O Fortune

Thirteen, Beware, it's the Devil Himself

Otabek scrubbed at the soapy dishes without seeing them; instead, he picked at his own mind, trying in vain to wash the stains and wrinkles out of the messy tangle of his thoughts.

There were stacks of plates, bowls, and cups left by the kitchen sink. The ceramic tetris piles had been constructed by Gulshat, along with a promise that she would get to them later. Personally, Otabek thought that his sister had a unique understanding of the passage of time.

He cleaned. He thought. Each new dish restarted the seemingly endless cycle.

Leo, retiring. A coincidence, it was only a coincidence, but what had tipped the balance? The fluttering of Fate's wings created breezes that blew into hurricanes: Katsuki's return, if rumors were to be believed, stemmed from an accidental viral video. Leo's decision might have fallen the other way if he'd been the one standing under the podium lights... or if Otabek had remained hot on his heels, chasing but never catching up, and another claimed the victory of bronze.

Otabek rinsed the mug and set it aside to dry, shaking his head to dislodge the clinging questions. He picked up a plate.

"I said I'd wash them later."

He turned to see Gulshat, still in pajamas, standing by the fridge with messy hair and another pair of dirty mugs. When he glanced at the microwave clock - midafternoon - she let out an annoyed huff of breath.

"It's fine," he told her with only the hint of a lie on his tongue, and dropped a handful of silverware into the water to soak. "I felt like it."

The water had cooled to a tepid lukewarm; the few lingering soap bubbles cast iridescent rainbows over the cloudy surface. The whole thing seemed rather pointless. In a day, two days, a week, the dishes will have piled up again. Otabek could refill the sink and pour in more soap, but in the end, he'd be left with dirty plates and grey water.

If the end was the same, the only reason to continue was the means, the process, the cycle itself. Clean and use and clean again. From strangers to friends to lovers to...

"Okay, for fuck's sake, I'll do it now," Gulshat grumbled. "Go mope somewhere else before I drown you and put myself out of your misery."

"I'm not moping," retorted Otabek, stung. "I'm cleaning your mess."

"Thanks for your sacrifice, Beka, but don't pretend you haven't been feeling sorry for yourself since you got home because your life isn't perfect," she snapped back. "Oh no, you're worried your relationship might eventually have trouble, but you won't actually talk to Yuri about it, because that would be doing something and that's just not your style. Sorry I can't be your personal cheerleader today."

The words stung like insect bites, tiny and sharp and completely impossible to ignore. Otabek opened his mouth, ready to slap them away, but his sister's face was tipped towards the ceiling as she plunged her hands into the dishwater. He thought of his parents' firm belief that everything was fine as long as they could keep pretending that it was, and he thought of Yuri, arguing around the point like he was prodding a bruise, close, closer, close enough to ache but not to wound. Of Yuri, slamming the door behind him as he left Otabek in the bare apartment, alone but for stacks of boxes and the heavy, acrid scent of fresh paint.

"What's wrong?" Otabek asked. Gulshat turned away from him, and his doubt faded. "Gulshat. What happened?"

She didn't turn to face him. Her voice was flat and steady, as Gulshat's expressive tones never were. "Sanzhar and I broke up."