"That's not- no," said Otabek, hearing and hating the hoarseness in his voice, the pause before his reply. He thought back to Timur's words, the undercurrent of fear – the search for reassurance that Otabek couldn't, or wouldn't, give. "He's not… he never means to hurt me, we just argue sometimes. That's all."
"And I bet you're never the one to start them," Gulshat shot back. Her words were steady, but her hands were shaking where they gripped the edge of the mattress.
Taimas, still curled up on Otabek's lap, looked between them and whined softly with a nervous wag of his tail. He didn't like fights of any caliber, and wasn't used to them – it was undeniably true that the Altin family preferred to ignore problems rather than confront them. Otabek pushed that thought from his mind and rubbed the wiry fur of Taimas's chin.
"We both make mistakes," he said, as firmly as he could. If his sister understood, if she could see into Otabek's mind, she'd know to be angry with him as well. You only spend time with me because I stroke your ego. "Thank you, but it's not like that."
Otabek waited for Gulshat to lecture him, to tell him he was an idiot and storm out.
She looked at him. The silence didn't feel any different than before.
"Does he make you happy?" she asked quietly.
Otabek's mouth filled with ash. His answer died on his tongue, burned and buried.
"If you broke up, what would you feel?"
The moment crept forward and surrounded Otabek like a dream, and he watched his mind lift its head, inspecting the idea. He tried to pull back, but it was too late.
Lonely, it whispered. Afraid. Guilty. It would be your fault.
The sensation wasn't unfamiliar, and he fell deeper, into -
"Nothing," he answered at last. "I don't feel anything, I don't care, isn't that what you said it's like?"
"Yeah," she sighed. "That doesn't mean it's right to keep going."
:: :: ::
Another competition, in another city whose name Otabek barely bothered to take note of – he would be gone in a few days, after all, and the ice was the same.
Winning, however, was not the same. Otabek watched his coach from the corner of his eye, promising himself that that discussion could happen once he was holding tangible proof. It was easier not to ask whether a gold medal would prove to Ali that he could still skate, still win, or to reassure Otabek himself that there was a reason for continuing besides habit.
Otabek carved his worries into the ice as if the grooves left by his skates could channel the emotional runoff, and in those few minutes of flight, he understood why his sister fought. The emptiness he'd been ignoring for months, that had dogged his steps for years, wasn't empty – it was populated with shadow-faced monsters that pulled at him with leaden claws.
They spoke, too, and it was often Timur's voice that fell from their lips.
Other times, it would have been easier if it was.
You're coming tonight, right?
Otabek opened the text and glanced around the hotel room. The next day was Timur's birthday, which had approached with an increasing sense of unease.
No, I'm in Luxembourg, sorry.
You have a competition? Why didn't you tell me?
Otabek started to type I'm sorry – his phone filled in the phrase, as used to the words as he was – and stopped. He had told Timur. And, due to an unexamined impulse that may have been prompted by the memory of Gulshat's worried gaze, he could be sure.
I did, he replied instead. Sorry, I know my schedule is confusing right now.
No you didn't, you promised me you were coming.
The future split into two paths in front of Otabek. One was easy in its familiarity. It didn't involve fighting, or uncertainty, or change.
However, the hum of adrenaline was still rushing through Otabek's veins, buoyed by the memory of ice under his feet and the judges' appraising frowns. Or maybe it was the numbness that cushioned him, a resurgence of childish certainty that something couldn't cause pain if it couldn't be seen.
He sent a screenshot instead of apologizing, letting the stark letters of old text messages speak for him.
This time, the silence felt like a roller coaster, just cresting the peak of a hill.
It began to slip down, and Otabek realized that no, this was why Gulshat fought.
You could have just said that. I forgot, okay, you don't have to make a big deal out of it.
He waited.
Why are you screenshotting our texts? Have you been doing this the whole time, because that's really creepy and unfair.
Were you waiting for me to make a mistake?
I don't understand why you have to make everything so difficult, Otabek.
You could have just said something.
Now I'm going to feel like shit all night. Happy birthday to me.
Otabek's stomach gave a sickening twist. It was the same sense of creeping nausea he'd felt as a child, when he broke his wrist at playground in the park. Petty. Manipulative. He thought about his sister's words and fought back a flash of anger. He'd been prodding, testing, trying to prove Gulshat wrong – that would irritate anyone.
He dropped the phone onto the starch-stiff hotel sheets. The ghosts of fingerprints smeared matte patches across the screen, grubby against the crisp white pillowcase. Before it could buzz again, Otabek picked it up and turned the phone off, tossing it into the half-unpacked suitcase for good measure.
:: :: ::
I'm not happy.
Otabek nudged the shower hotter, as if it could burn the words from his mind.
I don't know if it's me.
The hotel shampoo was labeled 'lemongrass,' but it smelled like furniture polish.
I don't love him, Otabek thought. He waited for some part of him to argue, but found only the dull throb of acceptance. He was… fond, he decided. He liked not being alone. He enjoyed being wanted. He couldn't even deny that he loved the scattered praise, the moment of warmth before the backhanded compliment's bitter aftertaste rose up on his tongue – but it wasn't love. Timur knew it, too. It was the reason he would never let go.
He stepped out from under the scalding spray. There was no sense in wasting water just to mope.
His cell phone, left to hibernate in its messy pile of luggage, was nevertheless a nagging presence in the corner of Otabek's mind as he tried to sleep. As the minutes and then hours passed, its silent judgment filled the room.
At two in the morning, Otabek dragged himself out of bed and turned it back on. He narrowed his eyes, which were dry and heavy with exhaustion, against the sudden, blinding glow. A handful of notifications trickled in – nothing urgent, and nothing from Timur.
That was rude of me, Otabek texted. I'm sorry.
It was just past seven in Almaty, too late to still be awake and much too early to rise, but Otabek could breath once more. He finally slept.
:: :: ::
The hotel alarm clock roused him from tense, twisting dreams that felt more exhausting than if he hadn't slept at all. Unfortunately, it wasn't the alarm he'd planned to wake him, but the backup he always set just in case.
Panic swept the drowsiness from his mind, and Otabek ran to the lobby to meet his coach. He skidded to a halt by the front desk, wide-eyed and twenty minutes late for training. It wasn't a competition day for him – the men's free skate wouldn't take place for another two days – and Otabek thanked the universe for small mercies.
"Sorry," he stuttered. "I- sorry."
Ali looked him up and down. "Party too hard, Otabek?"
"No! No, I just overslept, I'm really sorry." His face burned, and he wondered if his eyes were as red as his cheeks. Great job proving I can still keep up with skating. Perfect. "I wasn't-"
"I know," Ali replied, frowning. "That was a joke. Is everything okay?"
"Fine," mumbled Otabek. His fingers twitched toward the phone in his pocket. In the morning's rush, he hadn't looked at it since sending the text several hours before.
Why had he apologized? Why had he apologized like that?
During the taxi ride to the local rink where they'd booked practice time, Otabek finally managed to glance at the screen.
Nothing.
Had it sent? Otabek blinked, bemused: read 4:52 am.
The cold, dry air of the rink did its best to blow away his foggy thoughts, but he needed the clean, pure focus of skating. Nothing, and no one, could follow him onto the-
"- Otabek!" Ali tapped his shoulder and Otabek started, nearly knocking his half-unzipped duffel bag off the bench. "Where is your head?"
"Just tired. I'll be fine after I warm up."
Ali sighed. "You're not getting on the ice today, Otabek."
"What?" Otabek breathed. "I need to practice."
"You haven't heard a word I've said today," he replied curtly. "I asked if you got breakfast, if you're sore from that fall yesterday, whether you want to try the modifications to your free skate or play it safe, and the only answers I've gotten have been okay or good."
"I didn't mean to ignore you," Otabek said desperately. The ice, mere meters away, was disappearing into the distance. "I'll pay attention, it's-"
Ali cut him off. "I'm not punishing you, I'm telling you that you're in no shape to skate safely! Take a nap, do your stretches, go for a run, and if you can focus tomorrow, you can practice."
Like you're trying to care but you just feel… empty.
Tomorrow, Otabek thought. What would tomorrow change? Ali had finally seen how much of a mess he was. One day's ban from the rink wasn't unusual, but they couldn't keep doing this, he couldn't keep doing this.
"What if you don't let me skate tomorrow?"
"Then we'll try to get extra time to warm up before the free skate," said Ali with a shrug.
"And if-"
"Then you're not competing." The thin tracery of laugh lines around his hard gaze looked painted on. "I don't want to interfere with your personal life, but I'm your coach. If something starts to interfere with your skating, I need to know."
"It's- I-" Otabek had never been truly fond of words. It took time to line them up and make them right, but by the time he was satisfied, the moment had passed. This moment, however, stubbornly hung between them. "I'm-"
His eyes were wet. Otabek stared up at the ceiling, silently cursing himself, and followed blindly as Ali took his elbow and led him into the empty hallway. He didn't look at his coach as he forced himself to breathe.
Stoic. Even the judges called him intense and determined when they were being nice, and robotic when they weren't. Blank. Cold. Otabek Altin, the emotionless wonder boy. At some point, he'd started to believe them. He caught Ali's discomfited expression from the corner of his eye, bit down on the inside of his lip, and didn't step away from the hand that rested hesitantly on his shoulder.
And slowly, not bothering to lift his voice from its hoarse monotone, he explained.
"Okay," Ali said, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at Otabek. "You were waiting until after the competition to tell me, because…"
"If I did well." Otabek paused, his eyes falling to the grubby tiled floor. "You'd know I- that it wouldn't interfere with skating. Today is… it won't be like today."
"Why tell me?" Ali's tone was uncertain and questioning, but not accusatory. It was better than the flat out denial Otabek had been preparing himself for, a glare of disgust and dismissive you're not crazy, get over it. "It seems a little, um, personal."
"I- I'll probably have to take medicine for a while," Otabek mumbled. He caught his lip between his teeth once more and tasted blood. "It's, the ISU allows it, I checked, but I'll have to report it."
"Medicine?"
"Not until the season is over," replied Otabek, trying to reassure them both. "It's… there aren't a lot of side effects, I won't turn into a zombie, but I- I don't want to make any big changes until after Worlds."
"You can manage until then?" Ali sighed as Otabek nodded silently, all too aware of the heat of unshed tears behind his eyes. "Otabek, will you be able to handle the World Championships? You've competed there as a junior, but the senior levels-"
Two weeks to pull himself together for the most important event of the year, two weeks to get through.
"Yes." It came out more forcefully than he intended, and they both jumped. "Today is something else. It's not skating. I'm going to deal with it."
It was easier, when he put it that way – when it became a choice weighted against skating.
"Can I do anything?" The question caught him off guard. Ali raised an eyebrow. "Besides letting you on the ice today. That's still a no."
"Let me skate tomorrow," Otabek told him. "If you don't think I can concentrate, I'll just loop around the rink, nothing difficult, I just- I need to."
"We'll see," replied Ali, after a moment. "Deal with your problem and we'll see."
:: :: ::
"Hi," said Otabek, pressing the phone to his ear. "Hi, it's- it's me."
"Beka, hey."
"Was your party fun?" Otabek closed his eyes as the words slipped past his lips.
"Yeah, it was great! Too bad you couldn't come," said Timur. "Though I guess you're not great at parties, so it worked out. What's up?"
"I, um, I just. I needed to." His tongue stumbled, and his mind offered no help. "I can't date right now. I'm sorry."
"What?" Timur laughed. "You're not breaking up with me, Beka."
"I'm sorry," he repeated.
"Is this because we argued yesterday? Otabek, you need to stop being so sensitive." The sound of his full name cracked over the line like a whip. He didn't reply. "Beka, you're not serious, are you? It's my birthday."
"I-"
"For fuck's sake, can't you ever do anything except apologize? You don't want to do this, we both know that."
Otabek pressed the edge of his thumbnail into the soft skin of his inner wrist, increasing the pressure until its bite stung like a knife.
"Beka, come on, we can fix this," Timur pleaded. "You're overreacting, we just need to talk."
It wasn't the beauty of a siren's song that drew sailors to their deaths, Otabek realized – it was their promises.
"Goodbye," he forced out, the last breath in his lungs before they filled with water. "Goodbye."
He hung up and stared at the phone in his hand. It looked back at him, the black, unseeing eye reflecting his own blank face.
Empty, he thought.
It buzzed, and he read the messages half-displayed on the lock screen without opening them.
you're making a mistake
you'll be crawling back by next week
no one else is going to date you
you don't even have any friends
Otabek turned it off.
It's fine, he told himself as he grabbed his keycard and left the room. I have to do this, I'm right, it's better for both of us.
He knocked on Ali's door, offering a silent prayer that his coach had stayed true to routine and would still be in.
"Otabek?" Ali lifted a hand – just a minute – and ended his own call. "I have to go, I'll call you back in a minute."
Otabek held out his phone. They both stared at it.
"Can you keep this until the competition is over?" Otabek asked, breaking the silence.
"Uh, sure." Ali took it, then hesitated. "Don't you need it?"
"No," said Otabek. "I dealt with it."
Even to his own ears, he sounded cold and uncaring.
It's over, he told himself. It doesn't matter if it's my fault or not, if it's a mistake, it's over.
