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 by the 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. "Berik and I broke up."

"When?" Otabek's own heart dropped.

"Thursday," she replied, and laughed humorlessly. "Yeah, you didn't know. I spent that night getting wasted with Makpal, then got home from work on Friday and slept off the hangover. You were asleep by the time I woke up. Then I went back to bed at, like, six this morning."

"I'm sorry," Otabek said, floundering. "Do you-"

"Want to talk?" She sighed. "Fuck no, Beka. Kinda want to drink, kinda want to fight someone, kinda want to sleep."

If it were him, he'd be on the ice right now, chasing the moment when his muscles loosened and the crushing weight on his lungs lifted, but Gulshat didn't skate. "We could go for a run?"

She spun on her heel. "Beka, if you ever suggest cardio or any other disgustingly healthy coping mechanism again, I'm disowning you." Her eyes were rimmed with pink, but one corner of her mouth curled upwards. "Also, if you talk about Yuri right now."

"Fair." Otabek grimaced. "Gratuitously violent video games and junk food?"

Crimson blood spattered across the screen as Gulshat cackled, and Otabek winced. Taimas, who was lying across Otabek's feet, pricked his ears at the gory sound effects accompanying Otabek's unbroken streak of brutal defeats.

The story slowly came out as Gulshat pummeled his character on-screen.

Berik had been offered a job in Beijing – not the temporary position he'd applied for, but the start of a career. He accepted. He asked Gulshat to move to China with him. She refused.

"We'd only been dating for a year, we hadn't even seriously talked about moving in together!" Gulshat hissed as Otabek managed to land a lucky hit. "Hey, fuck you. He didn't even tell me before saying yes, he just did it. He'd known for weeks. Then he had the fucking nerve to tell me that if I didn't love him enough to compromise, we wouldn't have worked out anyway."

"And he's still here for another month?"

"Yep." She sneered. "As far as the gang knows, we're 'ending it on good terms' and 'staying friends.' Most of them wouldn't choose sides, but I really can't deal with that shitshow on top of everything else so I agreed."

"Makpal knows?"

"She knows," Gulshat confirmed. "She's running interference, she'll let me know when he's there so I can skive off. And stop me from killing anyone at the goodbye party."

Otabek sighed to himself. "So you're going to avoid all your friends for a month so you don't see him?"

"If you have a better plan, I'd love to hear it," she snapped. "The guys would lock us in a room and try to make us talk it out, the salt squad would decide to hate him on principle, and everyone else would try to avoid the subject entirely and either choose sides or avoid both of us. It's not worth it. I just want him to fuck off so we can be done with it."

"Yeah," Otabek said softly. "It just… it's a bad time for you to be alone." Yuri. Saint Petersburg. Gulshat, left behind with the same dark whirlpool of thoughts that he knew so well. "Do you want to come to Russia with me?"

"Ugh. No offense, Beka, but I'd rather go to mosque with Dad every day than third-wheel you two. Don't worry about it. It's not your problem."

Otabek frowned. "You stayed there for me, when- it made it easier."

"Go see your fucking boyfriend, you've been pining over him for months and it made me sick," she told him. "Or…"

"Or?"

"You could ask Yuri to come here instead. He's fun, and I'd throw you two out when you got annoying." She snickered. "I could also wind him up and send him after Berik. Now that would be glorious."

"Look, you can't use my boyfriend as a tool of vengeance," said Otabek, laughing. "You're sure you'd be fine with that?"

"Yeah, sure," she replied.

On the television screen, Otabek's character gurgled through another gruesome death.

:: :: ::

Yuri's visit was planned.

I have to be back before the seventh to prep for Euros.

Then it was pared down to five, four, three days.

That fucking footwork in my free skate needs to go die in a fire.

"Just go over there, Beka, seriously," Gulshat insisted. "I don't need a babysitter."

"I'll see," Otabek replied, but what he meant was I promised. When he thought about it, he thought about finding his family again nearly a year after returning to Almaty. He thought about the fire that had always burned in his sister's eyes, an inch and an accident away from setting her aflame.

And he remembered the constant battle for his time, the struggle of seeking to divide himself between Timur skating family school friends, the haunting suspicion that only one could come first. That he would have to choose who came first.

That he would make the wrong choice and finish the day with nothing more than empty hands and burned bridges.

It was a bitter relief when Yuri was the one to close that door.

Grandpa's back flared. I'm gonna stay in Moscow for the rest of the holiday.

"Is he okay?"

Yuri sighed, and his breath whispered against Otabek's ear even with so much distance between them. "Yeah, basically. It's a muscle spasm. He won't be able to move around well for a few days."

"That's good. Better, I mean," said Otabek, hearing himself trip over his thoughts. Yuri's voice was gentle when he spoke about his grandfather, soft behind its characteristic gilding of sarcasm and anger, and shone like the sun. Its light lit upon the leaves of the tiny plant in Otabek's heart, the one he'd christened love and tried to set aside, coaxing it into bloom. "Tell him I said hello."

"Tell him you've been arrested for public intoxication and disorderly conduct, got it," replied Yuri, snickering – it had become his favorite joke since Otabek, struck with a sudden jolt of concern immediately before meeting Nikolai, had asked if his leather jacket and motorcycle might make a bad impression. Yuri had laughed himself hoarse and gleefully repeated the question to his grandfather, who now referred to Otabek as 'Yura's nice young delinquent friend.'

"We'll Skype," Otabek promised, though his throat tightened with a sudden pressing want and he resented each atom that separated them. "I-" he breathed, unsure of how the truth could be captured in three syllables, "love you."

"Dumbass, of course we'll Skype," said Yuri, and it was tinged with the feather-soft touch of earlier. "I love you."

When the call ended at last, Otabek slipped his phone back into his pocket and took a moment to pull himself back to his Almaty apartment, back from the in-between space their voices had shared.

That was Yuri, he decided, and it was like putting a name to something he'd known his entire life. Yuri was Yuri, with a passion and a determination that defied all compromise, and he devoted himself to each action as fully as a mountain was bound to the earth. Yuri had no patience for hesitating, for repercussions: if they stood between him and his goal, he'd bear their blows without flinching. When skating demanded his life, Yuri gave it his soul. When faced with a choice between Nikolai and Otabek, he chose without pause and left no room for doubt.

Otabek had believed that was why they were the same. Now, he knew that he was wrong.

That was how they were different.

:: :: ::

Who am I supposed to be?

In Kazakhstan, a hero – but Otabek couldn't shake the feeling that he was riding under a false pennant.

In the skating world, a competitor – the underdog, the dark horse, interesting to watch but never a serious threat.

For his parents, he was dutiful and determined to make the most of what they'd given him, to make them proud. For his sister, he was there like she was there, confused and struggling but refusing to give up and step away.

And Otabek… He was the fulcrum, the pivot, the balance that couldn't find equilibrium, couldn't find himself.

And then, there was Yuri. Otabek had never before wanted his luck to hold so badly, to be an eternal silver to Yuri's gold, a night to Yuri's sunset, one step behind but close enough to touch.

He had never before wanted to hold victory so badly, to turn to Yuri as an equal, to reach for him without his luck hanging between them, to know. To know who he was. To know which version Yuri loved – the boy or the charm. Otabek may be gold, but gold was something to hold and cherish for what it meant rather than what it was, and every reflection in its shimmering surface was warped and shallow.

Otabek's luck had always been a fact, just as it had always been a fact that the sun would rise in the morning. He was the rabbit's foot and the footless rabbit, the horseshoe nailed to a door, the four-leaf clover plucked from the earth to wither. When he challenged it, he lost, because victory came at a price.

But now, he couldn't find the balance, and he couldn't find himself. The tightness in Otabek's chest turned to biting, clawing acid as his certainty turned to stone.

Time blurred as Otabek threw himself into his training. At first, his coach tried to order him off the ice, but Otabek was no longer running away from something inside himself. He was running towards it. Ali must have sensed the change, because he began to stay a little later each evening, discussing jumps and step sequences and tweaks with the fervor of a shark that's scented blood in the water.

The first time Otabek had tried to jump, he was so young that the memory only remained as a story recited in his mother's voice. He'd feared falling and hitting the ice so much that his skates refused to leave it, and when they finally did, his own terror pulled him down and he tripped.

"You sat there looking at your knee, and then at your hand, and we all thought you were going to cry. But then, you made a tiny fist, punched the ice, and stood back up. After that, you never hesitated, and by the end of class you had enough bruises that your father almost called the teacher to complain. But you told him it didn't matter that you fell, and you showed him the bruise on your hand – you didn't hit the ice because you were angry, you said, but because you were scared and you didn't want to be. After that, you knew what it felt like, and you weren't afraid, and you flew no matter how many times you fell."

He couldn't be loved for his luck, not if he was to be loved for himself, and he couldn't hover between one and the other.

He had to find out.

He had to win.

And for that, he might lose.

:: :: ::

Worlds came upon him as inexorably as the tide flowing in.

Otabek and Ali met up with Yuri in Sheremetyevo – he'd spent a day in Moscow visiting his grandfather, a concession he'd either argued or bribed Yakov into accepting, and they would be on the same flights to Detroit.

Otabek smiled as Yuri found them at the gate and yanked him into a tight hug, even when the point of Yuri's shoulder hit him in the throat and he coughed. It was easy to fall back into the rhythm they'd built over the past three years, and absurd to separate that time from the last three months. If Otabek believed in luck, he had to believe in fate, and he couldn't help but trace the path they'd been unknowingly careening down since Barcelona.

With Yuri warm in his arms, it was easy to forget about his luck for a moment. When Yuri stepped back to set down his duffel bag, it was impossible to forget.

"Switch seats with me," Yuri demanded, turning to Ali. "You're next to Otabek."

"I'll think about it," replied Ali. He flicked a teasing look towards Otabek as Yuri bristled.

"I'm-" Yuri snarled, then paused. His green eyes grew wide and his mouth pursed into a pout. "I have a window seat."

"Oh. Well, I prefer the aisle."

"It's only to Amsterdam!"

On the first flight, they were barely off the ground when Yuri yawned and prodded Otabek's ribs.

"Lean back, Beka," he mumbled. Otabek obliged, and Yuri stretched like a cat before shoving the tiny, staticky pillow into the crook of Otabek's neck and falling asleep.

On the second flight, Otabek dozed and dreamed; the rumbling, carpeted floor dropped away beneath his feat, and though he clung to the seat, he scrabbled without purchase and he slipped down, down, down through the hole and into the black depths of the ocean far below. As he fell, Yuri bent over to meet his eyes, and held out his hand – a hand that held a shining golden disc and Otabek reached, stretched, grasping for Yuri's fingers but finding only air and cold metal.

He fell, clutching the medal, and Yuri's eyes grew hard and distant.

You chose this.

Otabek woke as the water closed around him. Yuri's grin was warm and close.

"I think they're getting out the food," said Yuri, craning to peer over the seats. "Let's see if they manage to poison us before the competition this time. Is this breakfast or dinner?"

"Not sure," replied Otabek with a yawn. He leaned over to rest his forehead on Yuri's shoulder, waiting for the lurch of freefall to leave his stomach. He wondered if Icarus had doubted that his wings would lift him – the podium was no closer than it had ever been – and if it hadn't been hubris but fear of the ocean's churning depths that drove him to chase the distant sun. He wondered if Yuri would sit next to him on the flight home.

:: :: ::

The short program was achingly familiar, each step engraved on Otabek's mind more deeply than the grooves his skates bit into the ice. His fear faded into fatigue as beads of sweat formed on his scalp, and the fatigue mellowed into the claustrophobic comfort of routine. Familiar, but for the silence where his call of good luck would ring out across the rink. Yuri's eyes asked a question, and Otabek turned away before he could answer.

He ended the day in second place. Yuri was ahead of him, and Otabek didn't look to see who was behind – it was another risk, another cliff to fall over. The evening was spent with Yuri, split between exploring their corner of the city and experimenting with the kisses that were so easily stymied by distance.

On the day of the free skate, Otabek woke with tension humming through his body and crackling over his skin like sparks. The air felt different, and he thought that maybe he'd always had his wings of wax and feathers, but had been too afraid of flight to feel their touch along his spine. Yuri had been soaring since the day Otabek saw him across the ballet studio, and it was time to meet him in the air, at least for a moment, before the water weighed him down or the sun's kiss bestowed a meaningless victory.

He stepped onto the ice, and he flew.

:: :: ::

The lights were hot against Otabek's skin, and he forced his hands to stay still around the bouquet of flowers in his grip instead of reaching up to shade his eyes. The heat trickled down his face, tugging at the foundation smeared across his cheeks.

Yuri stood beside him – arranged as they were on the podium, they were the same height – and the silver gleamed moon-bright against the starry sky of flashbulbs flickering from the faceless audience. When Otabek glanced over, Yuri's face was as smooth as marble, cool and untouchable.

Yuri turned to him as they came back down to the frozen earth, but his words were lost in the heavy air. Before Otabek could catch his pounding heart and lean in, they were dragged apart by the relentless press of reporters and coaches and well-wishers.

In the end, Otabek escaped to his hotel room alone – alone, but for the tiny, gleaming sun hanging from a ribbon around his neck.

:: :: ::

"How long do I have to stay at the banquet?" Otabek asked, resisting the urge to drop his phone into the trash. Ali grumbled back at him, but his tone was fond. "No, I'll be there, I just don't- I don't know how much of it I can get through tonight."

Ali's voice shifted, softened.

"No, it's not that, I'm fine," Otabek reassured him. He hoped he was telling the truth, and that the razor-sharp emotion biting into his mind was anticipation and not finality. "I'll let you know later, then." A knock on the door echoed through the room, through his chest, and Otabek hung up the phone.

Yuri opened it and stepped inside before Otabek could move.

"You left early," he said, and Otabek wished he could read the lines of Yuri's face.

"It was… the press has never paid that much attention to me before," Otabek murmured in reply. "I didn't want to stay longer than I had to."

Yuri snorted. "Comes with the medal, dumbass, of course they're paying attention to you." He moved forward and caught Otabek's wrist in a slim, wiry, gentle grip. "I can't believe you left me behind out there."

"Pirate code?"

"Fuck you, Beka, I can't tease you about that stupid pirate costume if you make all the pirate jokes first." Yuri pulled him in, pulled them together, until Otabek could feel the heat rising from Yuri's skin. "You did… that was amazing."

"I- thanks." He was no longer a step behind, but were they still walking together? "Thank you."

"You deserved gold," Yuri whispered. "I don't like losing, but I'm glad you won. I don't know- when I lose, it's always because I wasn't good enough, not because someone else was better. But now. I don't- you were better. You were amazing."

"It's okay if you're mad," Otabek said, forcing the words past his lips. "At me."

"The fuck? I'm not mad." Yuri looped his arms around Otabek's waist. "I'm trying to congratulate you, moron."

Otabek let himself fall into the kiss. He wasn't worried about hitting the ground, about burning above the clouds, about being swallowed by the sea's pitiless waves. He set his luck aside, and peeled it from his skin, and stood before Yuri as himself – as nothing more, and nothing less.

"Now you look happy about it, Beka," Yuri told him with a laugh. "Finally caught up with you?"

Otabek smiled.

"I'm lucky, Yura."