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bumbershots · 4 years ago

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THE AGE OF THE UNDERSTATEMENT

Author’s note: Hello! So last winter I spent it binge watching so many Mexican soap operas, A LOT of old winter Olympics footage, and Harry Styles music videos so I came up with this idea, but didn’t really did anything until I was writing the one shot for the playlist challenge and the characters sort of came to life. I wrote the whole idea for every chapter so I don’t slack (like with my other story lol) anyway. Here’s the result. Enjoy! (:

Story page ★ Word count: 2.6K

Chapter one: Time

It’s snowing outside. Small, thin flakes that can be easily mistaken for hail, until they stick to the window and melt into the glass. Selena wants nothing more than to track the damp streak with one of her fingers, a bad habit she keeps from when she was a kid —one of many. She refrains from doing so because duty calls, there are a minimum of ten things that she was asked to help with right now. She makes her rounds across the wedding venue, instructing the string quartet where to place the chairs, confirming for the hundredth time that the bride’s father is not sneaking cupcakes out of the catering team or trying to have one last pre-wedding conversation with her fiancé.

In another situation she would’ve delegated the tasks to Minako and Paloma or any of the other bridesmaids. But Selena needed to stay busy, just so her thoughts don’t draw a mindmap, a list of everything that went wrong in her life for the past three weeks. A complete disaster, one bad choice after another one. A mistake on her side, a mistake on his, all of them domino-stumbling into each other, where the only possible outcome was to try to go back to how things were before she committed the first fault.

The good and bad thing about Selena, is that she’s also very efficient, fifteen minutes later she is done with her duties and is dismissed by Maki, the bride herself. But this free time more than a blessing is a curse that leaves her dwelling and all of a sudden she is aware of how alone she is feeling. Selena is alone, literally and figuratively, she is so unused to it. For someone who grew up in a big family, surrounded by aunts, grandmothers, cousins, nieces and nephews —some of them not even related by blood. She used to be so comfortable in her solitude, when she first moved to Tokyo. But it somehow feels weird when it is not self-inflicted. She stands in the empty corridor, feeling lost, before she decides to find the only person who won’t make her feel alone, whose presence is always a silver lining in her life, and who is apparently the only person that she will keep coming back to over and over again.

She finds Viktor going over his speech in the car park, he is leaning against his car, his brow knitting deep in thought, eyes scanning quickly the paper before him. He looks seconds away from giving up his task —or the wedding altogether. But he won’t actually leave, because he cares about Maki too much, just like all the other guests. Selena knows that although Viktor is not a very romantic person, he will at some point in his lecture, make the bride cry with whatever unexpected analogy he’d come up with.

It’s freezing, colder than the usual, even for a December morning. Selena pulls her coat closer to her body and rubs her hands together, another poor attempt to channel her anxiety to another part of her body.

Her companion doesn’t miss it, but all he says, after folding the paper he had in half and a long exhale, is, “I’ve always wanted to attend a summer wedding, right before the sunset and as the ceremony takes place so does the sun in the horizon… and the twilight comes in view and seals the couple’s love with its last beaming rays.” Viktor lends his scarf to a now shivering Selena. “When it’s your turn, promise me you’ll have a summer wedding, at the end of June?”

Selena’s first thought in response to this is not the discomfort she was expecting, but actually a quick flash of what her long time friend just described, it seems ridiculous when she is too certain that something like that will never happen in her life. Not when she doesn’t even have anything close to a stable relationship in her present.

“Why would you bestow upon me such expectation or needing to marry a man… someone, anyone, if ever. It is very sexist of you—”

“Please, shut the hell up.” Viktor unbuttons his coat, completely unbothered by this weather, a mark of the Russians.

Weirdly enough, Selena does shut the hell up. Something so rare that has Viktor going still. From her periphery, Selena sees her friend stay quiet, probably pondering what he is about to ask next, because he knows that he only has one chance to do it right, that’s how Selena is about things that bother her. If you are unable to articulate the appropriate question, she won’t say anything.

“Where’s Harry?” says Viktor. “Is he charming the string quartet already?”

“We had a fight.” Selena breathes out, glad to get that off her chest, the mist from her breath curls upwards until it’s undistinguishable. “I don’t think he will come.”

“Why?”

Because it was a big fight, an ugly one. She thinks but doesn’t say, still Viktor can tell and he scoffs.

“God what a dick.”

Supposedly Viktor was friends with both Harry and Selena, but it doesn’t really feel like that for him, not after the incident last week. Not when Harry was acting jealous every time Viktor was around. He is not one to romanticise that behaviour and call it love. He sees it as a red flag, one that he would immediately discuss with Selena, but not now when she looks like she’s attending a funeral and not a wedding. Viktor and Selena share a lot of things and they have planted plenty of questionable habits on each other, but beating around the bush was not one of them. But her vulnerability can be felt in the freezing air, in every misshaped snowflake and Viktor studies her, not liking the apprehension on her face.

“But he will come,” says Viktor.

Selena lets out a bitter laugh, refusing to look up. “Why would he? He doesn’t even know the bride or groom.”

Viktor leans away from his car, before he slips out of his coat.

“I would,” he says, wrapping her in the garment carefully, “because of the cute girl who asked me to, and the free food.”

◇

All flights were postponed due to the snow. Harry laughs, knowing it is completely ridiculous that the moment he is looking to get out of Japan, a blizzard comes out of nowhere to prevent it. As if there’s someone up above, directing his acts, trying to get him to attend the wedding he was dressed up for and invited to only a couple of days ago. It’s unfair, and he feels uncomfortable to be stranded at the airport. Harry is tempted to call Selena, knowing that she won’t deny him the chance to stay at her place until his flight can take off the next morning.

There’s no way he is calling her, not after the fight from the other day. All the things she said filled his head to the brim and it had been constantly dripping unkind thoughts about her. He decides to just wait at the airport, a bench can’t be the worst place to sleep tonight.

But a tap on his shoulder saved him from what would’ve been a really dreadful day and night. Harry finds himself face to face with the last person he expected to see today in Japan.

“I’m going to give you a moment alone, so you can sit with what you’re feeling. When I return we will talk about it.”

There’s a knot on his chest, but he nods. “Yes, thank you Sam.”

As soon as Sam has disappeared upstairs, Harry goes to stand by the window, and stares at what is probably one of the nicest views of Tokyo. He wanted to yell, cry until his voice ran out and his eyes were so swollen that he would have trouble opening them for the next few days. He could scream and Sam wouldn’t hold it against him, but just one look at the city before him was a reminder that he was not home. It’s one thing to have a much needed breakdown in his own flat under the watchful eye of his friend and bandmate Mitch and another to disrupt the peace of Sam’s loft. It’s one and a half floors that Harry has associated with calm and security from the moment he first stepped into it three weeks ago, and while he had never played any part to this, he’d rather have a crisis at the airport where everyone can see and judge him than to threaten the tranquility so shamelessly.

He rests his forehead on the window and breathes like that, counting and counting until he hears Sam return. He expects her to join him but she continues to the kitchen and Harry just follows with his gaze.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Sam asks, tying up a black apron, standing in her pristine white kitchen. Harry wants to tell her that nothing too fancy, that he’s not even hungry. But he can’t say anything.

It all feels so foreign, watching Sam cook him breakfast, fighting with Selena, being in Japan. It all piled up on Harry’s shoulders until he couldn’t carry it any longer. It dawns on him that he doesn’t know what he really wants.

“I’ll make an omelette.” She concludes after his silence.

If Harry believed more in the strengths of his relationships, he would say that they both find comfort in each other. Sam being the only person who didn’t get invited to the wedding and Harry being the only one that shouldn’t have. But he doesn’t know her that well, all he knows is what Selena told him that night before they arrived at her place for dinner.

Well she was dating Maki last year, but they broke up. She had carelessly said and for a moment it unsettled Harry, how little she cared about her friend’s feelings. They don’t like to talk about it, so we don’t. Boundaries, something that everyone in their circle seemed to have. It’s the reason why he was so surprised at Sam’s offer to stay at her place until his flight is rescheduled.

Ten minutes later, he is summoned to the living room area. “I was debating whether to ask why you are dressed for a funeral,” says Sam, walking back to the kitchen counter to retrieve their mugs. It’s almost lunch time, but she leaves a mug of steaming black coffee in front of Harry. Then she nods at where Harry left the black jacket of his two-piece suit draped over the arm of the sofa. “But I remembered about the winter wonderland wedding you’ll both be attending.”

Both.

Harry sits up over the old peeling couch, he crosses his legs under him and Sam takes the one-seater to his left, eyes sharp on how Harry crinkles his pants.

“We don’t have to talk about the wedding.”

“You seem to be under the impression that you talking about the wedding will unsettle me but I can assure you that is not the case.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “No, no,” he says. “It just seems unnecessary, whatever issue I have is not related to the wedding.”

Sam levels him a flat look. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Harry. But you’re terrible at explaining what bothers you.”

“Yeah, that is true.” Harry takes a big chunk of omelette and stuffs it into his mouth. A childhood habit to keep his mouth shut. He watches Sam take a spreader knife to push some jam across the fresh loaf of bread she stopped to get on her way home. “I just wanted to avoid talking about the wedding, the attendees, what happens after the wedding.”

“Just to spare my feelings?”

“Yes, because I know I would feel uncomfortable upon hearing how my ex is getting married this afternoon—”

“Harry,” says Sam. “I don’t feel uncomfortable.”

How can you not? He thinks. Having finished almost all of the omelette, Harry resorts to spreading two thick layers of jam onto an open-faced slice of bread, before folding it in half and shoves it into his mouth. “I can’t look at Selena in the eye ever again anyway.” He said, as he chewed.

“Why?” She is slower in her rituals, more careful as she spreads jam to the very tips of her slice.

“I just can’t.” Harry swallows. The bread is soft and fluffy, the jam has the perfect balance of sweet and citrusy but it still doesn’t go down as easily. “Because it’s such a mess, I feel terrible about everything right now and there’s a chance I go and pass on my bad mood to the attendants. Why would I turn a wedding into a funeral? I can’t get away with that, I’m no Hugh Grant. I don’t know if I can look at Selena in the eye and she’s the reason I was invited. She probably doesn’t even want me there or anywhere anymore. And it’s fine that she doesn’t. It’s her brother’s wedding who also might not want me there. I just don’t even know how to exist anymore. I don’t want to carry all the feelings I have for her back to England where they will surely rot along what’s left of my heart. I wish I was dressed for a funeral, mine if possible. I spent all fucking morning tying up this tie—”

“Breathe,” says Sam. Her knife is hesitant, waiting for Harry to actually breathe, before it is back to sliding smoothly across the bread. Harry knows she’s studying him, trying to ask him about the argument he had with Selena, most likely preparing a speech about why Maki or anyone in that family would want him there. “Have another slice of bread.” Sam doesn’t push him to talk about that or anything, they finish their meal in silence and it gives Harry some time to collect his thoughts for the first time today.

He helps with the washing up because however far away from home, he can’t shake off the manners his mother taught him. As he finishes, the clock by the wall announces that the time to make a choice is running out. Harry can stay here and wait for an update on his flight. He can go to a hotel and thank Sam for her kindness. He can leave his stuff here and figure out how to get to the wedding by train, bus or even scooter. He has time to decide and it occurs to him that it doesn’t apply just for today but any other for that matter.

It’s strange how for the past couple of weeks he felt like he was living towards a deadline, that any minute he spent was some sort of borrowed time. Harry doesn’t feel any of that frustration as Sam wipes clean the coffee table, who’s methodical about even this, each movement measured and easy to follow.

The loft is quiet, nothing but Harry’s level, unhurried breathing in the space around them. Sam finishes her task and focuses her gaze on him, unfaltering for a second before she turns away.

“Grab your jacket. We’re heading out.”

“What?” Harry is surprised, but he goes to do as he’s told, frowning at his luggage by the door.

“You can leave that in here.” Sam slips on her jacket in one smooth motion, shoes slipping on her feet easily. “We’re going for a drive.”

Harry fixes the collar of his shirt. “Where to?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On the things you choose to tell me during the drive.” Sam props open the front door and Harry follows right behind.

But he is not rushing this time, whatever choices he does make today will be the right ones, whether he regrets them or not will be something to look back on, years from now. But as he climbs into the passenger seat of Sam’s black convertible, the city passes by his side. Harry is sure that for now, he has all the time in the world.

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#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles oc #harry styles series #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagine #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fandom #harry styles ou #the age of the understatement

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lucyhend8 · 5 years ago

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I Remember.....

So a bit of context for this piece. I wrote this as a way to get into my protagonist’s head. Consider this like a diary entry or a letter that Lucy would never send to James. It tells the full story of them, from her perspective, through flashes of moments that stood out to her specifically. Hope you enjoy!

I remember when you first caught my attention. It was that day in the computer room. Stephen was out and I was too awkward to talk to anyone. I sat at my computer, clicking half-heartedly through a fashion website. You were to my left. I was ignoring you. I wasn't supposed to talk to you at all so I kept to myself. I made sure not to look when your actions filled my periphery. I struggled to keep my eyes glued to the screen as you moved around in your seat. That is when the rubber band hit the side of my face. That broke my concentration, very effectively I might add. I reached down and retrieved the band from it's position on the floor. I remember that the band was blue and worn looking. I flicked my eyes up to meet yours and you broke out in a grin. That was when I broke my promise to Stephen. I talked to you and actually enjoyed it. I found myself genuinely laughing as you said little phrases in Russian. It had been a long time since someone who wasn't Laurence had made me laugh like that. It frightened me a bit. As I left the room, Maria caught my arm. Eyebrows scrunched, glasses sliding down her nose, lips pursed. "Stephen won't like that". I remember not giving a damn what he thought for the first time ever.

~~~~

I remember sitting in front of you in Mr. Murphy's classroom. Your writing notebook was out on the desk and I peeked at it curiously. You had mentioned that you liked writing and I was bursting with interest. I wanted to read it so badly and you obliged. I remember skimming through the pages and noting the melancholic tone of the whole thing. I was impressed by your skill and eager to read more. I remember that you named the love interest "El". That didn't sit too well with me, I had a feeling I knew who that was based on. I tried to ignore the slight pang of disappointment in my chest. I smiled and thought about starting my own writing back up.

~~~~

I remember when I finally admitted it to myself. I liked you. There was no point in denying it anymore. You see, I really didn't want to. Liking you would cause drama, drama that I most definitely didn't need. But. There's only so many ways I could tell myself that I was indifferent to your existence. It was when we were in Italy. I was in the red dress. The one I love. It makes me feel pretty. I saw your eyes when I went up to you. They widened ever so slightly, subtle enough that I was the only one who noticed. I remember the feeling of satisfaction I got from that. I had caught your attention. It was then that I let myself acknowledge the feelings that you had stirred up inside of me. I liked you, it was that simple.

~~~~

I remember wanting to get closer to you. In my head, I deluded myself into believing you wanted to get closer to me too. That trip. The adventure centre. Stephen wasn't going and I was relieved. I could talk to you with no guilt. I sat on the bus with Sophie. I saw you sitting right at the back and deliberately picked a seat in the middle. Within three minutes, you were sitting behind me. I remember a smugness settling over me. I pretended that you startled me. The day was great except for one little part. Someone whacked into me and I felt as though a hand was closing around my lungs. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move. The collision had triggered a memory that I didn't even know existed. You were there, with the mandatory yellow helmet contrasting against your Slipknot T-shirt. You were confused. You didn't realize what was happening- no one did. I paced back and forward, trying to escape my own mind. You nudged me slightly and made some joke. Then you kept talking to me like nothing was happening. I remember a sense of calm settling over me. I was ok. It had stopped. Because of you. How had you done that?

~~~~

I remember going to Collin's party. You weren't going to be there and I was disappointed. I wanted to see you. You suggested that we meet up as you lived nearby and I was all too keen to. Only, you didn't follow through on that offer. You ignored me. I was confused. I was scared that you thought I was desperate. I was also scared that you were going to hurt me. I had so many scenarios in my mind that Aishlin told me were ridiculous. What if this was some joke you had with your friends? What if you were just looking for an easy shift? What if I was just some joke to you? I pretended I wasn't scared when Stephen warned me but that was just to get him off my case. I couldn't shut my feelings off like I did with all the others. I had lost my ability to feel nothing, when it came to you. I remember that was the last time I talked to you all summer.

~~~~

I remember feeling hurt. You were ignoring me. That hurt turned into anger fairly quickly. I thought "Screw you". That was the start of my habit of hooking up with random people to get over you. If you didn't want me, fine someone else would. There were a lot that summer, I won't lie. I wouldn't be able to tell you how many. I recall one night in particular, it was bad. I remember being with six different guys and don't get me started on the ones I don't remember. I made mistakes, so many of them. When I got back to school, I remember seeing you for the first time in three months. You said hi to me and Stephen. I grabbed onto his arm. I turned to him and he pulled me in for a hug. My heart had jumped when I saw you, I hated it. I had tried so hard but it hadn't worked. I felt like an idiot.

~~~~

I remember that night in December when you apologized. You explained that it was something you had to deal with, it wasn't my fault. It was all inevitable from then on. Trust me, I was warned once again. You had hurt me but I knew your reason and I understood. I understood better than you could believe. I let myself fall again. Everything was forgotten. You made me happy and I told myself that that was a good reason to keep talking to you. I wanted to open up to you. This was a first for me. Stephen had forced the truth from me, my parents had guilted the truth from me, but you. You made me want to tell you things. It was weird. I remember being completely unprepared for that feeling.

~~~~

I remember actually telling you that I liked you. I doubt you remember it. New Year's Day 2017. You texted me while you were drunk. How did the conversation kick off? You said you'd "bang" me. Your way with words really kicked in while intoxicated. You asked me if I "like liked" you. This is when I started to freak out. You see, I'd never had to admit anything like that before. My face tells everyone what I'm thinking. It's inconvenient but comes in handy. My emotions are read from my facial expressions, easy. No need for me to articulate anything. Then there's you, asking if I had feelings for you. Even though it was obvious to everyone in a ten mile radius of me, you claimed to be completely oblivious. I remember that I began to shake -which won't surprise you now. I was so bad that my cousin thought I was having a night terror. My teeth also chattered but somehow she fell back asleep. When I finally admitted that I did like you, your response was "aw that's cute". You've no idea how much that pissed me off. I was pretty sure you didn't reciprocate my feelings and talking to you was only making me madder. At one stage, you asked me if I'd ever kissed anyone. I told you about five people. I lied. I know. I couldn't bring myself to tell you the truth. You were shocked by that due to my nervousness. It was just you that made me nervous, not kissing. With you, I was terrified but also excited. This was all new. Everything to do with you was new. I hadn't experienced any of this. I asked you if you liked me, even a little bit. You said you obviously did and any anger dissolved. I remember that that was the first time you ever called me lass. Later that day, you texted me again, except this time you were sober. I was excited to talk to you again. That excitement died fairly quickly. You began to emphasize how drunk you were. You said it a lot of times. You said it so much that doubt started to seep into my thoughts. I felt like you were trying to let me know that you only said that stuff because you were drunk. God, that hurt so badly. I only half replied to you from then. My head was pounding and this confusion wasn't helping. I remember putting my phone away and wishing I hadn't said anything.

~~~~

I remember Valentine's Day very clearly. What happened on this day was a very big deal for me. This was the day that I gave you the full list of reasons I liked you. I had debated whether or not to tell you. On one hand, it was a very open thing to do especially for me and I had no idea how you would react. On the other hand, I've always been a very self-destructive person. I like to do things that would probably end badly for me just to see what will happen. That was part of the reason that I told you. I remember that I gave you quite an impressive list. Once the impulsive part of me was allowed free reign at the keyboard, it just kept going. I remember your reply~" that took balls". Then you kinda left but I didn't mind. I didn't really expect you to reply. I had just dropped this whole load of information. I understood that you probably wanted to process this new information. That isn't the only memory I have of that night.

I remember getting the text. I was texting Sarah. At this stage, Conor and Sarah had their little fan club over us. I didn't mind it really. They only wanted us to be happy so I let them on as long as they never actually interfered. Conor, though, decided to try get Ella into their little fan club. Can we just have a moment of silence to honour the death of his last brain cell? I know that she told you. I know that you went apeshit. You texted Conor and yes, I saw the text. The full thing, within 10 minutes of you sending it. It hurt so bloody much. I didn't realise I could hurt that much at the time (future Lucy giggles at that stupidity.) I memorized the text. It's still ingrained in my memory but I doubt you want me to recite it. What you don't realise is that I had heard words eerily similar to those before. Except, they were said to me. Someone I trusted more than anyone in the world said them. "Lucy, you're the type of girl that guys want to fuck then never see again. Don't you realise that if I wanted you, I'd have you?" Those exact words were said to me maybe 2 weeks before seeing the text. So now you know why it affected me so badly. Two guys had that opinion, it must have been true. I became kind of wary of you from that day. You were going to hurt me. I knew it. I also felt so stupid because I was just going to let it happen anyway. I remember chiding myself for not learning.

~~~~

I remember getting more drunk texts from you. This time it was after you spent the evening at Ella’s for her birthday. Yes, I knew about that- she liked to keep me informed, even then. You kept trying to get me to take advantage of you. You also kept telling me how much you hated yourself. You don't understand how difficult it was for me to hear this. You kept asking me all these questions. Like if I "wanted you intimately"- your words. You also wanted to know if I'd ever; "be your girlfriend", "kiss you", "send nudes" or "love you". I was getting a bad feeling from all of this. I felt very put-on-the-spot. I began to get very anxious. I remember that you virtually kissed me and then freaked out when I refused to do it back. Honestly, I thought someone had put you up to this as a way to make a fool out of me. I thought that maybe you were sending this to your friends and laughing at me. You started talking about how much you hated yourself again. You asked me to give you more of the reasons that I liked you. At this stage, I was in panic mode. I wasn't ready to give you another reason. I needed to actually prepare to tell you. You weren't giving me that time. You pushed and pushed but I guess drunk you didn't realise that I was reaching my limit. I cracked. It was sudden but I felt it. I was in a corner and I have bad reactions when something is out of my control. I got out of bed, ran to the bathroom and threw up. I sank to the floor then and there, so completely drained. Tears spilled down my cheeks as negative thoughts swarmed my brain. I remember leaning my head against the bath and staring at the ceiling. Eventually, I pushed myself up and went back to bed, grabbing my phone as I did so. Once the tears stopped, I was devoid of emotion. I felt very detached to the situation. I replied to you with some reason but honestly, my heart wasn't in it. I was gone, in that moment, nothing you could say would reach me. I said goodnight but remained awake for several more hours. I remember dreading having to see you on Monday at school, another first for me.

~~~~

I remember getting a text. It was the next day. I doubt you know about this. The subject of the text; you. The sender; let's call them X- I can't disclose the real person’s name, you gotta believe me on this. Anyway, X sent me a text about you. They seemed concerned about your welfare. According to them, I was just a "stupid whore" who "doesn’t deserve" you. I was told that I'd caused unnecessary confusion in your life and that it would be best to leave you alone. I made you sad, constantly and I was too much of a selfish bitch to admit it. I believed every word of it. I assumed that you had told this person that you felt this way. Crushed is not even the word to describe how I felt in that moment. I had to walk away from you. I was the one hurting you all this time. X opened my eyes and I prepared for one of the hardest conversations I've ever had. I remember feeling sick to my stomach at the prospect of what I was going to do.

~~~~

I remember putting a stop to everything. That night, I broke my own heart, never mind yours. I shattered myself. The fact that I had to cause you pain, killed me. I started the conversation with an accusing tone right from the start. I needed it to seem like I was completely done. I wanted you to think I'd had enough. I used the text as an excuse. I blamed you and threw it in your face. The goal was to make you never want to speak to me again. I needed you to hate me. Believe it or not, my outward appearance was completely calm. No one in the house could tell that I was upset. That was when you started to reply. I wasn't prepared for you to fight back. I tried to stay outwardly calm but the turning point came when you said, "you can think what you want lass." It was the lass that got me. For something that always made me so happy to be used in this setting, really threw me. You went there. Instead of processing sadness like a normal human being, I started to get mad. You mentioned that I was looking for a relationship. That was the last straw. You knew nothing about me. You didn't know what was in my head. I had told you nothing. There was no way you could possibly understand how I felt. That's one thing I really hate. People assuming they understand me, like I'm this simple little imbecile. I put on a show and trick everyone but that is far from what goes on in my mind. So when you assumed you had me down, I started to shake. Not from nerves- from anger this time. I continued to be a bitch to you. The impulsive part of me almost said some really nasty things. I stopped myself. I wanted you to hate me but I couldn't bring myself to go as far as I could have. I can be a horrible person. I know how to destroy people with my words and I had to stop myself that night. I remember that I had dance practice right after the conversation. I got dressed and went as normal. I walked into the hall, saw my friend and broke down. She hadn't seen me cry for years, never mind sob. I told her what happened between sobs. When I talked to her about that moment months later, she said that she had never seen me like that. It was one of the worst days of her life because for once I couldn't control myself. The last time she saw me like that in public was at my aunt's funeral. I broke down completely. She kept watching me during the class. I knew she was afraid that I’d start again. I managed to hold it in, at least until I got home. After saying goodnight to my parents, I went to bed. Then I let myself really cry. I hated myself more than ever then. I remember wishing I could just disappear and never feel this way again. I had lost you.

~~~~

I remember another kick to the stomach. The day I found out you were with Ella. Sweet Christ, James. You had to do it. I was walking around the field with Rachel. I was studying for a French test, the verb Pouvoir jumping up at me. That was when I saw you. Sitting side by side, all cuddly. My grip on my book tightened. No, this couldn't be happening. Right then, the sun got too hot. The field got too crowded. You looked too smug. I could have sworn I made eye contact with you but I can't tell if that was just my imagination or not. I looked away and went back to studying but there was so many things going through my head. When I got home, I marched straight out to my sunroom. My French book hit the wall. I stared at where it landed and I soon joined it. I sat there for hours, doing nothing. My dad brought my dinner out to me. I didn't give a fuck as I threw it- plate and all- out the window. I fell asleep there and my dad lifted me to bed. I remember feeling very alone.

~~~~

I remember when Jack started to show an interest in me. The whole group was up in Stephen's house, drinking ourselves into oblivion. I drank a lot, I mean a lot and somehow found myself curled up in his lap for the entire night. That relationship was doomed from day one. When the main reason you get with someone is to get over someone else, you can't really be surprised when it ends in flames. I tried to be into him. I tried so hard. I wanted to be wanted. So I got into a relationship that I didn't want in the first place. I didn't want a boyfriend. I became his property. I couldn't do this, I couldn't do that. I don't fare well with being told what to do. It was two months of fun, then four months of hell. After the cute little beginning stage wore off, not even he wanted me anymore- well he wanted one part specifically, without the rest. I wasn't ready for that. He blamed me for this. I "didn't love him as much as he loved me". That was when I told him I didn't love him at all. From then, he only wanted me when he was drunk. Then, he really only wanted sex, all or nothing. He also didn't understand the meaning of no. When I would say no, he would try guilt me into doing stuff. That bullshit wouldn't work on me. The worst time was one night when he got so drunk that he claims to have no recollection of it. I was at his house . He played his usual little tricks except this time I had to physically stop him. No one knows about this. I was able to deal with this because frankly it's not the first time I've had to get out of a situation like that. I went out to his garden and I sat on the path. I couldn't stop my thoughts from going to you. I remember thinking of how much better off you were for not being in my train wreck of a life.

~~~~

I remember going to that party at the very start of sixth year. It was the first big night out in the year and after the summer I'd had, I needed it. I was really excited. I planned my outfit very carefully, I needed to look great. I had a few drinks over the course of a few hours before hand so I was in a happy drunken zone when I arrived. I had been sipping a drink when I saw you walk in. I immediately downed that drink and went to take a few shots. There was no way I could deal with you being there sober. Especially with your girlfriend at your side. I intentionally went over to her when she was talking to Stephen. I intentionally hugged her. I intentionally did it where you could see. I wanted to make you as uncomfortable as possible. From what I saw, it worked. I could see your brain whirling from where I was. I got a lot of satisfaction from that. As far as I was concerned, you deserved it. Later on, when I was dancing near the table that she was sitting on, you got your revenge for that. I could see you over her shoulder but I ignored you. You were whispering with Paul and you both looked very concerned. Then I saw you start to strut over- yes, you strutted- and I knew that I wasn't going to like what was about to happen. You jumped over the table and kissed her, in my face. Ah. What a gem you were. I had no problem with you kissing your girlfriend, it was the fact that you did it right in front of me that annoyed me. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.Then you promptly fled from the table. She turned to me and said "how random, he does that all the time." I laughed and gasped "no way!" No one around me picked up on the sarcasm. You texted me that night and let me know how great I looked. I didn't reply but you let me know that "sober James agrees". I remember wondering what the hell you were playing at.

~~~~

I remember that our Debs was a big turning point for me. Two things became clear to me that night. One; I was still into you. Two; I needed to break up with Jack. The first one came to me while we were in the hotel. The smile. As I walked around one of the tables, I caught your eye. I couldn't help but to break out in a giant smile. You smiled back. In that moment, my vision tunneled. Either side of me, people disappeared and it was just you. I forgot about my boyfriend. I forgot about your girlfriend. I forgot about all complications. It was just you. And me. That simple. I remember that you texted me a few days later and said "that was some smile". That was when I knew that I hadn't just made up the moment. I barely let myself dwell on what that meant. My second revelation hit when we were at the after party. It will shock you to find out that Jack got way too drunk and tried to grope me. Scandalous, so not like him! He basically threw a little hissy fit right then and there. He threatened to leave if I didn't hook up with him. What did I do? I called his mum and told her that he wanted to go home. That pissed him off and I was glad. He went home all mad at me and honestly I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't want to deal with him any longer. At some point in the night, I was talking to you. The conversation lifted what would have been a terrible after party otherwise. I remember wanting to thank you for that.

~~~~

I remember when you finally kissed me. We had been steadily getting closer and closer through the months and it was both amazing and painful. Stephen and Ash wanted me to stop liking you, still do, but they don't know about everything that has happened. I couldn't tell them, I couldn't tell anyone. That day, when we met up, I told Stephen it was for a history project. He was a bit wary but he didn't question me too much. I hadn't intended for anything to happen that day. I just knew that you were upset about something, and I somehow make you feel less sad. Everything was so surreal. I felt like I'd been transported into a movie which kinda makes sense considering both of our flairs for the dramatic. I blame the writer part in both of us. Ironically, I wouldn't be able to tell you how it happened. I went partly into shock. One minute we were standing there, the next thing I knew, you were kissing me. That is the best and worst thing you could have done. This was something that I'd been wanting for years. But, on the other hand, I was suddenly so close but still really far. A kiss didn't change the fact that you had a girlfriend. My nerves were so bad. Let me assure you, I'm not usually like that. Again, it was you. You have this effect on me and I can't control it. Keeping this to myself has been incredibly difficult. I've been dying to tell someone, anyone. I'm ready to burst, of course I won't because that wouldn't be fair to you. You claimed to be torn but didn't it ever occur to you that, once upon time, maybe I was torn too? It's been a month, a whole month and I haven't slept properly since. Guilt, doubt and fear keep me up. Guilt over what I'm doing. Doubt about whether you're actually that into me. Fear that you may get tired of me soon. Everything is in your hands and I sometimes feel powerless. But then I talk to you and all of this disappears. Every negative thought in my brain evaporates instantly. Please, don't abuse this power.

~~~~

I don't know if you're familiar with the metaphor of the frozen lake. I'll explain it now, in case you aren't. Your frozen lake stands for what you want most in the world. You want it so bad that all logic goes out the window and your heart takes over. You can see it, it's right there in the middle of this frozen lake. You risk anything to get to you, to the point of self-destruction. You don't see that the ice is thinner the closer you get so you keep running to it until you inevitably drown in it. There is only one way that you can cross the lake. You don't run. You walk, watch your step and make your way. I've been standing on my frozen lake for three years. I've been tiptoeing so carefully. One foot in front of the other. It has felt like I've drowned a few times but I always manage to resurface and keep going. I'm so close now, as close as I've ever been. I know it would kill to drown now but I don't see any cracks in the ice. In fact, it feels stronger than ever. I bet the view from the middle is beautiful.

Tin Soldier, all I can ask is that you be careful with my fragile heart, I don't give it to just anyone.

#remember #writing #writer #writblr #letter #lucy #james

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gymwrites · 8 years ago

Text

Second Thoughts: A Fan Sequel to First Times

[Author’s note: My deepest apologies for the huge wait. Here’s Part I of the latest and longest ST chapter (it’s pretty much the equivalent of two chapters). I recently lost someone very close to me and have been going through the motions these past few weeks. It made finishing this chapter a real struggle, but I hope it doesn’t disappoint. I will post Part II within a couple hours. Thank you Anons and everyone for all your messages, it’s really amazing to feel the love from such kind and supportive readers. I have every intention of finishing ST :) As always, any thoughts, feels, songs or suggestions would be really appreciated. Love, Kai.]

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 5: Impossible (Part I)

The second thought Aly Raisman has when the back and forth swinging of the gym door comes to a creaking halt... isn’t really a thought. It’s not quite a feeling, either. Rather, it’s the scary absence of both thought and feeling. A numbness that steals its way into the dull hollowness left by a sudden, ripping away of hope.

Her thought preceding this not-quite-thought-nor-feeling was just as dismal.

That’s that then.

Aly keeps still. Doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t breathe. As if staving off the next intake of air might somehow delay the fact that she’s standing in the dead quiet of a ghostly gym. Very much alone. She closes her eyes, feeling the blood in her veins slow to an uncomfortable, sluggish pace.

Thinking there was a way back to London had been about as crazy as thinking billions of years could be undone and the universe folded back into a single, infinite point.

The realization that some things when lost, are lost forever, seizes Aly with a suffocating force. She drops the now meaningless piece of paper to the floor and buries her face into her hands, taking in sobbing gulps of air. Each new ragged breath cuts her deep, each sharp as an obsidian blade’s edge.

None so sharp as the parting words the Russian had left her before walking out, without a single glance back.

-----

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Aliya trembles, hardly believing what she just heard. A confusing cocktail of dismay and joy explodes somewhere deep inside of her. She’s waited for those words for so damn long, dreamt about them so often, part of her thinks they’ve been cruelly conjured up by her imagination.

Yet there she is. Aly Raisman, holding out her heart towards Aliya, shining hazel eyes creased with uncertainty.

The Russian directs her entire willpower towards not throwing herself at Aly, partly in a wild rage - why did she wait until freaking Rio to do this to me?! - and partly in pure, unadulterated longing. Her hand automatically comes up to press down on the left side of her chest, where a throbbing pain is growing.

Gesturing towards the crumpled list still clutched in Aly’s nervous fingers, Aliya manages to stutter out, “You. Russian.”

Aly quickly lowers her eyes, her already flushed cheeks deepening to a dark wine red. She awkwardly scuffs her shoe on the gym mat.

“I know. I know it was really bad.”

“Aly.” Aliya utters a sound that’s halfway between a cry and a soft whimper. The self-consciousness in the girl’s tone makes her desperately want to draw closer and grab Aly’s hand and press it to her lips and tell her it was the most adorable, breathtaking thing ever. But the stubborn, rational streak in her forbids it.

“I meant what I said, Aliya,” Aly says, her voice trembling. “In Russian. In English. I’ll learn to say it in every other language if I have to. I would say it in Hebrew, but that might be just as bad as because I’m really rusty. Although to be honest, it’s probably impossible for anything to be worse than my Russian.” Her words, clearly not coming out as articulately as she wants them to, dies on her lips.

The American’s signature rambling is every bit endearing as it is distressing for Aliya. She waits, unmoving as a statue, pulse racing with the frightening velocity of a runaway freight train.

“What I mean is,” Aly swallows down a lump in her throat, “I love you. In every language. In every way.” The slow, fiery intensity of her words makes Aliya’s heart swell up to fill her entire ribcage.

“Would you give me another chance, Aliya? Will you have me?”

Yes. Yes times a million. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.

They’re the answers that sit, right there on the tip of Aliya’s tongue, begging to jump off of it. They’ve been there ever since she first caught the strangely captivating way the girl laughed with her eyes, the easy kindness she wore on her sleeve and charmed everyone with, without even knowing it. How could not being with Aly ever be right?

It’s true; Aliya had learnt to live the last four years without her. There started to be days where she wouldn’t hate the sun for peeking up over the horizon. At times, it even felt like she was beginning to enjoy herself again. But by every measure that mattered, she hadn’t really lived. Life passed her by without Aly searching her out like she was the only star in the sky. It didn’t count when she wasn’t wrapped in Aly’s arms, an impenetrable shield against everyone who ever judged Aliya and tried to tear her down. Her days dragged on without Aly’s kisses, especially the ones that felt like small drops of warm lava blazing a trail down her body...

Shivering, Aliya swallows back tears and watches anxiously as Aly takes a cautious step forward, the girl’s gaze unfaltering and deliberately reassuring, as if wary that Aliya might bolt at any second. Time stops being measured in minutes, instead surging forward in furious heartbeats and terse breaths.

Aly takes another step. Then another. The closer Aliya lets her get, the more she can detect faint stirrings of hope in the American.

Hope.

Aliya involuntarily tenses up. A chill flashes through her, crawling up her skin and causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end.

Her naturally suspicious nature had always treated hope as a dangerous thing to hold onto. But it wasn’t until Aly cut her off four years ago that she was completely vindicated for doing so. Never in Aliya’s life had she been raised so high, only to be brought crashing back down by a dizzying disappointment that left her sick to the core.

Aliya is suddenly, jarringly reminded that little has changed. Some supernatural force would always draw Aly and her together. It was straight out of one of her favorite stories she had read as a child, about a couple Fate had mischievously joined together with an invisible red string. It didn’t matter where on earth they were born and died; they would always find each other again and again, in a never-ending cycle of reincarnations. In this life, though, she and Aly couldn’t keep meeting every four years, falling for each other again every four years, and breaking each other into pieces every four years. Sooner or later, they had to confront the fact that they were both tied to their home countries in ways they couldn’t or wouldn’t change.

What had changed was that they weren’t wide-eyed teenagers chasing their Olympic dreams for the first time anymore; the same ones who didn’t think through what would happen once the Games concluded. Aliya knew it all too well. If they didn’t get off this collision course, there would eventually be nothing left of them to break.

“Aliya.”

The nearness of Aly’s voice exhaling her name snaps Aliya back to attention. Only two or three tiny steps separate them.

Shit.

Her eyes still anchored on the girl’s perfectly framed face, Aliya takes in a deep breath. As she does, her heart sinks. “Raisman, we cannot.” Her voice catching in her throat, Aliya forces it out more vehemently. “I... cannot.”

Aliya watches Aly’s brown orbs cloud over in confusion, then comprehension, and finally hurt. She really wishes things were different, wishes her common sense and the fear and the memories and the pain weren’t so ingrained in her. But stumbling backwards, barely smothering the protesting parts of her begging she give into her raw emotions just one goddamn time, Aliya wrenches her gaze away.

“Take care yourself. Please.” Her last words come out colder than intended. They’re brashly polite, to the point of clinical. They had to be, if she was going to do this with any sort of decisiveness.

Before Aly can say anything to change her mind, Aliya abruptly wheels around and powers away from the girl she can have, but never hold.

Only when her back is safely turned, when she’s forced her way out of the building and is blindly careening down the concrete footpath under a dark blanket of stars, does Aliya allow the hot tears to rush down her face.

-----

“You did it. You did it, Aly!”

Mihai’s usual contained self is gone, replaced by an unrecognizably ecstatic coach jumping up and down on the lime green carpet. Aly watches, a small grin curled at one corner of her mouth as he puts on a very public display of fist pumps and wild arm waving to celebrate her second chance at an all-around Olympic medal.

Soon, she finds herself wrapped in one of his giant bear hugs, the kind that sweeps her off the ground and constricts her breathing for a number of seconds. As soon as Mihai sets her down, she’s immediately swamped by her teammates; Simone, tears gathering at the edges of her eyes at being one step closer to Olympic hardware; Laurie, giving everyone high fives, still in shock over how the crowd - most of them not even American - had chanted her name the moment she stepped into the stadium; Madison, her enigmatic smile expressing tempered delight at finishing with the highest qualifying score on bars.

And Gabby.

As Mihai enthusiastically lifts her arm up in a gladiator salute towards the cheering USA section of the stands, Aly catches Gabby’s eye over his shoulder. The 2012 all-around champion flashes her a big smile. The sparkle in her look conveys something that sets Aly’s mind a little more at ease: Enjoy this moment. You deserve it.

Aly returns the smile faintly, a little relief spreading through her. All week, she had both anticipated and dreaded this moment.

Qualifications had turned out as good as Team USA could have hoped. Still, at the back of Aly’s mind lurked the unpleasant prospect that either she or Gabby would have to swallow the bitter pill of missing out on a spot. And now, she had to deal with being proud enough of her achievement so as not to seem annoyingly modest, but not so proud as to seem completely insensitive to how awful Gabby must be feeling.

Extracting herself from the flurried mess of hugs and congratulations, she makes her way over to Gabby, who has discreetly gone to the side and is bent over removing tape from her ankles.

“Gabby, I...”

Straightening up, her teammate turns to face her. As soon as she catches the turmoil on Aly’s face, Gabby reaches out and pulls her in for a heartfelt hug.

“Als, I know. I know what you’ve been worrying about. And I’m telling you now, don’t. I’m happy for you.” Gabby emphasizes the next word by giving her teammate a light squeeze on the shoulder, “Really. I know you would be just as happy for me if - well, if things had turned out differently.”

Aly winces. Clasping Gabby’s hand with her own, she says with a fierce certainty, "It could have just as easily been you. It was all luck.”

The girl shakes her head. “Hey. You deserve it. You were amazing today. There’s no luck in this. And there won’t be when you and Simone wipe the floor with everyone else at the final.”

A tiny smile finally breaks on Aly’s face, but the unfairness of it all still weighs heavy. Gabby had come in as the third greatest gymnast in the world, and she wasn’t going to get her shot at defending her Olympic title. “How are you feeling?” she asks softly, feeling the inadequacy of the question.

Gabby looks down, spreading her fingers and inspecting each one distractedly. “I’m okay, I think. Well, I will be.” Glancing up, she lets a bit of the regret holing up inside trickle through in her features. “I really wanted this. But then, we all did,” Gabby says in a resigned voice. Without warning, she shifts the direction of the conversation. “How are you feeling?”

The careful, searching tone in her voice lets Aly know she’s not just asking about the upcoming team and all-around competitions. Thrown by the question, Aly gives a near imperceptible shake of the head, her tongue feeling like it’s just become glued to the roof of her mouth.

‘Raisman, we cannot. I... cannot.’

Seeing the hidden pain surface in her friend’s eyes, Gabby wordlessly nods in sympathy. The girls share a quiet moment together, bittersweet that the incredible feat of making back to back Olympic teams had to come with such mixed emotions. Aly wants to express how grateful she is that Gabby’s there with her - out of everyone, she knew most why getting to Rio had meant so much - but they get hurriedly herded back towards the rest of the group.

Martha wants to debrief them right away.

It didn’t matter that they had finished almost a record-breaking ten points ahead of the next best team, China, and in all likelihood would take out the team gold even with several falls. There would be no time for resting on their laurels. A no-nonsense post-qualifications meeting would take place in one of the small backrooms. Martha would go over every tiny detail that went wrong (not much, really, but she was sure to find something), and they would get the same pep-talk they always did: You girls have done this a million times. Just treat the next competition as you would any other training session. Left unsaid was that the next competition will make or break the dreams of an entire nation, as well as the one you’ve had since you were five years old.

As Team USA prepares to march out of the stadium in formation, Aly can’t help wondering if Aliya had caught their qualifying round on one of the live cable channels. She wonders what she thinks of the fact that they’ll be competing in the all-around together. Most of all, she wonders if Aliya had noticed her not entirely coincidental choice of floor music.

Then she remembers the loud, scraping noises the gym door had made when Aliya stormed past it, as if she couldn’t bear to be with Aly for one more second. She recalls the way Aliya had told her to ‘take care’, the way you tell a distant second cousin you don’t remember the name of to take care as they board a plane to god knows where, because really, who cares?

The smile Aly has from seeing her teammates chatter excitedly about how they had totally dominated qualifications falls from her face.

She tries not to think about how there’s no reason for Aliya to care about anything she does anymore.

-----

Twenty minutes to go until warm-ups for qualifications begins, and Russia’s gymnastics team captain is nowhere to be seen.

Masha is frantically trying to pull the younger girls together, even as she fights down the familiar flood of nerves welling up within. Melka looks like she just ate a can of worms. Dasha, for her part, is facing the corner of the dimly-lit foyer muttering some kind of Orthodox mantra meant to help calm her down, but it’s only setting everyone else on edge. The only girl who doesn’t look like a walking catastrophe just waiting to happen is Seda. That’s because she’s wondering whether the eggs benedict from this morning’s breakfast will make an encore appearance on the menu tomorrow.

She really, really hopes it will.

Grebs, staggering under the weight of no less than five large red-and-white duffel bags slung around his neck, beckons for them to start making their way down the athlete’s tunnel. Frowning at the four girls milling around, he snaps his head automatically towards Masha.

“Where the hell is Aliya?”

Masha sighs exasperatedly. “I’m not her handler, I don’t know! She must have stayed behind in the locker room. I think she was having trouble adjusting her leotard.”

Grebs narrows his eyes. “Is there something I should know?”

“Nope. No, she’s fine. I’ll get her.” Masha gives him her best no-of-course-she-isn’t-pining-over-a-rival-team-captain smile.

“Well. You better find her right now. They don’t kid around with warm-ups. You get your thirty seconds at the exact time they say so, and then they literally bring out a firehose to make sure you get off the apparatus.” With an air of gruff impatience, Grebs ducks out again.

Muttering under her breath, Masha wraps an arm tightly around Melka, now staring into space with frightened eyes the size of watermelons. She grabs her own personal backpack sitting in the middle of the floor and slings it on her back.

“Seda! I have to head out with the others. You run and check the locker room for Aliya. Chyort, that girl could blow up the moon and still get away with it. Tell her to hurry!”

Nodding, Seda hands over the rolls of spare tape in her hands to the stressed out second-in-command and rushes in the direction of the mostly empty holding area. The other gymnasts were already congregating near the mouth of the tunnel, where they would be introduced by the booming voice of God and enter the imposing stadium to thunderous applause and more cameras than most of them had ever seen in their lives.

Breathing heavily, Seda reaches the wide hallway where the locker rooms are located. She pushes open a heavy wooden door to her right and pokes her head in. “Alka?”

No answer. Not that she was expecting one.

Once inside, Seda frantically scouts the locker room, her shoes squeaking on the gleaming white floor. Rows upon rows of puke-green storage lockers spread out in front of her like a regimented forest that’s been stripped of all its leaves and colors. Weak light filters in through the paneled windows lining the tops of the walls. There's the odd used towel strewn on the floor, and the chirps of a small sparrow unwittingly trapped inside somewhere.

Seda feels a line of sweat form on her brow. But before she starts to properly panic, she walks in on Aliya, seated alone on a narrow wooden bench wedged in between the very last row of lockers. An audible sigh of relief escapes Seda.

Dressed in the same sparkling red and blue leotard as the rest of the team, Aliya’s jacket is zipped up tight around her neck, her bun done up perfectly without a single out-of-place hair. She doesn’t appear to be doing much except staring at the ground, dense eyelashes obscuring nearly all of her velvety, unfocused gaze.

“Grandma, we’re warming up soon. We have to go. Now.” For some reason, Seda finds herself speaking very softly, the way she would to a frightened baby rabbit.

After a long stretch of unpunctuated silence, Aliya looks up at Seda. She briefly makes eye contact and acknowledges the girl’s presence, but then sinks back into her own little world, looking straight through Seda like she isn’t even there.

Worried, but familiar enough with Aliya’s moods to let her come around in her own time, Seda slows her breathing down. And waits.

Finally: “Can I ask you something, Seda?” Aliya is distant, like she’s speaking from a place far, far away.

“Da. Of course. Anything.” Seda steps towards her team captain and sits down next to her. A mental clock ticks loudly in the back of Seda’s mind, but she ignores it. Trying to force this conversation to go any faster would only have the opposite effect.

When Aliya doesn’t respond, Seda glances sideways to check if she had heard her. She notices how tightly Aliya’s hands are gripped together, tight enough for her knuckles to have turned completely white.

“Alka? Are you okay?”

“Why do we put ourselves through all of this?”

The question catches Seda off guard. “All of... this?”

“This.” Aliya waves an arm in the space behind her. “Years of hard training. Just to come here. To compete.” Her sentences come out short and dulled, like she’s been drained of all the energy to speak in more complete ones.

Seda takes a moment to collect herself. Aliya usually asked these questions without expecting any kind of specific answer, since she almost always had decided for herself what the answer should be already. What she really needed was someone who wouldn’t pretend like they knew what she needed to hear.

Wisely, Seda chooses to keep her answers short and sweet. “Because we love gymnastics.”

“Isn't it to achieve something great, something that makes our country proud?”

Seda chews thoughtfully on her lip. “Both. Because we love it, and because we want to make our country proud.”

“So if we love something a lot, we’ll do anything for it?” Seda detects a faint hint of bitterness in Aliya’s voice.

“Yes...” Seda slowly begins. She’s unsure whether Aliya is still referring to gymnastics, or something - maybe someone - else. The Russian captain had returned to their suite late last night, without saying a word about what had happened between her and Raisman. Judging by how reclusive she had been since then, Seda guessed it hadn’t been good.

“And if what you love hurts you?” The bitterness is unmistakable this time. Almost accusatory.

In her mind, Seda silently replaces the ‘what’ with a ‘who’. “How do you mean?”

“We get hurt all the time. From where we are now, in Rio,” Aliya reaches out her right hand to mark an invisible point in the air, “all the way back to when we started training...” Her left hand travels in the opposite direction, as if drawing a horizontal timeline, until her arms are stretched out wide. “How many injuries have we all had in that time? How much have we sacrificed just to end up with broken bones and backs?” She sounds positively angry now, her sentences streaming out much quicker.

Seda hesitantly says, “A lot.” Even now, Seda knew that Masha’s back injury was giving her hell. She would eat a stick of burning dynamite before complaining about it in front of any of the coaches, though. It was the Olympics. You put up, you shut up, and you did what you’ve been trained to do.

“Then why do we keep doing it?”

“Because getting hurt is part of it.” Seda answers without thinking. She says it like she’s saying the sky is blue. There’s no moral tinge to her statement, no attempt to persuade Aliya that this was something she should just accept. “If it wasn’t worth it, we would have all become... I don’t know, accountants.” Seda wrinkles her nose. "I'm terrible with numbers."

Taken aback, Aliya stops to consider her answer. After a long pause, she lets out a low unexpected laugh. “Accountants.” Aliya repeats the word like an inside joke only she knows the punchline to.

Seda gawks at her with wide eyes. What had Raisman said to ruffle their normally unruffled team leader? Was this the part where Aliya walked out on them just before qualifications, to protest how ridiculous it was that gymnastics had taken so much of their lives, but seemingly given so little in return? Surely, she wouldn’t...

A crazy grin now on Aliya’s face, she suddenly pulls Seda in for a big hug, her chin coming to rest snugly atop the younger girl’s head. Aliya closes her eyes, heaving in a deep sigh and then exhaling it in a big huff.

“Alka?” Seda’s voice is muffled against Aliya’s jacket. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Oh Seda. You never say anything wrong.”

Releasing the girl from her embrace, Aliya swiftly gets on her feet. She unzips her jacket and stretches a muscle in her neck, before grabbing a still puzzled Seda’s hand and pulling her up. Like a switch has been flipped, Aliya seems to have suddenly returned to her usual, commanding self.

“Come on. We have a job to do.”

As she faithfully follows her unpredictable team captain out of the locker room, Seda decides - again, wisely - not to over analyze whatever the hell it was that just happened.

-----

Aly couldn’t have stabbed any more holes into the sad piece of lettuce on her plate if she had tried.

She’s slumped uncomfortably in one of the plastic seats in the huge cafeteria, lost in a hard-won moment of solitude after dinner. Very few other athletes remain, having retired early to their bedrooms, or gone outside to lounge on one of the many lawns to wile away the humid summer night.

The other girls had headed back to the apartment for a covert celebration of their success at qualifications earlier today. With two days to go before team finals - and despite Martha’s constant lectures about the ‘creeetical’ importance of a healthy diet - there was plenty of time to ingest a decent amount of smuggled chocolate and Doritos without serious consequences.

It had taken some wheedling and a little help from Gabby, but Aly had finally convinced her adrenaline-pumped teammates to go on ahead of her. Promising she would join them shortly to help restrain Simone from carrying out her vow to consume an entire party bag of M&Ms, she just needed some time alone to get her feelings in order.

Aly was caught in a fix, a weird twilight zone. She was still one hundred percent committed to winning - it was the Olympics, after all, the pinnacle of any athlete’s career. At the same time, she was fully one hundred percent demotivated, because no Aliya meant nothing. It all meant nothing. Didn’t it?

She taps her fork irritably against the food tray. The team final was coming up soon. She had to be all there for the girls. Her duty towards them far outweighed any personal issues she was dealing with. She just needed to get out of this funk. But how? How was she was going to get over the fact that Aliya -

“Hi. Did that lettuce murder your entire family?”

A cheerful, teasing voice with a lightly melodic accent - it sounds European, but not French or German, or any of the usual suspects and certainly not Russian - rings out from behind.

Aly twists in her seat to search for the source of the strange question. Her surprised eyes find Eythora Thorsdottir, the Dutch gymnast making waves in the gymnastics world with her impeccable sense of artistry and fresh takes on a fairly straitjacket code of points. The girl’s long, dark hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail that travels a good way past her shoulders. She’s wearing a snug, bright orange jacket with a stark blue zip. On anyone else but the infamously photogenic Dutch girls, the outfit would probably be unflattering, like a tanning job gone terribly wrong.

“I’m sorry?”

Aly thinks she heard something about the lettuce committing murder, but she’s not sure because no one really says things like that to a stranger, right? She finds herself shifting under the intensity of Eythora’s graphite grey eyes. They hold a sharp but friendly sort of intelligence, like they’re trying to figure out something complex. The high cheekbones and ivory paleness of her face bring out their shapeliness even more.

Eythora points a slender finger towards the tattered, hole-ridden lettuce. It does look a bit like Aly has been exacting some kind of gruesome revenge on it.

“It’s something we say back home, but,” she shrugs apologetically with a tiny smile, “I think it loses its funny-ness - if there is such a word - in English.” The girl taps her chin thoughtfully. “Or more likely, no one else would find it funny, even in Dutch.” Her English is flawless. The precise way she pronounces and rounds each vowel is makes the language sound more charming, more soothing than usual.

Glancing at the lettuce, Aly laughs embarrassedly. “Oh no, that’s - you’re good. If anyone can appreciate a weird sense of humor, it’s me.” Her eyes widen in horror at the implication of the words she just uttered. “Not that your sense of humor is weird! Just... just mine.”

Eythora tilts her head to the side, a steady gaze fixed on the stuttering American.

Face burning, Aly hurries to leave behind the cluttered chaos of words tumbling out of her mouth. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you before. I was zoned out, thinking about…” She pauses and flicks her eyes guiltily downwards, because she suddenly remembers all the times Martha had grilled into them not to interact in such close quarters with rival teams at this crucial point in the Olympics, “… team finals.”

Signaling her understanding with another smile, Eythora doesn’t seem at all fazed by Aly’s slight hesitation. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but could I join you for a little while? My girls are still out at some all-you-can-eat restaurant, but I decided to stay here. Annoyingly,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes, “I’m vegetarian. And they serve meat there like - how to say, water uit de kraan. Water, from a...” Unable to recall the word, Eythora makes a motion in the air with her hand, like she’s twisting a faucet.

“A tap?” Aly offers. Eythora gives a satisfied nod as Aly’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “Wow. Your coaches let you go out during competitions?” She might as well have said that dinosaurs still roamed the earth.

The girl chuckles, bemused by the question. “Of course. Training and stressing out twenty-four seven don’t really help us do well. Don’t you think?”

Nodding her agreement, without saying if Team USA went to an all-you-can-eat before their meets were over that Martha would personally flay them alive, Aly gestures towards the empty seat opposite her with a bashful wave of her hand. Eythora responds with a wide grin, but instead pulls the chair closest to Aly and settles herself into it.

“I’m Eythora, by the way.” They don’t really need a formal introduction, but ingrained manners and the realization that this is the first time they’ve spoken to each other one-on-one prompts Eythora to extend her hand.

Aly reaches out and gives it an awkward shake. “I’m Aly. You didn’t have to... I mean, I know who you are. Your gymnastics is amazing. I’m a huge fan.” As Eythora’s eyes light up at the unexpected compliment, Aly ducks her head shyly. “Although it seems I’ve been saying your name wrong this whole time.”

“Really? How have you been saying it?” Eythora angles forward, lips curled up in anticipation.

After a little coaxing from the other girl, Aly finally sounds out ‘Eythora’, with an extended ‘e’ and a rolling American ‘r’. It’s not terrible; it’s the way a lot of people unfamiliar with the elven-like intricacies of the Dutch language say it. Still, Eythora catches the trepidation in Aly’s expression and bursts into laughter, the kind that breaks into a thousand pieces and skips all over the place.

Aly turns bright red.

Noticing the flustered change in her complexion, Eythora hastens to add, “That’s pretty good. Most people find the sounds in Dutch really difficult to get right at first. It gets better with practice.”

Aly has half a heart to tell Eythora that based on her track record with new languages, she highly doubts it will get better. A stab in the gut, and then the fleeting memory of Aliya backing away from her like she might be contagious, reminds her of how disastrous the last time she attempted to speak a European language had been. She swallows hard and quickly changes the subject. “You and your team did really well today in qualifications.”

Smiling widely, Eythora thanks her. “It’s kind of crazy. We haven’t had a national team in the Olympic finals since 1976. The press is going a bit wild at home.” With the first hint of shyness since the conversation began, Eythora clasps her hands together and says, “Your team blew everyone else away, as usual. It was awesome just to compete with you in the same division.”

Aly looks at her lap. She’s never been good at dealing with compliments, other than to acknowledge them humbly and promptly throw the spotlight back onto the other person. “Thanks. I’ve always enjoyed the routines you girls come up with, though. There’s something about your choreography that makes it really exciting to watch.”

Eythora’s eyebrows draw together in a slight grimace. “We try. Today, I didn’t do so well with my floor exercise. I messed up my last pass.”

“Don’t worry, it happens to all of us.” Aly’s reassuring tone elicits a grateful grin from the other girl. “I know your national program is huge on dance elements and execution. It really shows. If I could do spins and turns as well as you all, I’d die of happiness.”

The corners of Eythora’s eyes crinkle in delight. “I like your choreography too.”

She says it so warmly, it makes the American blush again. Aly wonders why it is she’s blushing so much. Then she kicks herself for overthinking. This was a completely normal conversation between two gymnasts with mutual respect for one another. It was a welcome reprieve in such a nerve-wracking setting as the Olympics.

“It’s okay. I’m not really a great dancer, but I get by.” Out of self-consciousness, Aly reaches a hand up to smooth her hair down. “Sylvia, my choreographer, helps me out a lot.”

“Why do you say you’re not a great dancer?”

“Oh... just...” Aly flounders. Her hand stops mid-sweep, falling to her side. She struggles to come up with anything else besides, ‘because I’m not?’ No one’s ever really asked her that before. Nor is she used to having astute questions so casually fired back at her. It’s also odd that she doesn’t mind the probing, even though she barely knows the girl.

Aly twirls the fork contemplatively in her hand. “I’m super clumsy. I was definitely born with it, but it might also have something to do with growing up really self-conscious, I guess.” Reading the surprise on Eythora’s face, she continues quietly, “I got teased a lot.”

“Who would tease you?” Incredulity breaks through in the girl’s voice. “And even if there were people stupid enough to do that, what could they possibly find to tease you about?”

Aly laughs, touched by Eythora’s instant, wide-eyed indignation. “Trust me, the kids I grew up with said all sorts of things that got to me. About my body, about my muscles being too big, about my two left feet. But all of that made me stronger. And made me who I am today.” She looks reflectively down at the floor with a rueful smile. “Still, dancing’s never felt natural for me.” Her stint on Dancing With the Stars had boosted her confidence in that department, and she used her visibility to speak out against body shaming every chance she got. But underneath the layers of self-affirmation she had built up over the years, there would always remain a part of her that feels she falls short of the world’s idea of an ideal gymnast. Even if in reality, there is no such thing.

Eythora is silent for awhile. Her thoughts remain hidden from Aly, who’s concerned she might have said too much. The girl’s slight build, perfect bone structure and approachable demeanor make Aly wonder if Eythora has ever been seriously teased in her life. She looks like the girl that becomes class president by default, because she’s the only person practically everyone likes.

“So, are you good friends with Aliya Mustafina?”

It’s an innocent question, but the totally left of field reference to Aliya startles Aly. The fork clatters to the plate. Her pulse starts uncomfortably pounding in her ears. How does she know? Who else knows?

“We’ve known each other for some time. We compete a lot against each other... Why do you ask?” Aly rushes her words just a little too much.

“I saw the both of you walking together outside in the Village the night before. I waved, but I don’t think you saw me.” Eythora looks intrigued by the American’s reaction. “It just seemed like you two know each other really well.”

Feeling panicky, Aly blurts out, “No, we just - sometimes we run into each other, that’s all. Aliya was giving me a few pointers on um, bars. She’s really, really good at bars.” Aly plasters a weak smile over her face, kicking herself mentally. And suddenly catches a glimpse of the giant digital clock mounted on the wall behind them.

“Wow, I didn’t realize the time. I’m sorry, but I should go. My team’s expecting me.”

Aly gets to her feet reluctantly; she really does have to split, but the timing now makes it seem as though she’s dodging further questions about Aliya (in all honesty, she probably is). There’s another reason for her reluctance; she’s actually enjoyed chatting to Eythora. There’s a likeable quirkiness about her that had helped distract from the twinge of losing Aliya for good. Up until the last few moments, anyway. She just hopes all her awkwardness hadn’t left the girl thinking she’s some sort of neurotic mess.

Though they’re technically rivals, Aly wishes Eythora well with her whole heart. “It was great seeing you. I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again. Good luck with the rest of the competition.”

Eythora stands to see her off. “I hope the bumping into each other will be soon. Very soon.”

At that, Aly leans in for a friendly hug, partly to hide the flush she feels rising on her cheeks again. Catching a sweet citrusy scent on the Dutch girl that reminds her of early spring, she feels Eythora return the hug with a surprising familiarity, her hands coming up to touch Aly’s waist for the briefest of moments. The girl’s ease at striking up a friendship with someone she’s only talked to for less than twenty minutes makes Aly think Eythora might do really well running for Prime Minister of Netherlands one day.

Stepping back from the hug, Aly picks up her plate - still containing that fateful piece of lettuce - gives Eythora a last sheepish smile, and leaves.

-----

The second thought Eythora Thorsdottir has as she watches Aly Raisman make her way to the cafeteria exit causes an irrepressible smile to spread across her elegant features.

Her first thought was how adorably Aly had managed to trip over a chair on the way to a cafeteria bin. She had then clumsily tried, but failed multiple times to stuff the plate into the bin’s opening. It had been too full.

Despite her interest in Aly’s connection to Aliya Mustafina, particularly after the girl’s cute, bumbling explanation of their appearance together the night before, Eythora had chosen not to dig any further. She had only mentioned Mustafina to steer the conversation away from the sensitive topic of childhood bullies, but it seems talking about the Russian had inadvertently caused even more discomfort.

Plucking up the courage to approach Raisman had paid off in a big way. Eythora still can’t believe that conversation, and that hug, actually happened. She had hidden it well, but it was surreal to have talked with the American she’s harbored a bit of celebrity crush on ever since watching the Fierce Five take out team gold in London.

She knows she looks like an idiot, standing there frozen in the middle of the cafeteria. All her suspicions had been confirmed. It was the natural glow the girl had, the way her teddy-bear brown eyes spoke kindness in more ways than words ever could, a tangible solidness in her character she’s never felt before in anyone else.

Aly Raisman is every bit as fascinating - and beautiful - as Eythora suspected she would be.

#raistafina #fanfic #second thoughts #first times

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