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gymwrites · 6 years ago

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Second Thoughts: A Fan Sequel to First Times

[Author’s note: Final part of Chapter 8 done and dusted. I’m working on Chapters 9 (the one everyone’s been waiting for) and 10 (the wrap up). Thank you for sticking with me on this crazy ride. Do let me know what you think!

I wrote this chapter to: A New Beginning (Extended) by Alexandre Desplat]

Links to: Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 (Part I), Chapter 5 (Part II), Chapter 6 (Part I), Chapter 6 (Part II), Chapter 6 (Part III), Chapter 7, Chapter 8 (Part I), Chapter 8 (Part II)

Chapter 8: Lights (Part III)

It’s quiet.

Very quiet, save for the frantic rhythm of Aliya’s heartbeat tapping out a warning that this is a mistake. As nerve-wracking as it may be, it’s a mistake Aliya is willing to make, because it feels right.

Though Aliya was certain she wanted to be on this side of the door, what to do once she followed Aly inside was far less clear. She had made it two steps past the entrance before coming to a hesitant stop. Blinking to adjust to the darkness, she notices the temperature is much warmer in here than the hallway they had just come from. It might have something to do with the memories her mind is unhelpfully conjuring up of her and Aly in enclosed spaces.

The sound of something - a glass? - being knocked over onto a hard floor shakes Aliya out of her daze.

“Oops.”

Grateful for the distraction, Aliya watches in silence, lips twisted in amusement, as Aly throws out an arm and happily slurs out “Welcome to ‘merica”. She sways and fumbles her way over to what appears to be a bedside table, miraculously avoiding knocking anything else over. The faint outline of a lamp is just visible in the corner, and a dim band of light is thrown across the room once the girl manages to switch it on.

Aliya takes the opportunity to let her eyes wander, absorbing the homely messiness that makes it obvious the lefthand side belongs to Aly.

There are clothes spilling out of a half-zipped suitcase, a chaotic smattering of makeup on top of a set of wooden drawers. A mug stamped with the words ‘Sassy And Just A Bit Bad Assy’ is rolled on its side at the foot of an unmade bed, one of two in the room. Pushed up against the far wall between the beds is a modest desk, on top of which several framed pictures are neatly arranged.

One of them looks very familiar.

Smiling, Aliya walks past Aly and up to the desk. She reaches out to brush fingertips over the glass panel of the picture that’s caught her interest. Her smile broadens as she takes in the grinning, freckled girl with the shiny metal braces, arms wrapped around her siblings, soft brown eyes blown wide and brimming with love. The image stands in stark contrast to Aliya’s old photos. Most depict the ferocious scowl she would hurl at whoever was unlucky enough to be tasked with making her smile for the camera.

Aliya can make out the sounds of Aly shuffling and rustling behind. She expects the girl to erupt in protest at her rediscovery of that particular childhood snapshot, the way she did the first time in London. When no protest comes, Aliya spins around, of half a mind to get a rise out of Aly with some well-placed teasing.

Her jaw drops before she can formulate a single word.

What is she -

Aliya sucks in a wet, ragged breath at the sight of Aly’s plaid jeans, now thrown into a crumpled heap on the bed; at the realization that Aly is dressed only in her underwear and button-down shirt.

Briefly snapping her eyes shut, Aliya reminds herself that she is nothing if not disciplined. She works to contain the dull ache that starts pulsating in her veins. Next, she resolves to not stare too much, nor to catalogue in detail the strong, shadow-painted lines of the muscles in the girl’s bare legs. She almost succeeds too, until Aly casually starts peeling her shirt off like she’s completely forgotten there’s someone else in the room.

Aliya’s heart shoots up into her throat, a tiny gasp flying from her lips quicker than she can kill it.

At the sound, Aly freezes. Realization seems to jolt through her the instant she glances up to see Aliya gaping at her. Even in the dark, Aliya catches how Aly’s features flush a deep red.

The girl clears her throat uncomfortably. “I’ll go into the bathroom to change.”

“No,” Aliya whispers, cursing how her voice cracks. She takes a step forward, only to halt with a jerk, her body and mind warring furiously over just how much closer she should get to Aly. “Stay.” A small voice orders her to at least avert her gaze to give Aly some privacy, but she ignores it and stays rooted to the spot, unable to move a muscle, heart straining painfully against her chest.

Aly takes a moment to search Aliya’s face with unfocused eyes. Eventually, she nods and continues the process of shedding her clothes, but it isn’t long before she encounters a new obstacle. “Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have worn this,” the girl mutters.

Aliya swallows hard as Aly’s fingers flutter uselessly over the buttons that are preventing her from just slipping the shirt over her head. She guesses by how tightly Aly is gritting her teeth that the aftermath of too much vodka is starting to kick into high gear. And really, maybe the drinks Aliya consumed herself are starting to affect her too, because she moistens her lips, exhales a shaky breath and says unthinkingly, “I help you.”

The hesitant offer barely brushes the air, and for a moment Aliya isn’t even sure she said it at all. But then Aly looks blankly at Aliya and echoes in a low voice, “You’ll help me?”

Putting on an air of nonchalance, Aliya straightens her back and strides towards the American, motioning for her to sit down on the bed. “Either you break nice shirt, or I help you take off,” she says, tone brisk and all business, like there is nothing more to her proposal than simple practicality. And it was, wasn’t it? She had already dragged Aly halfway across the Olympic Village and firmly discouraged strange attachments to lamp posts - this was just one more thing that fell under her duties as a friend.

Yes, that common duty all friends have to help undress each other, Aliya thinks sarcastically to herself.

A dazzling smile lights up Aly’s face.

Aliya lifts a brow. “What?”

“You think my shirt is nice,” the American repeats in a tone caught somewhere between gratitude and smugness.

Aliya rolls her eyes. Without waiting for outright permission, she steps closer, shivering a little as she reaches for Aly and moves into her space. Forcing herself to be calm, Aliya brushes her fingers over the top button of Aly’s shirt. She deliberately avoids any eye contact, but that hardly prevents a thrill from rushing down her spine when she pops the button open and hears Aly’s breath hitch roughly in her throat.

“Aliya.”

The breathiness with which Aly utters her name stirs something in Aliya, something dizzy and wild. She looks up to find the girl staring wide-eyed at her, and for a moment, it feels like they’re perched dangerously on the edge of an abyss, both waiting for the other to leap in first. The slow pounding beneath Aliya’s ribs grows to a painful, thudding pace. Aly’s gaze is half-lidded and hazy, and the unspoken passion in it sends ripples of heat through Aliya’s system, from her throat, to her stomach and then further down.

Aliya isn’t thinking. Only reacting.

So she lets her hands drift away from the buttons and starts sliding them slowly down Aly’s sides, drawing a gasp from the girl. She dips her fingers lower, wrapping them around the curve of Aly’s waist, timidly at first, but the tremor that races through Aly’s body quickly turns the touch into a fervent grip.

And then she leans forward to press her trembling mouth to Aly’s.

The girl is so stunned, Aliya can almost taste it. Her muscles go still, almost rigid, beneath the trail of Aliya’s fingers over her hips.

For the life of her, Aliya can’t think of a single reason why she didn’t do this sooner. It’s like rediscovering fire and the missing breath of her heart, along with every perfect thing they’d sacrificed to the distance between them.

The relief is overwhelming and makes Aliya’s eyes sting.

She tilts her head and pushes further in, shuddering at the small sob Aly releases against her. Aly’s hand flies up to cup Aliya’s face, the fingers of the other seizing the back of Aliya’s neck to tug her in with equal intensity. A wordless understanding passes between them; that if forever wasn’t in the cards, then they could at least have this moment to take back with them, to die with the memory of it branded on their lips.

Inhaling sharply through her nose so as not to break the kiss, Aliya makes short work of the rest of the buttons. She pushes open Aly’s shirt with surprising speed and hungrily runs her hands over the girl’s stomach, loving the tautness and smoothness and familiarity of her skin, reveling in the way Aly hisses at the contact and quakes beneath her fingertips.

Aliya wraps more fully around Aly’s bottom lip and sinks her teeth in. The soft moan that rips up from Aly’s throat fuels a heady mix of adrenaline and desperation, causes Aliya to dig involuntarily into the girl’s hips, makes her want more, more, more.

“Aliya - ”

Through the heated haze, Aliya hears Aly gasp her name out a bit louder. It’s the pressure of Aly’s hands against her cheeks, holding her with so much tenderness and yet somehow also holding her at bay, that snaps Aliya back to attention.

“Aliya, wait.”

Wait. Did she say…?

It takes all the discipline Aliya can muster to pull back, momentarily disoriented. Breathing hard, faces only inches apart, Aliya locks her eyes onto Aly’s: they are soft, heated, beautiful… grave. Aliya draws her brow together in a sharp frown. At once, she remembers where they are, what they were doing - what she had done - and her stomach suddenly clenches into a ball of doubt. Her hands drop from where they were clutching at Aly’s waist, as if they had been burnt.

“I am sorry,” Aliya says abruptly. “I should not have - “

“Don’t. I’m not sorry.”

Aly slips one hand down around Aliya’s lower back, giving her a reassuring squeeze and bringing her forehead to Aliya’s. With a small sigh, Aliya can’t help but to press closer, to breathe in her scent and savor as much as possible everything about this girl she’s missed so much.

“I want you,” she hears Aly murmur, warm breath stuttering across Aliya’s lips. “More than you know. But I want this… you… when I’m not - ” Aly’s head tips back, eyes squeezing together as a flash of pain crosses her face.

"Aly."

“If tonight is the last night we have together, I might regret not having you,” the other girl continues after drawing labored breaths. Her words are no longer slurred, but spoken with the emphasis of someone who has yet to recover full control of their faculties. Aly reaches up to run shaky fingers through Aliya’s hair, and a painful lump rises in Aliya’s throat. “But I know I’ll regret it more if I have you when I’m… like this. If I do have you, I want it to be right. I want to show you that I - that you - “ Aly takes in another unsettled breath. “I want it to be perfect.”

Perfect is you being with me, Aliya wants to tell her.

Instead, she just nods and whispers, "Okay."

Aliya closes her eyes and leans into Aly’s touch, shoulders sagging weakly as Aly strokes along her jaw. She isn’t aware that she’s crying until Aly lifts a thumb to gently swipe away a hot tear that’s managed to slip down her cheek.

When she opens her eyes again, she finds Aly looking at her, through her, like she sees the entire galaxy held within her depths. Aliya stares back, breath frozen, unable to believe there is someone like Aly for whom she had fallen, who had fallen for her.

The moment is broken by a sharp groan from Aly. The American lets go of Aliya, stumbles and falls back down onto her bed, as if she’s been hit by a jet of cold water. She passes a hand over her eyes.

“Ugh. I think we made a good call. If I had barfed while we - oh God. I feel like someone’s just punched me in the stomach.”

Despite everything that’s happened, Aliya emits a soft laugh. The immense heat burning a path through every inch of her body doesn’t let up, but she can feel the more rational side of her returning slowly, if reluctantly, to the fold. She doesn’t know if she’ll regret that they didn’t take things further, but she does know how to take care of a girl suffering the early onset of a bad hangover.

With practised efficiency, Aliya helps stretch Aly’s legs out and reaches over to anchor Aly’s pillow more firmly beneath her head. Another rumbling groan is all the response she gets. “Be still,” she soothes. “It will be passing soon.” She carefully works the blanket out from under Aly and tucks it around her legs (she judges it too hot to draw it all the way up to the shoulders). Finally, after reaching over to switch the lamp off, Aliya steps back to admire her handiwork.

Brilliant whitish moonlight streams through the window, spilling over Aly’s pale face and the exposed skin underneath her open shirt. Aliya tactfully averts her gaze, sweeping it instead over trembling eyelids and the cute sprinkling of faint freckles over the bridge of her nose. Breathing shallow but steady, Aly already looks to be out for the count.

That has to be some kind of new record.

The girl mumbles something inaudible and shifts, a rich tangle of hair spilling across the pillow, and Aliya’s fingers twitch with the desire to touch.

Just as Aliya is debating whether that’s her cue to make an exit, Aly’s eyes snap open. She blinks them once, slowly and deliberately, as if wiping cobwebs from her mind, before latching them onto Aliya.

Aliya unconsciously holds her breath.

“Do you think you’ll ever feel this way about someone else?” The hesitant way Aly asks it turns the question into a half-desperate plea, and it breaks Aliya.

“No.”

The hot promise in Aliya’s voice astonishes even herself, but maybe it shouldn’t have. Any other answer would have been an outright lie.

The tension in Aly’s body relaxes. “Me neither. I guess there’s that.” She sinks back into the bed, the lines in her face smoothing out. Another long silence lapses. Aliya remains standing beside the bed, restlessly shifting her weight from foot to foot. Waiting…

“Would you… do something for me?”

Aliya raises her eyes to find Aly staring again. She tilts her head questioningly, her curiosity intensifying when the girl blushes.

“I mean, only if it doesn’t bother you, and if you don’t have to be getting back to your team. I’m sorry you had to leave the party early. I know it’s not that often we get time off, and you’re here looking after me, and I really shouldn’t ask for anything more. Besides, it must be late, and you must have to get up early tomorrow for training…“

Even when done at a slower, more inhibited pace, the babbling is so quintessentially Aly and so very obviously broadcasts her vulnerability that it makes Aliya want to climb straight into the bed and wrap the girl up in a tight, protective embrace.

She doesn’t, of course.

“What I can do?” Aliya cuts her off gently, settling for inching a bit closer.

An odd mixture of apprehension and boldness appears in Aly’s expression.

“Will you stay with me?”

Aliya’s chest constricts, like there’s suddenly not enough room for her heart to pump under her ribs.

“Just until I fall asleep,” Aly says softly, holding Aliya’s gaze, as if aware of the emotional terrain her request is putting Aliya through. “If you leave now, I’m not sure I’ll be able to.”

Silence for an interminable moment.

Then Aliya dips her head in quiet assent.

And then, she has to tear her focus away from the shy smile now radiating from Aly’s face while she quickly analyzes the safest way to do this. She considers sitting on the edge of the bed at Aly’s feet, but dismisses that as too forward. She could settle on the floor, but surmises the hardwood boards would soon become uncomfortable. Aliya swings her head around and catches sight of the round plastic chair pushed under the desk.

She can work with that.

Before she can execute her decision to drag the chair over towards the bed, she spots Aly biting her lip, still staring at her with that intense look that makes Aliya want to squirm. There’s a flutter at the base of Aliya’s throat as she swallows, and she knows Aly sees it, because the girl’s mouth curls into a knowing grin.

Narrowing her eyes at Aly and crossing her arms with a huff, Aliya tries to communicate how much she doesn’t appreciate the fact that an American has managed to reduce her to this unrecognizable, indecisive, awkward version of herself.

It doesn’t have the intended effect, because the next thing she knows, Aly is flipping the blanket open and patting the empty side next to her. Her eyes never once leave Aliya’s face.

“Please,” Aly whispers, the grin on her face slowly fading, replaced with a look of quiet pleading.

A shiver crests on Aliya’s skin. Something about how that particular word falls from the girl’s lips gives it power over her, makes surrendering herself to Aly the only viable option.

“Okay, Aly.”

With what sounds like a sigh of relief, Aly scoots over on her side to make room, putting her back against the wall the bed is wedged against.

Aliya stares at Aly for awhile longer, captivated by the soft jut of her shoulders where her shirt has fallen away. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Aliya kicks off her boots. She slips underneath the blanket gingerly, wriggling down the length of the bed as she tries to get comfortable without bumping into the other gymnast.

The bed isn’t really made for two, but it’s wide enough that they can simply share the space without touching. The stillness of the air belies the hammering of Aliya’s heart. She’s a little crestfallen that Aly appears to be respecting the invisible boundary she had felt obligated to draw between them.

Until the bed dips with a jolt.

“Aliya.”

“Hm?”

“I have to compete in event finals tomorrow.” Aly’s words are infused with slight panic.

Aliya frowns. Today is Friday -

She’s distracted by more movement, then the tickle of soft breath against her ear.

“If Martha finds out I’m competing with a hangover, she’ll skin me alive.”

Aliya turns her head to meet huge round eyes filled with worry. They’re gorgeous, and so easy to get lost in.

“I am not thinking your” - Aliya fishes around for the English term for ‘team coordinator’ but gives up - “she, is wanting your skin.”

The pillow makes a swishing sound as Aly shakes her head against it. “You haven’t met Martha.”

So the inexplicable fear of this Martha character hasn’t changed since London, either.

“Aly, I know many coach in Russia who is ten times Martha. Remember she is needing you more than you need her. You are one who is doing hard work, who will bring home the medal.” Sensing further argument, Aliya places a comforting hand on Aly’s shoulder. “And you are not needing to fear. It is Friday.” Her mouth quirks. “Your event final is on Tuesday. You are having many days to get well.”

“Oh. I could have sworn it was tomorrow,” Aly replies wearily. “Time just goes by so fast.”

Aliya is about to offer more reassurance when she’s startled by the pad of Aly’s finger carefully tracing over her cheekbones, her lips, then down the curve of her neck. Her breath stills in the echoing darkness and her eyes drift shut, trying to carve every sensation into her memory forever. When Aly’s arm drops away, Aliya has to bite down on her tongue to prevent a disappointed whimper from escaping.

“We need more time,” Aly murmurs.

We will never have enough time.

There’s only time enough for one last important concern before the girl finally drifts off into a deep sleep.

“I should brush my teeth,” Aly muffles into her pillow.

“Tomorrow, Raisman.”

“… It’s not civilized.”

Aliya shushes her.

“Sleep now.”

She counts each second it takes for Aly’s breathing to slow to a lumbering pace, making each one last for as long as possible.

-----

Time is a strange paradox.

If Aliya thinks about how she should pry herself from Aly before her teammates return, it flees from her at the speed of a falling star; each moment flames bright and meets a quick death. But if she concentrates on the way her arm is wrapped snugly around Aly’s waist, time slows almost to a complete stop.

Oh that. That had just… happened.

Thirty minutes in - or maybe it was ten minutes, or two hours, Aliya can’t be sure - Aly had rolled onto her side, putting her back towards Aliya. Without warning, she had also grabbed hold of Aliya’s hand in one swift unconscious act and wrapped it around her middle. And kept right on sleeping.

That’s how Aliya finds herself reflecting on how she got here, treasuring the slow burn of Aly’s body pressed against her front.

At one point, Aliya had thought she could hate Aly.

It was after the girl had heartwrenchingly told her she couldn’t keep their relationship going, couldn’t stand loving her anymore. It was then, that Aliya thought hate was inevitable. When it didn’t come naturally, she categorically tried to hate her, and when that failed, she vowed to at least never put her trust in Aly, ever again.

And yet…

For all the times she claimed herself distant and imperturbable, Aliya never truly doubted the fact that Aly cared for her, just as much as she cared for Aly. They were each bound to the other in ways she will never completely fathom. The pain of the past might still weigh on Aliya’s heart, but it had become impossible to bury it without also burying the best, most precious parts of herself. The two are intertwined, and she is slowly beginning to accept that.

It helps that the residual hurt seems to be fading to a dim memory; that the calm rise and fall of Aly’s breathing next to her is now layering something else over it, something that feels incredible and wonderfully alive.

Aliya does what she does next to feel alive.

“Aly,” she breathes into the darkness.

She thinks she hears a barely perceptible sigh, but other than that, Aly’s deep breathing continues uninterrupted. Still, she should make certain.

“I only let you winning silver in all-around final because I know you will being a big baby if you lose to Russian again.”

Aliya counts to thirty.

When no indignant outrage ensues, a wave of trepidation and exhilaration sweeps over Aliya. It allows words she has kept locked away for too long to well up and rise to the surface in one resurgent tide.

“Aly, I… I love you.”

It’s surprising, how much it quickens her pulse to say it for the first time, how it blocks her throat with something between a sob and a laugh. If it wasn’t so impossible, Aliya could believe she had loved Aly before they even met, before they had been given names, or shapes, or lives, because it feels like love for her had always been.

Saying it once isn’t enough. So Aliya draws the words up from the depths of her soul, releases them more fervently the second time round.

“I love you.”

Aliya tightens her hold on Aly, breathing in the sweetness of her hair, presses a light kiss to the nape of her neck.

This time, no one wipes away the lone tear tracking down her face.

-----

The second thought Aly has when she wakes to the sound of her own pained groan is how empty her bed feels. It was a miracle she’d even had a second thought, because her first was pure confusion over why little fuzzy dots were taking turns stabbing at her eyeballs with white lightsabers.

It takes another few moments before Aly realizes what, or rather who, is missing from her bed, and then she is instantly and violently awake. Her swollen bladder promptly forgotten, she stiffens, fully alert, swiveling her head back and forth like she’s at a tennis match.

The fuzzy dots in her head pick that exact moment to swap their lightsabers for raging jack hammers.

Forced to flop back down onto the covers, Aly feels her heart race, even as she tells herself to calm down, she can’t have imagined Aliya in her room last night, in her bed… it’s all too vivid to have been some crazy dream…

She sucks in a deep breath before turning her head to the side, wincing as she does. Madison is tucked into the bed opposite, fast sleep.

Aly tries everything she can to remember the details of the night before. She runs her hand over the crumpled space next to where she had woken, squished against the wall. She thinks she detects the faint indent of another body pressed into her sheets. When she squeezes her eyes hard enough, she swears a light hint of Aliya still lingers on her pillow and her blanket.

As soon as she feels well enough to run her gaze over the room, hoping it will help jog her recall, she’s immediately drawn to the English-Russian dictionary placed on top of her bedside table.

Aly frowns. That was definitely not where she left it last time. The oddity makes her reach towards it, and sure enough when she flips the dictionary over onto its side, there is a particular page with its corner folded. Dog-earing books is something Aly has always thought should be outlawed, not least because it grates on her to ruin a perfect piece of paper.

Except this time she welcomes it with a slow-spreading grin and an unexpected flood of hope.

Suddenly, it doesn’t matter if what happened last night was dream or reality, because the one word circled in light pencil on the open page in front of her confirms that it was both.

всегда:

Always.

#raistafina #fanfic #ST #jenkenlee #first times #sequel #the healing is almost complete

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gymwrites · 7 years ago

Text

Second Thoughts: A Fan Sequel to First Times

[Author’s note: Happy Christmas everyone! Yes, ST still lives and it’s crazy people in the fandom still read it. I have the ending almost set in my head, and will keep writing until it’s done. I’ve also gone back and re-written past chapters, to make it better. Thanks Jenkenlee wherever you are for kickstarting this. You can read her First Times here.]

This chapter was written to The Kiss, by Mervyn Warren]

Chapter 7: Like This

“Seda, I’m going to kill you.”

“Alka - ”

“But after the all-around final. For Russia’s sake.”

“Aren’t you overreacting just a little?”

“Overreacting? What were you thinking?!”

“…”

“Well? Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“Just tell me what happened first, and afterwards if you so choose you may end my life.”

“Unbelievable.“

“Did you two…? Well. You know.”

“I swear to God, Tutkhalyan - ”

“Something happened didn’t it? Didn’t it, Alka?”

“I’m going to count to three.”

“What?”

“Start running.”

“Can’t we just talk - “

“One.”

-----

“The two of you are so adorable together. I can’t believe it actually worked!”

“You’re not even hiding the fact that you set us up.”

“Simone gets credit too. And why would we hide it? It was genius, if I say so myself.”

“Right.”

“Wait. Why that look? What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“You missed the first half of training, Als. That’s sacrilege for you. Spill.”

“Don’t you have other, more important things to worry about? Like, oh I don’t know, an Olympic beam final. Which you’re going to be amazing in, by the way.“

“I’m not letting you out of this apartment until you tell me everything.”

“Laurie, it’s like I told you - “

“Either tell me everything now, or I wake Simone up from her nap. And you know what she’s like when you come between her and nap time.”

“Okay. Okay!”

“Well?”

“It was the freaking Titanic.”

“Oh my god. Steamy, forbidden sex in an abandoned transportation vehicle?”

“No! I mean smash-into-iceberg, people-screaming-everywhere, all out Titanic disaster.”

“But... I don’t understand. I thought she still loved you.”

-----

“Do you still love me?”

The second thought racing through Aliya Mustafina’s mind is whether it’s possible to re-bottle the startled silence she had sent ricocheting into the air. Fear had frozen her at first. But then the silence… It loudly announced to the world how her heart still drummed to Raisman’s every breath. The girl need only ask, and it would crumple like paper in the palm of her hand.

“You can’t say it. But you do.” Aly sounds weak with relief. And dangerously hopeful. Her face slowly lights up, and she tightens her grip on Aliya’s hand.

The Russian curses inwardly. Not even the musical whirring of a nearby icecream truck, nor the high octane shouts of a dozen excited kids clamoring after it, can mask her stunned speechlessness. The question she had hoped would never surface was now glaringly out in the open. Worse still, it demanded a response she wasn’t ready to give. Admit to the truth, then what? Why risk reopening wounds that were just beginning to heal?

“Asking me another thing, Raisman. Please,” she eventually pleads quietly. To her dismay, Aly fixes her searing gaze even more intently on her.

“You love me,” the girl murmurs, in a wondrous haze. “I see it. No, I feel it.” Aly’s words grow steadier, like she’s suddenly found clarity amidst an overwhelming deluge of emotions.

The midday sun blazes relentlessly down on them. But it’s not what’s causing the feverish wave Aliya feels engulfing her entire body. Her heartbeat, now a battering ram against her ribs, insists she let go of the stubborn, rational need to protect herself from what might hurt her - or be really, really good for her.

Perhaps sensing the lowering of Aliya’s barriers, Aly leans forward, close enough that their brows almost touch. Gentle determination dances in her eyes, deep pools of amber that leave no doubt as to where this moment is headed. Those impossibly beautiful eyes, Aliya frets to herself, are going to be the end of her. They have always been.

Aliya isn’t sure if Aly actually spoke her name; just before their lips touch, it’s more like she breathes it, the way an artist breathes color onto a canvas of dreary greys, blacks and charcoals.

It’s a slow, careful kiss at first - for about a heartbeat.

Then comes the rush of painfully, wonderfully sweet sensations. The delicious scent of her that wraps around Aliya, filling her lungs with each quickening breath. The affection with which her fingers trace the line of Aliya’s cheekbone. The way she pulls Aliya closer with an insistent, passionate longing. Soon enough, everything gets lost in a wild sea of desperation. Soon enough, Aliya finds herself kissing Aly back with a ferocity that takes them both by surprise.

She has never wanted anyone or anything more.

In a single kiss, Aly Raisman gives her something infinitely precious - a deep knowing that life is found in the melding together of our deepest desire with our greatest fear. But it takes from her, too. It takes her very breath, suspending her existence the way gravity suspends the planets in their orbit. It would take her sanity too, if this kiss, this feeling that she could chase the wind and catch it, were to ever end…

And there was no doubt when the Games were over, it would end.

The dire thought jerks Aliya up short. She hastily pulls away from the kiss, lips swollen and head dizzy. Heart beating madly, Aliya abruptly averts her gaze towards the ocean, where the crest of a large wave is receding. Aly’s eyes widen in worry, but she says nothing.

Another salty breeze whips past, grazing Aliya’s skin and eliciting a shiver. She draws her knees close to her chest, as if the action might contain the uncertainty now flooding through her.

If her breaking away had surprised Aly, it doesn’t show.

After only a brief hesitation, the American calls Aliya’s name again. When Aliya doesn’t answer, she reaches out to cup Aliya’s cheek, tenderly tilting her face to meet her gaze, and speaks to her in a soft, but strong voice.

“I know you’re scared. I am too.”

Aliya closes her eyes. “Da. We should being scared. We should not doing this.” Even as she savors the warmth of Aly’s touch, she's steeling herself against the idea that it could ever amount to anything more than a stolen moment on a beach in Rio, far away from the reality waiting for them back at the Olympic Village.

“Being scared doesn’t stop us from training every day of our lives on equipment that could literally kill us,” Aly protests. “And it definitely doesn’t stop us from loving what we do. How is this is any different?”

“Aly. You are knowing how.” Aliya gives her a look, but at the same time can't keep a corner of her mouth from pulling up into a near smile. Persistence looks good on her.

Aly drops her hands in resigned defeat. “I can’t help it. You have me. I’m completely, totally, and utterly yours.”

Aliya’s stomach does a wild lurch. “What if someone else is more good for you?”

“There is no one else, Aliya.”

“You cannot knowing that.”

“I do know. You’d think that after all these years…” The fierceness in Aly's voice fades, and she chokes up a little. “I’m not making the same mistake of letting you go again. You’re my one. Where else am I going to find a Russian gymnast who gets me like you do, who drives me crazy like you do?” Lowering her lashes, she adds quietly, “Sometimes, you say my name, and the next thing I know the whole world goes up in flames.”

For a moment, Aliya can’t speak. “Other gymnast can doing this for you,” she eventually counters feebly.

Aly draws back sharply, as if stung. A shadow of doubt flits across her face. “No. What are you talking about?”

Memories of her earlier exchange with Eythora leap to the front of Aliya’s mind. The girl’s bold pursuit of Aly had left an indelible, if unpleasant, impression on her. It wasn’t easily forgotten.

“Thorsdottir.” Then, as if Aly looks confused because she doesn’t recognize the name, rather than because she doesn’t understand why Aliya is even bringing her up, the Russian hurriedly clarifies, “Eythora Thorsdottir. She say she will fighting for you.”

The astonishment on Aly's face intermingles with a flash of hurt.

Perhaps Aliya mentions it because some part of her believes the unselfish thing to do is help open Aly’s mind to the possibility of finding happiness with someone else. Or perhaps she secretly wanted to test how Aly would react. Much as Aliya hates to admit it, the Dutch girl was probably capable of uprooting to go study at an American college if it meant being closer to Aly. Her English was more than good enough. It wasn't uncommon for western Europeans to spend their collegiate years in the States.

She had options that weren’t open to Aliya.

“You’re not making any sense,” Aly says shakily. “Did she say something to you?” But before Aliya can respond, Aly bites her lower lip, and shakes her head to silence her. “No. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to talk about her. No one else matters here. No one, except you and me.” She looks resolutely out at the sparkling blue-green ocean, as if avoiding eye contact will make the Russian drop the matter.

Aliya directs a troubled stare at her. “We cannot being more than friends, Aly.”

“Friends?” A mix of consternation and disbelief comes through in the raised inflection of the girl's response. “We can never be just friends. I know that. You know that.”

“Why not?” Aliya raises her own voice to match Aly’s.

“You can’t. Not with someone you’ve never stopped being in love with. And who you know loves you just as much, even if they can’t say it.” Aly folds her arms stubbornly, daring Aliya to find fault with her statement.

“It is you who saying we are friends, Raisman!”

“I know. At the time, I thought it made sense, that we could still be in each other’s lives without being... more.” Aly's shoulders slump. Her eyes glisten with sorrow. “But look at us, Aliya. We’re terrible at being friends.”

Aliya resists the temptation to shoot back that one of them is terrible at it, even though deep down she knows Aly is right. The day she can look at Aly and not want her would never dawn, not in a million years. Still, didn't they owe it to their sanity to at least pretend to try?

“What we are now, if not this?” she demands, voice slightly strained.

To her surprise, Aly snatches Aliya's hand from her lap, bringing it swiftly to her chest. “We’re this,” she determines fiercely. "This... this thing that lets us feel what the other person is feeling, like we’re one and the same, but not.”

Aliya’s heart does a violent flip as Aly presses her hand emphatically, willing her to feel the full import of her words.

“Whatever this is, that makes chocolate taste like so much more than just cocoa butter, and milk, and way too much sugar. Whatever it is that makes me smile like an idiot every time I hear a Russian song. That makes waking up every goddamn day actually matter.”

They lock eyes. For one heart-rending instant, Aliya feels like she might just surrender herself to the glaring truth that they had always been, and could only ever be, absolutely mad about each other. That there was no possibility of them ever being apart again. And yet...

“This, like we are four years ago?” The Russian instantly regrets the accusatory tone that bleeds into her retort. She registers the hurt that flickers across the American’s face. She feels a stab of anguish as Aly lets her hand drop.

“Aly," Aliya quickly stammers, "I not meaning…” As she struggles to unbound the tight knot of emotions holed up in her chest, Aliya curses the English language. Things were already too complicated as they were. “I only mean we have doing the same before. And we know how it will be ending,” she explains, brokenly and not very well.

Aly’s eyes darken as Aliya’s words eventually sink in. Another silence that seems to drag on for an eternity follows. It fills Aliya with guilt. She hadn’t meant to resurrect past ghosts. She really had forgiven Aly for everything - if indeed there had been anything to forgive.

At last, the girl offers a faint smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. You’re right. What was I thinking?”

The defeat in her voice and posture cut Aliya to her core. Even though Aly barely moves a muscle, Aliya unmistakably senses her retreat. She fights the urge to throw her arms around Aly again to keep her from slipping away.

“Aly. You and me - ”

Aly cuts her off quietly. “No, I know. You, in Russia. Me, in the United States. It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now.”

Recognizing the raising of a wall when she sees one, Aliya shuts her mouth. A gloominess descends on them both at an alarming speed.

“We should probably be getting back, anyway.” The forced easiness in that statement puts Aliya on edge. She watches silently as Aly gathers up her clothes, methodically rolling them up so they fit snugly into her small backpack. The girl lifts her towel up by the corners, flapping it several times in the wind to dust off the sand. Then she wraps it around her waist, before checking the time on her phone. “The bus will be there in about ten minutes. We should go now.”

Aliya glumly nods her agreement. She stands and reaches for the red dress she'd thrown down on the towel.

“Aliya?”

The Russian's pulse quickens. She looks up, heart in her throat. “Da?”

“Maybe you should try being nicer to the driver this time. So he’s not so scared of you and shaken up.” Aly throws her a half-hearted grin. “I actually want to make it back to the all-around final in one piece,” the girl jokes, not even trying to land it with any sort of conviction.

Oh. A proper retort eludes Aliya, so she just answers with her own weak grin. “I try.”

The American extends one last lingering look, before she turns to start walking.

A sudden urgency rises inside Aliya's chest. Ya tebya lyublyu, Aly. Stay here on this beach with me. Don't go. Don't you ever leave me again.

“Aly. Wait.”

Aly spins promptly back around to face Aliya. Her expression makes it plain that she’s afraid to hope, but wants more than anything for Aliya to give her a reason to. Aliya hesitates.

“I - I am sorry,” she finally manages falteringly. She sees disappointment etch itself into the taut lines around Aly’s face. Sorry, Aliya rages at herself. What an utterly useless phrase that articulates exactly none of the convoluted, soul-shaking emotion she feels for this girl. If only things were different. If only she and Aly weren't born in places so far apart. But then, she wouldn't be who she is, and Aly wouldn't be who she is... and they might never have found their missing pieces in each other.

“I’m sorry too,” Aly whispers, with the sadness of someone who’s finally resigned themselves to the end of the road. “But... better to have loved and lost, right?”

It’s a familiar phrase, even in English, but Aliya can’t quite pinpoint from where.

As she watches Aly trudge slowly up the sand towards the busy avenue, she remembers: in Yegoryevsk, in the warmth of her family living room.

It was something her grandmother always used to say to her, when she was still an impressionable, impulsive child. ‘Lucse ljubit i poterjat, cem sovsem ne ljubit,’ she would whisper comfortingly, as she held a distraught ten-year-old Aliya in her slender arms the day a boy she had a silly crush on moved to St. Petersburg with his diplomat mother.

Better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

For the first time in her life, Aliya experiences what it’s like to doubt the wisdom of her beloved babushka.

-----

We drifted apart clouds on different winds long we fought to hold our misty grips but in the end we were again clouds on different winds.

- Atticus

#raistafina #ST #christmas update #fanfic #second thoughts

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