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It is likely by fate, which she has been reflecting on quite often these days, that Aglaya walks through her door as Yulia stands above a basket of washed clothes, all black, holding a familiar shirt.

Aglaya lingers in the doorway as she leads the door closed behind her, work bag in hand, her other pushing so the lock falls shut. The wear of the day lingers in her eyes, as it always does on her, but she allows herself a moment of curiosity. It looks good on her. Warm curiosity, the kind that doesn’t harden your expression as you cut it into halves and consider the pieces, but the kind that purses one's lips and tips their head forward. Aglaya is incredibly meticulous, but even she has moments where her mask strays and she questions something as any other person would. 

Which is, in this case, "Is that my shirt, or yours?"

Yulia's hands are wrapped in the shirt, tugging on its shoulders to stretch it gently, and she looks from Aglaya to the collar. It's a high collar, and there are two decorative buttons stitched into the seam. It is long sleeved and made of a cotton-like fibre that she is more familiar with on autumn sweaters. 

"I believe it's yours," Yulia says. "It was in my laundry. You must have left it here."

Aglaya puts her bag down, notably ducking her head down to both the bag and her heels, which she chooses not to remove. Yulia watches her hair fall past her chin, its short bob tickling her skin for just a moment. She’s convinced her to cut her hair so that it may grow back in long. Neither are much for change, but Aglaya said that it was nice to have a light head of hair the day they got it cut. Such happiness is beautiful on her.

She offers the shirt to Aglaya to inspect, who gives it a quick glance before nodding. Yulia prefers cardigans and coats that hang off her hips. Aglaya prefers form fitting and functional. 

"Well. Thank you for washing my clothes," Aglaya remarks, touching the shirt. Even she can tell that Aglaya touches it only to find Yulia's hands, which she takes under the fabric and holds gingerly. "I can reimburse you for the trip."

"Why should you?" Yulia questions. "It was lost in my own clothes. It was laundry day, regardless. I washed a whole basket in the sink." Aglaya's hands are warm, even without the shirt over them. "There's a copper tumbler in the building, now. I didn't have to go anywhere."

The tug of a smile on Aglaya's lips, one that she tries to hide. There was an entire plan laid out between them involving calculating the cost of travel and the amount of water used, even the steps taken from Yulia's apartment to the bus station. Modern machines refuse to wait for their calculations and mathematics, it seems. 

"I see," she says. Aglaya takes the shirt from Yulia and lays it in the woven basket on the table the rest of their clothing waits in. "Did I return to you considering the odds of my clothing in your laundry?"

"You're smart," Yulia replies. "I was considering where it must have come from. I haven't seen you wear that in some time, so it must have been a while ago."

"I've been told all I wear is black sweaters," Aglaya remarks, "You recognize every one I own?"

Yulia smiles in her own subtle way, which makes Aglaya shake her head, betraying herself with another grin.

"I must work on my own skills, then," she admits, "it won't do us well if I am widely outclassed in our observational skills."

"Or in fashion decisions," Yulia comments, which earns her those cautious hands around her waist. A good mood, then. Aglaya offers her every warm moment she has, which have always been rare; yet recently, even more so. Yulia returns the gesture, with her own hands around Aglaya's back. Her smile doesn't wane, but perhaps grows a touch more sly.

The moment decides to last. Aglaya feels heavier, as if he day rolls down her body and through her legs, and she exhausts herself against Yulia. She rubs her hands against Agalya's shoulders, rolling her wrists in a gentle massage as best she can from this angle. 

"Thank you," Aglaya confesses into her shoulder.

"Of course," Yulia replies just as gently, mouth against the corner of her jaw, right below her black hair. "You're welcome."

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