door.

Otabek passed his menu over and lifted his tea to his lips, letting the uncomfortable heat from the ceramic settle in his fingertips before he could open his mouth and burn them both with what he might say. It wasn't the closing of that door that he feared. It was what might lie behind it.