gym writes (kai)

So... I’m taking this to mean the last chapter can wait til 2020 😏

Yes!

[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:

First off, I’m so glad to hear you liked that chapter. I’ve posted the next part. The end is near and I’m getting excited; it’s been difficult to keep the writing going. I’ll likely be the only person in the galaxy still writing Raistafina fic in 2019, but a writer’s promise is akin to an Unbreakable Vow so I’ll be sticking around.

Like you, I’m perplexed when it comes to Raistafina hate. Seems fairly straightforward to me: Don’t like the fandom, don’t jump on the tag. This Tumblr has 160+ followers, which isn’t huge by any means, but it’s also not one or two, so… I’ve concluded there are more shippers out there than is normally assumed. I still get messages from ST readers who tell me they enjoy the story but would rather stay anon, which is perfectly okay. Goes to show real-person-shipping will always be controversial.

Personally, there are certain rules I feel do need to be respected. Things like no direct social media tags/mentions, writing the characters respectfully, and avoiding hard smut - things I think jenkenlee did really well with First Times. It might be a fine line to walk, and I have read fics that clearly cross it, but I think it’s doable. That said, there will always be people who believe there is no line and it should all be damned to hell - and they have a right to their opinions.

[Author’s note: There will be a final, longer part released soon, but wanted to get this out there. Thank you for the kind messages. May the new year treat you all just as kindly!

I wrote this chapter to: Bloodstream (Quartet Session) by Stateless.]

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 II)

Laurie keeps insisting on accompanying them back to Team USA’s apartment block, but Aliya firmly resists. She points out that the girl should enjoy what’s left of the night, especially if this is her first time attending an Olympic after-party. Most gymnasts are still on strict competition training schedules and will begin retiring to their rooms in a few hours. There’s no sense in Laurie missing out on the fun while it lasts.

At least, that’s what Aliya tells herself is the reason for taking it solely upon herself to guide Aly back.

Having left a reluctant Laurie and an even more reluctant Eythora at the entrance, all that’s left to do is carefully usher a half-slumbering Aly down several flights of stairs, then into the elevator, and out into the chilly night air.

Aliya has walked many a girl home after a long night of drinking. There are those who complain loudly and incessantly, who insist they’re completely fine and berate their helper for assuming they need any assistance at all. Others are too sick to say much of anything, needing a pit stop every few minutes to empty out their stomachs. Those are probably Aliya’s least favorite experiences.

And then there is Aly.

“Aliya, you really don’t have to do this.”

Aliya glances over at Aly, her mouth tilting up in a smile. “I doing nothing.”

The girl sighs heavily. “Yes you are. You’re laughing at me.”

“Laugh must be inside your head, Aly.”

“No. It’s inside yours.”

In addition to being a continuous source of amusement for Aliya, their banter crucially helps keep Aly awake, and Aliya thinks they might make it back to their destination in good time. All she has to do is traverse the relatively short distance necessary, and not let herself get distracted by the whimsical, adorable antics of an inebriated Aly Raisman.

It is far more difficult than Aliya anticipates. At first, Aliya had tried letting Aly walk on her own, but she had lurched one too many times before Aliya decided it would not do. So she had slung Aly’s left arm across her shoulder and her own arm around Aly’s waist. This lets her act as a support for Aly while they press forward together, but it also inconveniently floods her senses with the nearness of her.

The evening sky is mostly clear and dotted with stars. A few wisps of clouds trail behind an unusually outsized moon. A quiet, almost lazy calm hangs in the air; it doesn’t feel as though lifelong Olympic dreams have been made and broken and cried over in numerous buildings and rooms scattered all over the Village. It’s as beautiful a summer night as any for a stroll. Probably too beautiful - it might afford opportunities for Aly to burrow in deeper, and make the permanent home she has in Aliya’s heart even more so.

Aliya has to stifle a laugh when Aly swings her free arm up to point to one of many identical overhanging lamps they happen to be passing under.

“Look,” Aly says in rapt wonder. “That’s the most gorgeous light I’ve ever seen.” Her words are slow and slurred, though not incoherent. Aliya takes that as a good sign. The girl would likely get hit with far worse headaches in the next hour, but it shouldn’t be so bad as to take her out of action the next day.

“It is just light, Aly,” Aliya replies. She fights a grin when Aly huffs at her.

“And I’m just a girl,” the girl fires back.

Aliya licks her lips, ignoring the way her heart jumps. Focus. She places another foot forward, then another, and gently nudges Aly to do the same. Aly complies, but is apparently still very taken by the lamp.

“It shines like the moon but is so much bigger and brighter.”

“Because it is more close than moon.”

“Things are always better when they’re closer,” Aly says sagely, expelling a dramatic sigh before craning her neck in an attempt to focus bleary eyes on Aliya.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Aly begins, then promptly trips over an uneven crack in the ground before she can finish the sentence. Aliya instinctively braces both hands on Aly’s forearms, holding her upright until she’s sure the girl has recovered her footing.

“Thanks,” Aly breathes, still clinging to Aliya like moss on a tree. Aliya nods tersely, pulse thudding in her ears. When she releases the girl to continue moving them onwards, the tingling on her skin left by Aly’s warmth doesn’t go away.

They only make it another several feet down the pathway before Aly again stops to stare fixedly at the next lamp post they’ve reached. The flickering light emitted by the fluorescent lamps seems to hold some strange, hypnotic power over her.

“You say I thinking something, Raisman?” Aliya reminds Aly, giving her another nudge with her shoulder. She’s strong, but she’s not sure she can manage hauling a hypnotized, or worse, unconscious American across the remaining few hundred feet.

“Right.” Aly shakes her head, as if clearing away a thick fog. She lets Aliya tug her along another few steps. “You’re thinking that I did this on purpose. That I’m upset about how we’ll never be together, and this is me trying to get your attention because I’m still and will always be crazy about you.”

The unexpectedly honest words roll out thick and fast, and they hit Aliya with an almost physical force. Either Eythora had spiked Aly’s drink with truth serum, or Aly’s ability to hold her liquor was even more abysmal than Aliya knew it to be. Aliya is also fairly certain there are other, far more efficient ways of getting her attention than intentionally downing a massive glass of hard vodka, but does not say so.

“I’m trying to leave you alone,” Aly continues pleadingly. “I really am. I didn’t even look at you during the all-around. And when I did, it was only because I absolutely had to.”

Heat pools in Aliya’s cheeks as she bites down a smile. She uses the hand wrapped around Aly’s shoulder to give the girl a brief squeeze.

“Da. I know this.”

“Do you know how difficult not looking is for me?” Aly demands haltingly, as if it is some big injustice she has been forced to endure. She shifts her body to more fully face Aliya, a pout formed on her lips. “God knows who wouldn’t look at you, Aliya. You’re beautiful. Not just on the outside,” and Aly swipes a hand clumsily through the space in front of Aliya’s face, before pressing it against her own chest and squeezing it into a tight fist, “but here, where I feel how beautiful you are on the inside… on my insides… and it doesn’t ever stop.”

The simultaneously awkward and passionate statement sends a familiar surge of tension thrumming through the air; it shifts and compresses the space between them, pulls them in closer, always closer. Aliya chances a glance into the plunging sea of Aly’s eyes.

“Znaiyu, Aly. I know,” Aliya murmurs in a low rasp. She forcibly steers her gaze away and up ahead, strange flutters in her chest. “Come. We are almost there.”

Gravity seems to work at an increasing rate the closer they get to the Team USA building. They’ve walked past a good number of other athletes at this point, and Aliya starts to worry about the attention they’re drawing. People talked in the Village, and things had a way of getting back to the wrong people - Aly’s over-controlling national team coordinator, for one. Though feeling the urgent need to return Aly back to Team USA’s apartment as soon as possible, Aliya finds herself wistfully wishing it was further away.

Aly suddenly doubles over at the waist, clutching at her belly and giving a little groan. Aliya tightens her grip on the girl, brows furrowing in concern. “Aly?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Aly breathes out, in a manner that is decidedly not fine. She manages with difficulty to straighten up again, and gives Aliya a feeble nod to indicate they should keep going.

All up, it takes about twenty minutes to accompany Aly back, but it feels far longer than that. They stumble into the empty lobby of Team USA’s apartment block with no further incident.

Once Aliya helps Aly into the elevator, she watches, engrossed, as Aly bends down and squashes her face up against the numbered buttons for what feels like an eternity. The doors close with a heavy clang. For the next thirty seconds, the only sounds are the light humming of the elevator cooling system, Aly’s slow, labored breathing, and the throbbing warning inside Aliya’s head that a herd of Americans are going to spill into the enclosed space with them any second.

Unable to tolerate the suspense any longer, Aliya subtly clears her throat. “Aly.”

Aly squints at the buttons for a few seconds more before glancing back at her. “Hm?”

“Which floor? Tell me, and I help….” Aliya can’t remember the English word for ‘press’, so she mimics the motion in the air.

The girl waves away her offered assistance. “You can’t.”

Clasping her hands behind her back, Aliya sighs. “Why?”

“You were freezing, but you wouldn’t even wear my Team USA jacket.“

Aliya frowns at her, utterly clueless as to what that has to do with anything.

“These are Team USA buttons,” Aly says pointing at the elevator controls, and seeing Aliya’s face descend into further confusion, she lowers her head and clarifies in a serious whisper, “I’m saving you from touching Team USA buttons.”

Aly’s nonsensical words cause an intense affection to bubble up in Aliya’s chest. She does her best to choke it off by pressing her mouth into a hard, firm line. Aliya waits, still as a statue, while Aly scrabbles around and finally hits the button labeled ’13’.

Leaning heavily against the elevator wall, the girl straightens up and flashes a triumphant, toothy smirk at Aliya.

Aliya hurriedly looks away, her whole body flushing with heat. She concentrates furiously on their blurred reflections in the steel doors the whole ride up.

By the time the elevator hits the thirteenth floor and the doors draw open, Aliya is prepared for the moment she’ll have to deposit Aly in front of her apartment with nothing more than polite well wishes for event finals. As they stagger past Suites 1302, then 1303, 1304… 1307… Aliya repeatedly rehearses in her head exactly what she’s going to do (untangle herself from Aly) and say (an efficient ‘goodnight’ to follow the well wishes should suffice), and she will do and say it all in a calm and collected manner.

As she always does.

But when Aly halts in front of Suite 1309, and Aliya holds her steady as she fumbles around in her pocket for the key, Aliya already knows calm and collected is precisely what isn’t going to happen.

The time for ‘calm and collected’ would have been about a half hour ago, when Masha stopped Aliya at the door, a final caution marked in her eyes. Or when Eythora offered to take care of Aly, and Aliya could have just let it play out. It was definitely before Aliya drained a disappointing shot of vodka, and finally gave herself over to the reality that Aly Raisman will always be a part of every breath she draws, every whisper pressed to her soul, every end of her every beginning.

That’s why when the door swings open, Aliya quietly follows Aly inside without another thought, and Aly lets her, as if it couldn’t have happened any other way.

[Author’s note: Merry Christmas! Part II out either tomorrow or the day after.

I wrote this chapter to: Hurts Like Hell, Fleurie and De Mí, Camila.]

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 I)

The second thought Aliya Mustafina has when the arena erupts madly all around her, is that tears are very good. It was an odd thought to follow the bursting pride she felt as Aly completed her last pass on floor.

The pride, at least, could be easily explained. Everyone knew they had just witnessed an impeccable double pike landing seal the team captain’s claim to the all-around silver. The moment was marked by an explosion of cheers and applause, and not only from the large contingent of American supporters. It seemed the rest of the world was rooting for Aly too, willing her to finish what she had returned to the Olympics to do. Even Valentina, with her skewed disdain for American gymnastics, would find it hard to dispute the result without looking a fool.

The judges put on a frivolous show of calculating and recalculating Aly’s final score. Murmurs of impatience begin emanating from the crowd. But it was clear there would be no dramatic tiebreaker this time; no controversy to invite bitter criticism and inflamed debate for years to come. This time, there would only be tears. The good kind that cascades down the beautiful, relieved face of a gymnast at the very summit of her career, and resuscitates the rousing idea that a reputation for hard work and kindness pays off in the end. Given how things had played out in London, Aliya sees a certain poetic justice in Aly’s success.

As she watches Aly jump off the podium to envelop Simone in a rapturous hug, tears still flowing, the warm glow of pride inside her grows.

Aliya senses Seda at her side observing her closely, large eyes filled with unspoken concern. The Russian captain turns to give her younger teammate a luminous smile. Seda responds with a tiny grin of her own, her relief visible in the way her hunched shoulders relax. It makes Aliya’s heart ache - Seda had finished on a low note, falling several times on floor, yet still had the capacity to worry about someone else.

She reaches over to wrap an arm around Seda, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze, and they both return to quietly observing the wild celebrations on the American side. Aliya appreciates Seda’s concern, despite it being quite unnecessary. The instant Aly had stepped onto the floor, she had known the other gymnast would deliver a flawless performance that would knock her down in the rankings. It was just meant to be.

Aliya lifts her head in time to catch green letters and numbers materialize above her own name on the large digital scoreboard, confirming the outcome. The roars in the arena grow even louder. She pauses for a moment of reflection, then nods to herself at the complete lack of any disappointment. Placing third for the second Olympics in a row is an eminently respectable result. She could wear the bronze with dignity, knowing she had lost to one of the best gymnasts and people she has ever known.

Later, when Aliya walks behind the exuberant Americans towards the holding area to prepare for the medal ceremony, she can’t help but smile at the dorky faces Aly pulls at the broadcast cameras. Aly’s carefree attitude seems to give Simone the go ahead to unleash her own jittery exhilaration, in full view of millions. A young, nervous-looking volunteer clad in a bright yellow and green shirt leads the three of them to a stout oakwood table playing host to large bouquets of fresh cut flowers.

Sitting innocuously in front of the bouquets are three delicately engraved medallion boxes, inside of which must be their hard-earned medals. As they draw closer to the table, the Americans chatter with a high-strung energy, both trying to convince the other that this is actually happening. Aliya smiles silently, keeping pace but maintaining a respectable distance from them.

When the volunteer signals for them to stop and wait, Aliya lets herself lift a discreet gaze to where Aly stands. The bliss she sees radiating from the girl almost, though not quite, makes up for the rift that had reopened between them.

To Aliya’s dismay, this rift had grown in much the same way nightfall sneaks up on you during Moscow’s deep winter months. If you didn’t pay close enough attention, the sky would unfurl a pitch black before you knew to stop the cold from seeping into your shoes, or the biting wind from numbing most of your fingers. And so Aliya had failed to notice all the signs.

It had begun with the way Aly avoided eye contact while they stood around the chalk bowl to prepare for bars. Aliya had told herself that being unsociable was just Aly’s way of getting through the most important competition of her life. It also made sense that the girl would only trade small talk with Simone, her back always strategically turned towards Aliya. Elite athletes usually kept to their own while competition was still underway - Aliya herself had focused most of her spare attention on guiding a skittish Seda through the daunting experience of her first Olympic all-around final.

Something was more obviously wrong in the smiles Aly gave whenever she had no choice but to pass the Russians on the way to and from routines. These were doled out tightly, professionally, and never lasted beyond the blink of an eye.

Even when the competition came to a jubilant end, and Aly crossed the podium to pull Aliya in for a congratulatory hug, the happiness was short-lived; Aly had offered just a few polite words before hurriedly turning to compliment other gymnasts nearby. The American’s infectious sportsmanship was all the more palpable when even Grebs extended his arms out for a hug from her. Aliya had looked on with a wry expression, amused at the pleased look on Grebs’ normally gruff face when Aly graciously returned the gesture, but also painfully aware the girl seemed to be making a conscious effort to treat her just like everybody else.

Aliya soon finds herself standing on the podium, Simone to her right and Aly on the far side, Olympic medals hanging heavy around their necks. The Russian closes one hand around the cold circular piece of metal she has sacrificed so much for. Pushing aside troubled thoughts of Aly’s aloofness, Aliya focuses instead on what she’s achieved for her country. For herself.

With a diameter of just under three and a half inches, the medal itself isn’t much to call home about. Its significance lay in what it symbolizes - years of punishing training, and nights spent seriously considering whether she should have herself declared insane for attempting another Olympics. And she’d had to do it all without the coach she had depended on as a father.

Aliya smiles sadly. She tightens her grip on the medal, like it might vanish into thin air if she doesn’t hold to its reality. She knows Alexander is watching right now, if not from inside the stadium, then on a large screen somewhere inside the Olympic Village. And he was proud. She was sure of it. The image of him raising two pumped fists and flashing an upturned smile, the one he reserves for when words can’t do justice to the moment, fills Aliya with a tired but triumphant satisfaction.

The announcer’s booming voice readies the spectators for the national anthem of the United States. When the first strains of brass blare through the huge reverberating speakers, Aliya turns respectfully to face the flags. She watches the tricolor flag of her home nation being ceremoniously hoisted high into the air, flanked by the stars and stripes. It’s a common sight at the Olympics, courtesy of the age-old rivalry between the two countries. Always together and forever apart, Aliya muses darkly to herself.

In a flash, she recalls the sensation of Aly’s lips pressed tenderly against hers, the heat of golden sand beneath them, the twin beating of their hearts propelling them forwards and upwards, towards perfection.

She remembers how when she broke off the kiss, it seemed perfection broke along with it. The ocean stopped glimmering its intense turquoise blue, the sun withdrew the warmth of its rays, and the perfect morning they had shared together dissolved into a drab canvas of yet more tattered dreams. It haunts Aliya, the grieved acceptance etched onto Aly’s face. It said she understood Aliya’s decision, knows why Aliya can’t surrender to the connection still pulsing between them, and does not fault her for it.

As a swath of the crowd bellows out their love for the land of the free and the home of the brave, Aliya chokes back a wave of emotion that rushes to constrict her chest. She staves off the ridiculous temptation to look backwards, to see whether Aly is thinking of her too, even amidst the exhilaration of winning an Olympic medal.

The anthem tapers off and another swell of applause rings out. A swarm of photographers yell haphazardly for them to look this way towards their cameras, to bunch up together so they can get the perfect group shot. Simone invites both her fellow medal winners to huddle in, still very much in a happy daze.

Aliya steps onto the highest platform with the Americans and leans in to circle her arm around the champion’s waist. She is overcome by the incongruity of being so close, yet so far from Aly at the same time. She glances across, just in time to see Aly looking towards her. Their eyes meet behind Simone’s back. Aliya finds herself shooting a grin at her, her heart thumping a familiar rhythm. It quickens to a painful crescendo when Aly returns the grin, probably on instinct.

But the moment is too brief. The grin evaporates as abruptly as it appeared, and Aly quickly turns away to distractedly poke fun at Simone for getting her medal strap tangled up in knots. Determined, it seems, not to make eye contact again if she can help it.

A curl of despair leaks through Aliya, threatening to break her composure.

She holds it in, of course. Aliya fronts the relentless, flashing lights with an outward joy she doesn’t feel, because that is what she does. It should be one of the happiest moments of her life. It would have been, had she managed to keep her eyes off of Aly. Because then she wouldn’t have seen past the girl’s careful veneer of friendliness, through to the dull weariness beneath. It was like a light had gone out, leaving little else but the retreating shadow of someone who’s finally beginning to let go of hope. Of her.

With a sickening regret, Aliya realizes she’s probably going to get what she asked for after all.

You. Me. Nothing. 

-----

“Red No. 72, Wild Child. That one says, ‘Come hither. I’ll make your wildest dreams come true.’”

“It also says ‘Are you crazy? I can’t believe you’re actually encouraging her to seduce Aly Raisman, as if the Olympics aren’t enough drama already.’”

“Lieke. Please. A little flirting never hurt anyone. Go with No. 72, Eythora.”

“Yes, I’m sure Eythora gave up a normal life to train forty hours a week just so she could bat her eyelashes at someone she’s known all of five minutes.”

In almost everything they did, the Wevers sisters were living proof that being twins didn’t mean sharing a similar outlook on life. On most issues, they took up opposing sides. The perfect night off for Sanne was dancing with strangers at a pulsing, off-the-radar alternative indie club. For Lieke, it was curling up in her favorite plush armchair with a steaming mug of ginger tea and a Jane Austen classic. The way to tackle a vexing problem was immediate and decisive action for one, while the other preferred cool, painstaking deliberation. Even their usual Starbucks orders reflected a curious dichotomy. Sanne favored large caramel cheesecake frappes with extra whipped cream; Lieke would regard the excess sugar in horror, and promptly order a double shot long black. The sisters’ wide-ranging personalities livened up the dynamics of Team Netherlands, but right this instant was causing more confusion than anything else.

Eythora glances up into the bathroom mirror, where two identical sets of sea-green eyes are watching her, waiting for her to take a side.

She sighs, setting down the hair straightener she’s been holding on the vanity top. The right half of her light brown hair is gleaming straight, while the untouched half tumbles down in a natural wave of unruly curls.

“I don’t plan on seducing anyone tonight,” Eythora expresses pointedly. “I did, however, plan on getting second opinions. Or are you two going to make me regret asking for your help?” Her question is tinted with amused helplessness.

For a minute, neither twin responds. Lieke’s arms are folded across her chest, her simple black eyeliner and black sleeve top bringing out the intense color and protective sternness in her eyes. Her hair is pulled back in the same tight ponytail she wears during competitions, except in place of a bright orange Netherlands scrunchy is a sparkling black hair tie. Meanwhile, Sanne had opted for letting her hair loose past her shoulders. Playful dabs of red glitter grace the edges of her eyes to match her sequinned scarlet dress. She’s standing to Eythora’s right, head cocked to one side, a tiny smile crouched in one corner of her mouth. Both so different, yet equally striking in their own way.

Squeals and raucous laughter travel through the bathroom wall from the bedroom, where Celine and Vera are putting the finishing touches on their outfits. Eythora sighs again, deeper this time. “We’ve got less than two hours, and I’m not even dressed yet.” She brings her fingers up to hurriedly coax out the last few stubborn knots in her hair.

The whole team was gearing up for Team Italy’s all-around after-party, a revered Olympic gymnastics tradition they had only just learnt about the day before. Vanessa Ferrari had sought them out in the cafeteria, ostensibly to congratulate Eythora and Lieke on their all-around performances. Her main purpose, however, had been to personally extend the Dutch girls an invitation. She assured them it was going to be the best party yet, and they would be crazy to miss it.

Eythora had refrained from raising an eyebrow at the air of exclusivity with which the girl had conveyed the message. She likes Ferrari, but it felt more than a little elitist for the Italians to revel in the fact that they only invited a select few teams, as if they are the final arbiters of who’s worthy and who’s not. The excuse that Team Italy’s top deck is too small to accommodate everyone might have been believable, had it not been said with a certain slyness that left things implied between the lines. Still, Ferrari’s invitation was accepted with gratitude and the promise that Team Netherlands (plus Giulia) would be there.

For Eythora, the decision became a no-brainer when Ferrari also let slip that she had invited the Americans too. She just hadn’t counted on this last minute anxiety attack - one brought on by more than just the fact that she’s having trouble deciding which lipstick to wear. 

Seeing Lieke continue to regard her with mild pity, Eythora gives her a forlorn expression. “Trust me. I know worrying about what makeup to wear is beyond stupid,” she says, feeling a need to justify her irrational behavior. From the mirror, she watches Lieke purse her lips, mercifully holding back from voicing her thoughts. “It just gives me something, anything, to focus on. Instead of constantly thinking about why I’m so hung up on her,” Eythora continues, her fingers knotting together in front of her. “I’m aware I’ve only spoken to her twice. But no one’s ever made me feel like this. Whatever ‘this’ is.” She shakes her head. “I have no idea. And having no idea scares me, but in a good way.”

Eythora draws a hesitant breath and blushes. “Tonight is important to me. At least, getting to see her outside of competition, or having her see me is…” She trails off, hoping they’ll understand without the need for further uncharacteristic rambling.

“How do you even know she’ll be there?”

“Vanessa said they were invited.”

“Yes, but she didn’t say they were going.”

Eythora heaves a sigh. “I don’t know, Lieke. I just have a feeling she will be.”

Lieke goes very still, her jaw working back and forth in a small, but recognizable sign of discomfort.

Eythora knows her friends are unused to seeing her this vulnerable. She’s scarcely used to it herself. Overthinking everything, constantly on edge because she isn’t sure how someone feels about her… it’s mortifying, really. Usually she’s the one causing this kind of distress for someone else.

Even so, this bewildering pull of emotions over one Aly Raisman must mean she had stumbled upon something rare, maybe even once-in-a-lifetime sort of rare, and no amount of concern from well-meaning teammates was going to stop her from finding out where it might lead.

There is a long, pregnant silence. Then to Eythora’s surprise, Lieke bends down and wordlessly picks through the messy sprawl of lipsticks with quick efficiency. She sweeps aside most of them with an unimpressed ‘hm’ before eventually selecting one. Straightening up, she presses a metallic black tube firmly into Eythora’s hand.

“Here. This one matches your top better,” Lieke says gruffly.

Eythora feels gratitude swell in her chest. She glances down to read the label. “Red No. 70, French Kiss?”

At first, Lieke refuses to meet her eyes. “What? It’s classy as hell.” Then she frowns, and hastily adds, “Don’t get any ideas.”

Sanne winks at Eythora.

-----

The second thought Aly Raisman has when she steps out onto the top most floor of the apartment block housing Italy’s athletes, is to control her sharp disappointment over the noticeable absence of Russians. Next to her, a decked-to-the-nines Simone exclaims out loud Aly’s immediate thought, the one she’d had first on seeing the unexpected scene before them: “Whoa.”

It couldn’t accurately be described as a penthouse. Though the space is peculiarly large and spacious, there’s no division of rooms to speak of. Nor are there proper furnishings, or flooring - only dusty, concrete ground slabs and rudimentary tables and chairs arranged in a random fashion. It’s also stiflingly hot. The ceiling is covered in black tarp, some of it falling down in places, like someone had started putting in roof insulation but abandoned the job midway. Large exposed steel beams jut out at various intervals along the unpainted interior walls.

Despite the rundown condition of the place, or maybe because of it, Team Italy has captured the quality of an exclusive club using simple, yet compelling touches. A dozen or so cheap plastic pendant lamps hang suspended from the overarching beam structure, bathing the area in a sporadic fluorescent glow. The lamps provide some visibility, while keeping the corners and edges of the room dim enough for people to gather for dark deeds.

In the center of the space are two waist-high speakers, currently pumping out bass-thumping nineties hip hop. A sizeable dance floor has been marked out by yellow and blue glow sticks placed end-to-end on the ground. Aly makes out a few Brazilian gymnasts dancing like there’s no tomorrow. She notes admiringly just how much they’ve been holding back on the competition floor. If judges gave artistry points for the Humpty dance - and they should - they would definitely have a tighter contest on their hands.

“My kind of party,” Gabby murmurs approvingly from behind. “Look. Over there.” She gives a low whistle. “They really went all out, huh?”

Aly follows Gabby’s finger, to the nearest wall on the right. A long makeshift table is draped over with black cloth. On top sits a thick forest of variously shaped beakers, carafes, glass jugs, wines, spirits, and bottles of liquid displaying labels in various languages - Italian, English, Japanese, and what Aly recognizes with a twinge to be Cyrillic. She thinks it strange that about half of the glass bottles have their labels torn off. Stacks of glasses and red solo cups preside over a giant crystal bowl of what looks like fruit punch.

Aly wonders how on earth the Italians pulled off smuggling the equivalent of a small liquor store into the Village. Then she remembers the lax security standards they’ve encountered during the Games and chuckles inwardly. Too easy.

To her left, Aly sees Madison manage to get over her initial shock at the boisterous reveling, something that seems out of place in such a high-stress environment as the Olympics.

The younger girl tilts her head in the direction of the bowl and asks in a low voice, “Do you think that’s okay to drink? No alcohol for me.” Madison looks warily back over her shoulder, as if she expects Martha to come charging through the door, ready to unleash holy wrath on her for even saying the word ‘alcohol’. “More so because bar finals are coming up. You know how it goes.”

Aly assesses the innocent-looking bowl, drawing on past experiences with the ‘fruit punch’ at clandestine elite gymnastics celebrations. “I’d stay away from that. Just in case,” she concludes after awhile.

Madison nods, if a little wistfully. “Water it is, then.”

The look on her face gives Aly pause. She turns to Madison with a twinkling smile. “Hey. A drink or two won’t hurt. You deserve to have a good time. We all do. We’ve won our medals already, so why not let our hair down?” Aly does a small twirl, her favorite button-down wrap shirt fluttering with the motion. “I know we didn’t dress up for nothing.”

Her words elicit an uncertain stare from Madison. Simone and Laurie look hungrily towards the numerous boxes of pizza piled up on another table close by, but don’t make a move. Gabby just laughs, raising her eyebrows in mock amazement. “Damn, Aly. If Martha could hear you right now…”

Aly shoots her a look. “Martha gave us permission, remember?”

“Martha knows about this?” Laurie takes her eyes off the food long enough to pipe in, astounded.

“Sure she does.” But Aly’s speedy answer coincides with a slight ebb in confidence, now that she’s really thinking about the words coming out of her mouth. Her forehead creases. “I told her we’re having a friendly meet-up with the Italians. To spread international goodwill between our countries and, um yeah. She’s cool with it.”

At her teammates’ knowing smirks and a badly concealed snort from Simone, Aly puts on her resolute captain’s look. “And if we show up for training on time tomorrow afternoon, why does it matter? Come on, our guys are going clubbing tonight. It’s only fair we get to enjoy this. Besides,” she motions at the clusters of gymnasts scattered throughout the place, ”it looks like most of our competition is taking the night off.”

Off in the distance, Giulia Steingruber is having a peanut throwing contest with Kohei Uchimura, surrounded by cheering spectators. The Brits, Germans and the Dutch are starting up a rowdy game of multilingual charades. Aly spots another familiar face in the group acting out… an angsty T-Rex? It makes the corners of her mouth pull up. Eythora’s talents definitely go beyond gymnastics.

It also revives the intense discomfort she had felt when Aliya brought up Eythora’s name on the beach, and Aly’s grin fades. She’s been alternating between fatigue and frustration since Aliya’s strange mention of Eythora, as if the girl had bizarrely expressed some kind of interest in Aly; as if Aly would consider it even if it were true; or worse, as if Aliya was all but ready to give it her blessing.

Aly shakes her head to clear it from that very unpleasant thought.

Other gymnasts are standing around in small groups, drinks in hand, alternately chatting, taking selfies, or cracking up over each other’s jokes. It’s a heartening assortment of gymnasts all having a blast and clearly not stressing over whether their national team coordinators will smite them for it. Seeing it strengthens Aly’s conviction that her whole team needs this break. If not a break from their ambitions for the upcoming event finals - because nothing would deter those - then at least from the absurd expectations placed on them to not relax, not even for a second. She had learned slowly over the years that those expectations weren’t fair, nor were they healthy.

Aly glances aside at Gabby for backup. “Martha’s cool, right?”

Gabby, looking over Aly’s shoulder at the dance floor and bobbing her head to the music, nods absently. “Martha totally knows we’re at a party where we’re going to flirt with hot gymnasts and do tequila bomb shots with our underage teammates.” She winks at the choked splutter from Aly and throws a roguish grin at the rest of the group. “So yep. She’s cool.”

So deeply ingrained is Team USA’s discipline that it takes a several more minutes and repeated assurances for the younger girls to really let loose. With one last encouraging smile from their team captain, Simone, Laurie and Maddie leave excitedly with Arthur Nory Marian, who had bounded up to ask if they could join him for sudden death beer pong. The ragtag team he had cobbled together with Oleg Verniaiev was short a few players.

As she watches them go, Aly can’t bring herself to stray too far from the entrance just yet. She tries to be discreet about scanning the door every thirty seconds to see whether a bunch of trendy Russians will saunter through it. Grateful that Gabby pretends not to notice the anxious door-checking, Aly half-listens to her passing remarks about who else is there - there’s Mai Murakami, who had promised to teach them crazy Japanese drinking games when last they bumped into her at the cafeteria; someone she can’t put a name to is wandering about in a fluffy unicorn suit; and is that Manrique Larduet flirting shamelessly with Lieke Wevers?

Aly responds that she thinks the fluffy unicorn is one of the Downies. She also tells herself the night is young. People are still showing up to the party. Maybe Aliya is on her way right now, looking gorgeous and all sorts of fine without even trying. Team Russia tended to arrive fashionably late to these things.

Impatient to know the time, Aly reaches into her back pocket for her phone. Then she curses silently, remembering that she’d left it sitting on the marble kitchen bench top back at their apartment. She starts restlessly fidgeting with the edge of her shirt, after which she has to force herself to stop.

Aly lets out the tiniest of sighs, inaudible enough that Gabby doesn’t notice, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

At times it feels like Aly is getting better at smothering the restless tendril of hope inside whispering that all is not lost, that deep down Aliya still needs her. In the last few days, however, that whisper had steadily grown into a shout. It took all of Aly’s willpower to not grab Aliya aside during the all-around and declare that she wants a future with her, that she won’t royally mess things up this time. The absurdity of professing her love for the Russian captain live on an international broadcast almost didn’t register in Aly’s desperation to say or do something, anything.

It was her respect for Aliya’s wishes that kept Aly in check. The last thing she wants is to be that clingy, annoying, reality-denying ex. She has no right to make any demands of Aliya; she had been the one to walk away first.

Aly has to plaster a smile on her face when out the corner of her eye, she observes the beaming host of the party, Vanessa Ferrari, coming towards them with a large cinnamon-dusted donut in hand.

“You girls make it!” There is bright welcome in Ferrari’s voice, and a touch of surprise.

“Hey,” Aly greets the Italian warmly. “It’s so good to see you!” Despite her darkened mood, she really does mean it. She’s always had a soft spot for Ferrari, whom she had looked up to as a young gymnast. When a cursory glance behind Ferrari reveals that she’s alone, Aly lets out a small breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. Perhaps it’s unbecoming, but she finds it easier to keep interactions with certain Italian gymnasts to a minimum. She hasn’t forgotten the disrespect aimed at her own teammates in recent times, usually from an impersonal distance on social media, or in interviews that made their way back to the English-speaking gymnastics bubble.

“Good to see you too. Hard to believe you really are here,” Ferrari enthuses in remarkably fluent English after swallowing a mouthful of donut. Her lips, painted a rich dark red, quirk up in a smile. “I feel we are making history.” It’s not an exaggeration - the Italians always send their invitations at big meets, but relentless training schedules and a far more hawk-eyed Martha have always prevented the Americans from attending.

“We can’t believe it either,” Aly tells Ferrari with a grin. She gestures around at the elaborately decorated space. “But we didn’t want to miss out on all of this. How did you guys do it, and with competition still going on? It’s amazing.” Gabby agrees, voicing additional admiration for the dart board she had spotted over on the far side, where some spirited gymnasts have congregated to continue flexing their Olympic competitiveness.

Ferrari lets out a melodious laugh, obviously pleased at their compliments. “You know how they are not finishing the many buildings in the Village? We find this top floor empty on our first day we arrive here,” she explains. “Nothing here, only dust. It takes a little work to make like this, but we have help from our friends. We have Italy’s reputazione to keep good.” She scrutinizes the room with a proud grin. “Not bad, no?”

“Oh, it’s incredible,” Aly tells her, eyeing the ceiling nervously. “So they just left this top floor unfinished? It’s safe though, right?” She steals a glance at Gabby, who is biting the corner of her lip to hold in a laugh and clearly unaffected by this new possibility that they’ve led their entire team into a death trap.

“Who knows?” Ferrari shrugs indifferently, not seeming to notice Aly’s face freeze in panic. “It is perfect for our party. What person is doing the 2020 party will have a hard time to beat.”

Ferrari stays to chat for a bit, mostly about the dodgy judges she’s come across so far in Rio, and what post-Olympic holiday plans they have. Aly barely takes in the Italian's excited account of how she’s going to head to the country’s interior, deep into the Amazon rainforest, to try her hand at piranha fishing. Having had her serious concerns for construction integrity so casually brushed aside, she occupies herself with the other equally urgent need to find out whether the Russians are coming. The suspense that’s been gnawing at her is getting to be unbearable.

Aly assumes the Russians were invited - she knows how close some of them are with the Italians. She rapidly fires through several different ways she might dig an answer out of Ferrari. Is that vodka over there? Isn’t it funny how both Poland and Russia think they invented it? And oh by the way will there be any Russians here tonight?  Aly suppresses the urge to roll her eyes at herself. She would bet her gold medal the lines would sound as stupid as they do in her head.

“… not so difficult, because all you need knowing is the right people,” Ferrari is saying, winding up a story about how they had befriended their building’s security guard and gotten him to source the speakers from a local DJ school. They should have placed him right away; he’s the guy shooting darts with the gymnasts, dressed in a standard grey guard uniform.

“Thanks for inviting us, Vanessa.” Aly speaks up hastily, to make it seem as though she’s actually been paying attention. “It’s good to take a break from training and competing.”

She draws a weird look from Gabby, who adds, “Yes, we really appreciate it.”

“You are welcome. Be sure to enjoy your night, va bene?” With a lavish wave of her hand, Ferrari indicates the table sagging under the weight of the inordinate amount of alcohol. “You must try the fruit drink. It is my specialità,” she adds with a wink, before strolling away to chat to another group.

“Remind me to tell Madison to definitely not drink the punch,” Aly mutters to Gabby in a low voice as soon as Ferrari is out of earshot. A mild irritation eats at her for having failed to retrieve from Ferrari any useful intel on the Russians. She glances up at the tarp-covered ceiling again, its exposed beams now looking much more ominous. “Actually, remind me also whether having a good time is worth having a roof collapse on us. Should I tell the girls?”

“Als, chill,” Gabby reassures her. “Everything’s going to be fine. Why not take some of your own advice? It won’t kill you to relax a bit.” She makes a show of observing the room. “Unless tonight really is the night that sketchy roof caves in.”

Aly rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Gabrielle Christina Victoria Douglas. You really know how to make a girl feel better.”

Gabby laughs and pats Aly comfortingly on the shoulder. “I’m going to get us some drinks, okay? It will help with the nerves. Or,” she leans her head to the side knowingly, “whatever it is you’re actually stressing over. Meet me over there at those tables. I won’t take long.” After giving Aly an encouraging nudge towards where a few gymnasts have spotted them and are waving them over, she strolls away to inspect the choices of drinks on offer.

Aly hangs back, not quite ready to jump into the fray. She watches as Gabby drops several ice cubes into two glasses and starts mixing and matching drinks. Two girls from Team Japan approach her. It’s not long before they’re engaged in a conversation punctured with plenty of giggles. The humming energy in the room climbs, even as Aly’s heart reckons with the sinking realization that the person she most wants to see probably isn’t coming.

It might just be her imagination, but the air inside seems to have grown muggier, more difficult to breathe. The music is still going hard, if from another era now. A corner of her mouth pushes up into a tiny grin at the sight of Laurie and Simone showing others how to wild out properly to Cardi B.

Aly sweeps her gaze over the expanse of the room, past the arm wrestling match taking place between the Canadians and the French. She spots a sliding door hidden in the dimness at the back. It looks like it leads out onto some sort of balcony or veranda. The abrupt need to escape, to find a private space where she can recalibrate herself, to be alone, sets Aly moving towards it.

-----

The balcony view from Team Italy’s fifteenth floor is breathtaking.

It captures the entire Olympic Village waterfront, its newly constructed sandstone walkway framed by a long and narrow stretch of white-sand beach. The sun has dipped just below the horizon, scattering deep violets and reds against the sky. Distant city lights sparkle in the distance, resembling a carpet of diamonds flung across the curved coastal landscape. Down below, aesthetic pathways lined with Victorian-style lamp posts weave in and out of well-kept gardens that burst with native South American plants. It’s absolutely stunning, in the most depressing kind of way.

Aly props her elbows onto the balcony railing, resting her chin on her hands and taking it all in. Being perhaps overcautious, she avoids putting her full weight onto the railing. The thumping music behind her is dulled by a double-layered glass door. A breeze blows past, causing a lock of hair to fly across her cheeks. Aly doesn’t bother brushing it away. She lets out a disconsolate puff of air, and allows her thoughts to wander back to Aliya.

The return bus ride from Ipanema Beach to the Village had been quiet. Aliya had tried to pick up the light bantering from earlier, but it was obvious something between them had shifted. Aly made efforts to play along, hoping her cheerless responses weren’t too noticeable.

During the all-around final, it wasn’t competition nerves, but a gripping sense of helplessness that grew from the pit of her stomach and became increasingly difficult to contain. Each glimpse of the understated beauty that pulsed beneath Aliya’s quiet reserve reminded Aly of all that was about to slip through her fingers again and disappear off to Russia in less than a week.

Aly closes her eyes. The night air is peaceful, but does nothing to ease the dejected swirl of thoughts weighing on her.

She thinks maybe it would have been wiser to not have reconnected with Aliya in Rio. Years had passed before the pain from cutting the Russian out of her life even began to heal. Pain, Aly reflects grimly, she had inflicted on both herself and Aliya without giving full thought to the consequences. Though she was never quite able to outrun the searing recollections of what she shared with Aliya, the passage of time had dulled their sharpest edges. Rio, however, had reignited in her all the emotions Aly would always and only associate with the Russian. Each wave of renewed affection raked over and reopened past wounds, even as they sparked in her a hope long ago abandoned. The force and depth of those feelings startled Aly, cut her breath short. They made her dread having to again be reduced to a mere image floating in the pool of Aliya’s memory, or the occasional squeeze in Aliya’s chest somewhere far, far away.

Tears that Aly refuses to let fall gather at the corners of her eyes, and she clenches them shut tighter. She sucks in a harsh breath and releases it in one long, trembling stream of air.

“Needed to breathe?”

Aly starts at the familiar voice and lilting accent. She swivels around to see Eythora peering out at her from behind the sliding door, one foot jammed up against it to push it open. Her hands are occupied with balancing two large glasses filled almost to the brim with a familiar peach-colored liquid - the fruit punch, Aly recognizes. The music wafts out, a softer slow jam. The din of the crowd seems to have settled into a quieter, but still animated hum.

“Eythora,” Aly murmurs in surprise. She quickly wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Hey. Sorry - I didn’t hear you back there. Here let me help.” She hurries to pull the door wider for her. Eythora grins appreciatively and thanks her, before commending Aly’s pronunciation of her name.

“You say it like you’re Dutch now.”

Aly blushes slightly at the exaggerated praise, and at how Eythora’s eyes latch onto her as if it’s been years since they last had a chance to speak. “I had a good teacher,” she replies humbly.

Sweeping gracefully past her, Eythora carefully sets the glasses down on a nearby bar table. It takes Aly some time to adjust to Eythora’s appearance now that she’s sporting something other than a competition leotard or tracksuit. Rather than being pulled into the usual tight bun, her hair falls down past her shoulders in lustrous brown tresses. She wears a flattering low-neck halter top tucked stylishly into dark blue denim jeans. The dark tones of her clothing  sharpen the color of her eyes in the fading evening light. Form-fitting suede boots wrap up to her knees, and a thin silver chain featuring a single blue stone hangs off her left wrist.

Aly opens her mouth to compliment Eythora on her outfit, but clamps it shut again. Maybe it’s being overcautious, but she can’t think of a way to do it without coming across like she’s been staring. Still, she has to find something to comment on.

“You hair. It looks different,” Aly says hesitantly. Not exactly the most perceptive of observations, but it will have to do.

Eythora arches an amused brow. “Different bad, or different good?”

Aly nods, then realizes she hasn’t properly answered the question. “Different good,” she adds quickly, her stomach flipping with embarrassment.

“Thank you.” Eythora’s eyes crease into another grin. “It’s a nightmare to straighten, and even then I can never get all the curls out. You just made all the time I thought I wasted worth it.”

Unsure of how to respond to that, Aly says nothing and merely dips her head in a shy nod.

“It’s quite a view, isn’t it?“

Aly nods again. The Dutch gymnast walks over to the sliding door and shuts it behind them, sealing out the thudding bass and the chatter of energized athletes. Returning to the balcony rail, she finds a spot to settle herself and looks back at Aly with an inviting smile.

Aly resists the urge to tell Eythora not to lean too hard against the railing, instead moving forward to take up the spot beside her. She wonders if Eythora had purposely sought her out, or if she had just happened to come across the balcony door and needed some air herself. But then again, she had come bearing two drinks…

Aly snaps herself back to the moment. Not important.

Rather than immediately launching into further conversation, Eythora has gone back to scanning the panorama of glittering lights, calmly taking in its sweeping breadth. In the subsequent quiet, Aly can’t help but glance discreetly over at her. Normally she would be politely annoyed at having her space invaded like this, but for some reason Eythora’s company isn’t objectionable. There’s an easiness about her, and unlike most other people, Eythora dispenses with the need to fill in silences with awkward chatter. 

Some movement down below catches Aly’s eye. A pair of athletes wearing jackets from different countries are strolling slowly down a lit pathway, hand in hand. One leans in to say something to the other, and their laughter carries through the early evening air. Aly swallows back a sudden surge of envy.

“I didn’t get to congratulate you in person, for the all-around,” Eythora begins, pulling Aly’s attention towards her. “A team gold, and now an individual silver. Most athletes can only dream of achieving so much.”

Aly shakes her head. “That’s not true. You’ve done amazingly well yourself.”

Eythora pins Aly with an inquisitive look, a smile hung on her lips. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?” Aly asks, puzzled.

“Never take a compliment.”

“Oh. Well,” Aly stammers. She clasps her hands in front of her. “I suppose… I don’t know. I mean, thank you.” She shuffles under Eythora’s gaze, which sweeps over her face and lingers there, studying her with keen interest. Feeling heat rise up her cheeks, Aly averts her eyes back towards the skyline.

’Eythora Thorsdottir. She say she will fighting for you.’

She hears Eythora breathe deeply in, then exhale. “When the Games are over, I’m hoping to explore Rio properly,” the girl says. “It would be shame to be so close to everything and not get to experience it.”

Aly nods, grateful for the change in topic. “You definitely should. The city’s beautiful.” 

“You’ve had a chance to go sightseeing already?”

There was that promenade she and Aliya had walked contentedly down, the bustling juice bar and its friendly owners, the gurgling baby in Aliya’s arms, the radiant look on the Russian’s face. That cloudless sky they sat under, the sun-drenched beach they had discussed life and laughed on. The brush of Aliya’s fingertips against hers as they moved closer to each other without even thinking. Aly’s throat tightens uncomfortably at the reel of bittersweet memories that feel like they've been stamped into her soul.

“I did. Just before the all-around final.”

Eythora throws her a sideways grin. “And I thought the Americans didn’t rest until they have won all the medals there are to win.” 

“We have our moments,” Aly barely manages to get out.

Eythora nods thoughtfully, like she knows there is something Aly is holding back, but says nothing further. Silence settles in again. The only sounds are the rustle of the wind in the trees, and the faint din of the ongoing party behind them. Aly’s mind drifts to puzzle over why Aliya had mentioned Eythora’s name and said the odd, jarring things she did. Had the two of them somehow crossed paths without her knowing?

“I saw Aliya again, in the training gym locker room. Also before the all-around final,” Eythora says out of the blue. Aly’s stomach clenches and she glances sharply at Eythora, startled the girl had anticipated her thoughts. Eythora twists slightly to face Aly, her piercing grey eyes gauging for a reaction. 

“Oh?” A red hot curiosity kindles inside Aly, even as thin panic creeps into her veins.

Eythora chuckles softly. She runs a finger over the top of the railing in an invisible pattern, and there is a marked carefulness to her tone when she says, “She cares a lot about you, it seems.”

Aly’s heart lifts, then thunders in her chest, her mind racing past the million and one ways she could respond to that. “Aliya is nice to all her competitors,” she eventually croaks out. 

She both hears and feels the hesitant pause that follows and hangs precariously in the warm air.

“So not only are you bad at taking compliments, you’re also not so good at recognizing when people care for you as more than just a competitor.” 

The sentence is spoken in a light teasing manner, but Aly registers the barest hint of a tremble in Eythora’s voice, and an unspoken affection that seems to fill in and lend it a deeper meaning. 

Oh.

Aly swallows hard, refusing to dwell on any subtext that may or may not be there. She tells herself that the prickling of her skin, and the way her palms have gone all clammy, are simply the result of being confronted about her unusual connection to Aliya by someone outside of her team for the first time. There’s no easy way to wriggle out of it without seeming too conspicuous.

“Aliya and I have known each other awhile. We became close in London.” Aly’s attempt to sound casual about all this would have been more convincing without the wobbly catch in her throat.

Eythora stills beside her. The silence between them intensifies, until Aly can almost feel it buzzing beneath her skin. 

“And now?” the Dutch girl probes timidly, with all the caution of a surgeon operating on a raw nerve.

Aly grips her hands in a tight clasp, and suddenly it feels like she can’t pull enough air into her lungs. She expels a raspy, humorless laugh. “Now, we’re nothing.” Aly stares out at the dimming horizon, the edges of her vision blurring a little with those damn unshed tears again.

A light breath escapes Eythora’s lips. “I am sorry, Aly.”

The softness threaded through her words signal her understanding of the residual heartbreak lurking just beneath the surface, and to Aly’s relief, she doesn’t push the matter further. Instead, Eythora shifts direction by springing another question that, although doesn’t exactly alleviate Aly of her painful memories, at least doesn’t involve directly discussing the Russian.

“Do you believe in soul mates?” 

“It depends,” Aly pretends to consider, as if there wasn’t already someone who was the definition of that very term for her. “What do you mean by soul mate?”

“I guess someone who feels like the missing part of you.”

“You know someone like that?”

“Knew, maybe. There have been a few, but I don’t know if you’d call them soul mates.”

Aly tucks her bottom lip between her teeth in thought. “You would either be very lucky to have met a few soulmates so early on, or…”

“Or?” Eythora glances over, smiling at Aly’s sudden reticence to finish her sentence.

Aly flushes, realizing too late that she’d almost brazenly suggested the people Eythora considered ‘soul mates’ probably weren’t. “Is there someone you’re especially close to?” she quickly asks, her face reddening even further. “But of course… I mean, you don’t have to tell me. Not if you don’t want to.”

The perceptive smile on Eythora’s face makes Aly think the girl can almost certainly hear every thought that runs through her mind. It’s impressive, but also unnerving.

“There was someone. His name was Daniel,” Eythora finally says after an extended moment. A small sigh escapes when she says his name. “I met him at Primavera. It’s one of the biggest music festivals in Europe. Sort of like Coachella, but in Spain. He was a supporting musician for some of the acts, and we hit it off right away. He’s Dutch as well.” Eythora stops and stares down at her hands, like she’s trying to dredge up a memory buried deep inside herself.

“We dated on and off for a full year. At first, I thought it was cute when he called up every day after training or school to tell me that he missed me.” A drawn-out pause follows, and Aly deduces this isn’t something Eythora shares very often with others. 

“He sounds like he cared a lot about you,” she prompts gently. Eythora looks over at her, and Aly is surprised to see a layer of gloss coating her eyes. The girl nods with a sad smile.

“He did. And I cared a lot for him. But probably not as much as he did for me.” Eythora clears her throat before continuing in a firmer voice. “Daniel was the first person I imagined having a future with. We talked about opening our own gourmet pizza bar. He would handle the live music scene, and I would take care of everything else. We were even going to put in a skateboard ramp inside.” She lets out a colorless laugh, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. “We were just kids at the time. Crazy, but happy. Then all of a sudden it became too much.” 

“One day, Daniel saw me walking through the mall with one of my guy friends. He walked right up to us and asked me why I hadn’t told him about it beforehand. As if I needed permission from him for how I spend my time, and who I spend it with. I had gotten a few missed calls from him that day, but I didn’t think it would be such a big deal.”

Eythora draws a long, staggered breath that seems to deflate her. “I have never been so angry in my life. We argued in front of everyone. I decided right then to end things. Later, he came and apologized for overreacting and promised it wouldn’t happen again, but I had already made up my mind.” She glances at Aly, her gaze haunted with unresolved guilt. “Many of my friends told me I should have given him another chance.”

When Eythora falls silent, Aly presses a hand to the base of her neck and shakes her head sympathetically. “I know I don’t know all the details,” she ventures slowly, “but it sounds like you made the right choice. He seems to have had serious trust issues.”

“Maybe, but no one is perfect. I should have tried harder to make it work.” 

The sky finally sheds the last of its colors, so that their faces are almost completely encased in shadow. The darkness seems to bring with it the full weight of Eythora’s past; an invisible weight everyone carries around inside them in some form or another.

“It’s true that no one’s perfect. But there’s only so much you should have to change in order to please someone else,” Aly reasons quietly, knowing more than anyone it won’t make Eythora’s burden any easier to bear, but wanting to offer a little kindness all the same.

Eythora bites her lip and hunches her shoulders slightly. “That’s just it. I think I was ready to give up on Daniel so easily because deep down, I knew I wasn’t willing to change anything for him. I have always valued the absolute freedom to do what I want. And he wasn’t someone I would ever compromise that for.”

“If your freedom is so important to you, the right person will understand. You shouldn’t have to choose between what’s right for you and what someone else demands of you.”

Eythora sighs and shakes her head. “Actually, I look forward to the day I meet someone who makes me feel like I could give up that freedom.” 

Aly blinks, trying to understand. “What do you mean?”

Clouded grey eyes turn to look gravely at Aly. “Have you ever met someone who makes you feel like you would give up the very thing that’s most important to you? Not because they asked you to, but because you want to. Because who they are captures you so completely, you would do anything for them.” 

There is a long pause, during which Aly can hear the ferocity of her heartbeat in her ears.

“I have,” she answers heavily. Her eyes sting with the image of Aliya standing broken in front of her in an empty gym, four years’ worth of tears streaking down her face. “At least, I thought I did,” Aly says, voice tight with shame. “But I couldn’t give them the thing they needed most. If I was a better person, I would have.”

“It is impossible for you to be a better person.” Aly feels Eythora’s gaze on her, soft yet somehow burning, and her expression says everything even before her next words do. “You are already perfect.”

Unable to meet Eythora’s almost reverent look, Aly wants to tell the girl of all the ways she had hurt Aliya Mustafina, the one person who had not only captured her heart, but her soul, her everything. Eythora couldn’t possibly know how far from perfect she is. Aly wants to tell her all of this, but it feels like a lump the size of the moon is lodged in her throat.

A long moment passes before Eythora lets out a quiet, lovely laugh. “I know it seems I don’t know that much about you,” she murmurs. “We’ve only spoken properly twice before tonight. I just hope… I hope very much that you’ll give me a chance to get to know you. The good and the bad. It’s not something I can properly explain, but I do know I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.” The genuine feeling in her voice shines through in clear, brilliant eyes. “I like you, Aly. I like you a lot.” 

At that, Aly takes a deep breath to try and calm the pounding of her heart in her ribcage. She tries to shut out the cold echo of ‘Predatel'stvo’ slamming into her defenses and breaking them wide open. She tries not to feel the kisses still burning on her lips, stolen in the dark and under the Rio sun, tinged with regret but so invigorating, so full. Her mind floods with the sensations of another time and place and person, even as her brain kicks into auto-pilot mode and the words “Thank you” tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them.

Aly's eyes widen at the careless slip, and she sees one corner of Eythora’s lips twitch upward. She curses, instantly readying herself to apologize profusely, to backtrack and reassure Eythora that she likes her too, that she’s just not ready to be anything but friends with anyone right now, but that that in no way reflects what a great person she is. 

To Aly’s surprise, Eythora doesn’t react in the way she expects her to at all. Instead of being embarrassed, or insulted, or any of the other things a normal person would feel at copping such a lacklustre response, the girl’s lips stretch into a wide smile and she simply says, “You are welcome.”

“Eythora, I’m - “

“It’s okay. I understand.” Eythora tilts her head slightly to the side, her smile fading into a sober expression, her eyes still burnished with hope. “You are special, Aly. I wanted to tell you because you deserve to know it, no matter what has happened in your past.” She lowers her gaze. “Or what is yet to happen in your future.”

There is a tug at Aly’s heart, but that is all she can muster in response to Eythora’s bold, almost breathtaking vulnerability. Perhaps if there had never been a first time Aly met a fiery Russian with eyes the color of midnight storms; perhaps if there weren’t still so many parts of her clinging desperately to an entire world held together by dazzling, heartbreaking firsts.

Perhaps then, she could have offered Eythora something more than the tightened curl of fingers over the balcony railing, and a question that spills out so fast, it practically shouts her unease: 

“I think I’m up for trying those drinks. How about you?”

-----

If Aliya Mustafina had had her way, she wouldn’t be here, trudging up a sweltering fire escape because the lift in Team Italy’s building only goes to the twelfth floor.

Only at the tireless insistence of her teammates had she grudgingly thrown on a casual off-shoulder top and tight dark grey pants that cling so tightly to her legs, they look painted on. It’s the one outfit she has on hand that’s appropriate for what she knows will just be another booze-filled occasion. The younger girls, however, have been looking forward to the after-party for so long - possibly even more than competing in the actual Olympics - that for their sakes, Aliya had agreed to chaperone. Grebs had made it clear he wasn’t going to allow the Russian team within a ten foot pole of the Italians without a watchful eye he could trust.

As they ascend the final flight of stairs, Aliya turns to her team to deliver a pep talk, of sorts. “I know this doesn’t need saying, but try not to have too much fun. These things can get very crazy, very fast. You all know by now that everything we do always gets back to the adults.” She fixes a stern look on the girls and repeats for emphasis, “Always.”

They know who she means - it’s not just the scrupulous but kindly Grebs, but Valentina and her entire crew of bureaucratic minions who view as divinely ordained their right to dictate every aspect of Team Russia’s public and private lives.

Melka, dressed in an adorable blue collared dress Aliya had helped pick out, stares at her with round saucer eyes. “Too much fun? What do you mean?” 

Next to her, Seda frowns, jutting out her bottom lip. “Whatever happened to ‘the true way of the Russian gymnast’?” Behind them, Masha crosses her arms over her chest and smirks at Aliya, waiting for how she’ll go about explaining the coded warning. 

“I only mean to say that certain undesirable things tend to occur at these gatherings. Things that result either from a gross lack of judgment,” Aliya glares at the stifled guffaw that escapes from Masha’s throat, “or the mistaken impression that the standards we are held to on international assignments do not apply here. Keep your eyes open and your common sense in working order. You will have a far better time.“ Her vague answer and unspoken or else is met with more blank looks. Aliya sighs and brings her fingers up to rub at her temple. 

What she means to say is that they had better damn well not pull a ‘Nabieva’; that is, the act of making out with a deadbeat British gymnast, only to have to be dragged off the premises kicking and screaming after discovering him making out with someone else in a broom closet less than two hours later. As if she expected anything else.

That experience was only slightly less horrible than the time Ksenia fed an aged weed muffin to Dementyeva as a practical joke at Euros, not foreseeing how the girl would cry hysterically for three hours straight, thinking her legs had turned into bacon. As that particular incident had almost endangered Russian’s best chance of an individual beam medal, the coaches had been particularly vexed. The brunt of their displeasure had fallen on Aliya, who without fail was expected to keep the others in line.

Aliya’s eyes drift from Seda’s mute attentiveness, to Dasha and Gelya’s innocent stares and imperceptible nods - and it hits her that this team is cut from an entirely different cloth than their rebellious predecessors. She is letting herself be needlessly plagued by history that is unlikely to repeat itself.

Aliya gives a rueful shake of her head, and the lines in her face soften. “Forget I said anything.” Her tone is instantly that of a friend, not their vigilant team captain. “Let’s all just enjoy the night.”

It is a command her teammates take seriously as soon as they are let through the entrance by a white fluffy unicorn, or rather an extremely bubbly Ellie Downie. Seda and Masha both make a beeline for the well-stocked drinks table as soon as they spot it, while Dasha and Gelya are immediately pulled away by Elisa Meneghini towards the center of a cavernous space teeming with gymnasts intent on milking every last drop of fun from a rare night off at the Olympics.

Aliya trails them at a slight distance, scoping out the overwhelming scene with careful and thorough sweeps. It’s crowded, even more than usual for these extravagant post-competition celebrations. She offers courteous smiles to a few people who wave as she walks past, but doesn’t linger long enough for them to draw her into conversation. 

Aliya doesn’t interrogate too closely the reasons why her eyes are drawn almost immediately to Gabby Douglas, laughing with a mix of girls from Team Netherlands and Japan in the far lefthand side of the room. Her small flicker of delight at discovering the Americans in attendance is marred by the disconcerting observation that there is no sign of Eythora, nor of Aly.

“Alka, over here. Check these out!” 

Aliya spins around to the sound of Seda’s excited voice. She grins at the sight of her teammate cradling a rack of test tubes in the crook of her left arm like it’s a newborn baby. The tubes slosh precariously with a bright blue liquid. Seda’s other hand grips a paper plate with several slices of pizza stacked on top of each other. Masha follows behind with plastic cups, an instantly recognizable bottle of Mamont vodka, and an expression of exasperation on her face.

“A few good bottles of Mamont and Moskovskaya Osobaya, and still the baby just went for the most colorful thing on the table.” Masha sets the cups and the curved glass bottle on the aluminium bar table they’ve claimed. Her eyes regard the test tubes disdainfully.

“I went for the most interesting thing on the table. As opposed to something we can drink like water back home,” Seda retorts.

Masha lets out a snort. “You wish you could drink Mamont like water. I’ve seen you almost pass out just from sniffing a glass of it, Tutkhalyan.”

Aliya accepts one of the tubes from a scowling Seda with a laugh. She brings it up to eye level to inspect the unconventional choice, before downing it all in one go. A few seconds later, a pleasant warmth spreads through her body and Aliya gives a slight nod of approval. “This is at least thirty percent fruit syrup, but there’s also a decent amount of rum mixed into it. You might be pleasantly surprised, Masha.” Seda grins as Aliya reaches for another tube.

Someone claps their hand on Aliya’s forearm as if they are old friends, and Aliya stiffens at the unexpected contact. She turns to find herself face to face with Carlotta Ferlito. Her surprise subsides and she allows herself a small smile.

“Carlotta,” Aliya says, nodding in greeting. The Italian has on more makeup than usual, applied in a way that amplifies the severe angles of her face. She’s wearing a bomber jacket over denims and paratrooper boots. Outside of the gym, the girl has always had a strange fascination with the military aesthetic. Aliya still remembers the 2013 Euros after-party in Moscow, when she had discreetly informed Ferlito that the ‘cool’ insignia on her shirt was not in fact a symbol of Roman justice, but rather the version appropriated by the fascists under Benito Mussolini. The Italian hadn’t seemed fazed by the correction.

“Aliya,” Ferlito replies, curling her lips into a smile. She acknowledges Seda and Masha with a dip of her head before focusing again on their leader. “You did great in the all-around final yesterday,” she tells Aliya in Italian. It’s rare for Ferlito to speak in a language other than her native one, and as Seda and Masha don’t understand Italian, they can only stand there awkwardly with polite smiles on their faces.

“Thank you,” Aliya replies quietly, also in Italian. She plans to keep this exchange short, because it feels rude to carry on a conversation in a language that the others present don’t speak. 

Still, Aliya holds back a grin when she sees Seda elbow Masha roughly and whisper in a loud voice, ‘She speaks Italian?’. It’s one of many things her younger teammates don’t know about her - there has never been any reason to flaunt it in front of them.

Aliya's focus is drawn back to Ferlito when the girl blows out a dramatic sigh. 

“You did Europe proud.”

Aliya frowns. “I think the girls who competed did their own countries proud, European or not.” She leaves aside the delicate philosophical and political questions around whether Russia can be truly considered part of Europe.

“I meant on the podium. It was nice to see some European representation on there.” Ferlito narrows her eyes and when she speaks again, her tone is low and vicious. “Too bad the Americans always have to hog the limelight, huh?” She looks at Aliya, as if expecting her to commiserate with her.

A fierce flash of protectiveness sparks somewhere in Aliya’s chest, and her eyebrow ticks up slightly. “Excuse me?” In her peripheral vision, she sees Masha send her a questioning stare.

“It makes the sport boring, always having the same people and team win everything,” Ferlito drawls.

Aliya's jaw clenches. The girl’s voice has the quality of brittle glass, like she means for every word to grate uncomfortably against the listener.

“Not everything.” It takes effort for Aliya to keep her expression slack. 

“It may as well be everything. They should make some rule that stops it from happening so much.”

This time, Aliya is unable to stop the sharp growl from whipping through her words. “There is a rule. The two-per country rule. The Americans consistently put up the best gymnasts, but are always having to choose who will have to miss out on winning more medals for their country.“ 

“Yes,” Ferlito acknowledges, but not really. “Well I think - ”

“The Americans keep winning because they are the best in the world,” Aliya snaps impatiently. She could care less what Ferlito thinks; she is quickly nearing her limit with this conversation, despite it having only lasted several minutes. “If anything, they make the sport better by forcing everyone to elevate their level of gymnastics. Perhaps the rest of us should follow their example and train to improve ourselves.” 

Her teammates don’t understand a word she’s saying, but Aliya sees their eyes widen in alarm. They’ve detected in her voice the same tone everyone at Lake Krugloye - including the coaches - knows to avoid if they value their lives.

“Maybe,” Ferlito drawls, smiling a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

For an instant, Aliya wonders what it’s like to embody so much pettiness inside. Then she decides she never wants to know. As far as Ferlito’s personal friendliness towards herself, Aliya had no reason to complain. It was the stories that got back to her about the Italian’s treatment of others - especially the Americans - that made her hold the girl at arm’s length.

So as not to risk ruining the night for Seda and Masha, Aliya forces the corners of her mouth to lift and changes the subject to a relatively safer one. “You girls did a good job with the place. Vanessa said your team skipped some training sessions to get everything ready.”

“We didn’t need the extra training. And this is nothing,” Ferlito scoffs as she waves a hand dismissively. “If this place wasn’t so far away from proper shops, we could have done it up much nicer.” 

Aliya nods in silence.

“You shouldn’t drink that.” Ferlito points at the test tube still in Aliya’s hand, and Aliya again feels her temper flare dangerously. If anything could set her off, it was someone telling her what she should and shouldn’t do. “We used the cheap stuff that was left over to make that. Wait here,” the Italian says in a showy display of magnanimity.

As Aliya watches Ferlito make her way swiftly to the nearby drinks table, Masha seizes the moment to lean forward over the table and hiss, “What the hell is going on? It looked like you were about to stab her with that test tube.” Seda, her mouth now stuffed with pizza, watches the exchange with huge eyes.

“If I were to stab anyone, I'd use something far more effective than a test tube.” 

Masha’s eyes widen slightly. “Why are you being so - “ Masha abruptly cuts her question off and draws away when Ferlito triumphantly reappears with four small glass tumblers held together with both hands. She places them in the center of the bar table and sweeps her hand over them to indicate that they should all try one.

Aliya drains the test tube still in her hand to make a point, before setting it back into a slot in the rack. She picks up one of the tumblers and slowly swirls the liquid inside the glass. It’s a thick peach color, sort of like guava juice. A steady stream of bubbles push their way to the surface. 

“What is in this?”

A smirk paints on Ferlito’s lips. “What else? Italian vodka. Only the best - Roberto Cavalli. Vanessa improved on it with her special recipe.“ 

Aliya wrinkles her nose. The strong alcoholic fume wafting upwards puts the drink on par with some of the harder Russian vodkas she is familiar with, but it’s also blended with a sickly, sweet scent. It isn’t best practice to mix such strong vodka with other drinks, and definitely not fruit juice, but she lets it go. Anything to avoid prolonging this conversation.

Ferlito takes a glass herself and holds it up. “Za zdarovje,” she says, possibly the only phrase in Russian she knows, and tosses it back. She almost pulls it off too, but for an undignified cough on the last swallow. Ferlito wipes her lips with the back of her hand and looks at Aliya, a silent challenge glinting in her eyes. 

Aliya holds Ferlito’s gaze as she throws the glass back in one smooth movement. The liquid burns as it flows down her throat, but she’s trained to control the automatic grimace that normally accompanies the sensation.

“Not bad,” Aliya comments, her voice made slightly thicker by the alcohol. Other than acquiring a small buzz, she is largely unaffected by it.

Ferlito simpers. “Of course.”

The Italian bids them goodbye soon after, but not without several more minutes of complaining about the sub-par Olympic facilities in Rio. As she saunters away, Aliya catches Masha rolling her eyes into another dimension.

“I feel like I just watched a B-grade mafia movie where the gang leaders have a stupid thrown down, and then take each other out in an even stupider shootout,” Masha mutters. Seda, having been on high alert the whole time Ferlito was there, finally relaxes enough to let out a giggle. She reaches out to take one of the tumblers Ferlito had brought over and takes a small sip.

“Oh my god.” Seda chokes and nearly drops the glass, her free hand flying up to press against her mouth. “It tastes like sweetened petrol.” 

“That would be the Italian mafia,” Aliya tells Masha, reaching over to thump Seda gently on the back. “The Russians don’t bother with the first bit. They just get straight to the shooting.”

The withering look on Masha’s face cheers Aliya up a little. “So what did Ferlito say to you, that you had to roast her like that?”

Aliya shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Then why?” Masha narrows her eyes. ““Americano’. I heard you both say it a couple of times.”

Another shrug rolls off Aliya’s shoulders, perhaps a bit too casually. She lowers her gaze and plays with the glass in her hand, running a finger along its smooth clear edge.

“Ferlito said something mean about the Americans, and it got to you.” 

Aliya snaps her head up at the edge in Masha’s tone. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” Heading off Ferlito’s oversized ego had already tasked her enough, and she isn’t sure her patience can handle any more tests.

“Hardly anything gets to you, Aliya.” 

“That’s not true. Quality vodka mixed with fruit juice gets to me.”

“You still care for her.” It’s more statement than question. 

“Who?”

“Her.”

Aliya feels herself hardening, ready to do battle the same way she’s continuously been doing for what seems a lot longer than four years. It feels like forever, given how arguments with and for and over Aly have sunk into and fused to her very bones. She risks battle at almost every corner, in every conversation; battles with friends over the foolishness of letting an American gymnast get under her skin, battles with herself over her inability to let that gymnast go, no matter how much the fighting tears her up inside. Even if she was born to fight, and everyone who has ever known her tells her she was, Aliya thinks that maybe she no longer wants to.

So for once, Aliya surrenders. She lets quiet resignation emerge from the shadows of imprisoned hopes, lets it wind and soothe its way over raw pain and the permanent chill upon her heart, lets it shape the words that fall softly from her lips.

“Yes. And I will, always.”

The open vulnerability in Aliya’s answer causes Masha to jolt in surprise and visibly swallow whatever retort she was preparing to fling. Aliya sighs, the tension in her body releasing as she does.

“I cannot help what I do or do not feel, Masha. I’m too tired to fight it anymore. What will be, will be.” Aliya says nothing more, but it is enough that a grudging understanding, if not agreement, settles in Masha’s eyes. 

Suddenly the girl clears her throat, her eyes flitting to rest somewhere behind Aliya. “Speaking of Americans…”

“Laurie,” Aliya hears Seda utter in disbelief. 

Aliya turns to see Laurie Hernandez hovering timidly near their table. The girl fidgets with her hands, her huge eyes darting nervously from Seda, to Aliya, to Masha, then back to Seda. She shifts her weight uneasily from foot to foot, as if the slightest sound will frighten her and send her scurrying away.

Aliya shoots Masha a faint warning glance. Masha rolls her eyes in resignation and strides away in the opposite direction, presumably to retrieve more drinks. She can accept her team captain’s incomprehensible connection to an American, but isn’t yet at the stage where she wants to carry on small talk with yet another one.

Observing the growing uncertainty on both Laurie and Seda’s faces, Aliya decides she owes them both a smoothing over of relations. She recalls with a small degree of shame how dismissive she had been towards Laurie that day in the cafeteria.

Aliya takes a step forward, grinning. “It is good see you here, Laurie.” 

Laurie’s shoulders slump in relief, and Aliya almost laughs at how Seda’s face breaks into an equally relieved smile.

“I’m a huge fan of yours,” the American blurts out, then immediately blushes. 

It reminds Aliya a little bit of Aly, and a surprising warmth of affection rolls over her. She gently dips her head forward. “Thank you. I enjoy also your gymnastics.”

The girl blushes even further and scuffs her foot upon the floor. “How was the um, beach?” 

When Seda’s eyebrows rocket up to her hairline, and she gives a minuscule shake of her head to try and telepathically convey to Laurie that this really isn’t something she should be bringing up, it all clicks into place for Aliya. So she had been wrong to accuse Aly of masterminding the blatant conspiracy to get her alone.

But to her own surprise, as well as those of the two younger girls, Aliya’s grin only grows. No matter the circumstances, she owes them for some of the happiest hours she’s lived in a long time.

“The beach is wonderful,” Aliya says, taking care to enunciate the word ‘beach’ properly. “You must go yourself when Olympics are finished.”

With that, the final dregs of tension immediately evaporate. Laurie sheds her initial trepidation and launches into an enthusiastic dialogue about how Team USA does have plans to do some sightseeing as soon as event finals are over.

Aliya listens attentively. She is glad to have cleared up any misgivings Laurie might have had of her. The pleasant possibility of the rest of Laurie’s team eventually finding their way to her doesn’t escape Aliya, either.

-----

At first, Aliya doesn’t know what to make of the interruption.

She had started the night with a rudimentary understanding of grilled chicken, but by the time it happened, Aliya felt she had more than earned a bachelor’s degree on the subject.

Seda and Laurie are thorough in their education. Maybe a bit too thorough. They were only just shifting into second gear with their over-detailed, salivating descriptions of every which way one can consume that most sacred of meats - smoked, Moroccan style, stuffed into things called ‘fajitas’, breaded with panko bread crumbs, chopped up and served with yoghurt cucumber salad, tossed in with Alfredo pasta, smothered in lightly toasted mozzarella…

More fascinating was how swiftly the language barrier fell away in the face of their shared passion. Sure, Google Translate was called upon a couple of times, but Aliya has never seen Seda more confident with her English than when exchanging obscure recipes, bursts of laughter and even playful shoves with the American. It was obvious why Seda had taken so quickly to Laurie. The two share more character traits than they probably realize. Both ooze likeability, and both seem to approach the world and everything in it with eyes, minds and hearts wide open.

It was about halfway through a heated debate over whether one should ever dip grilled chicken more than five times in cilantro sauce that Aliya picks up on Eythora approaching their little group from the far side of the room. The girl is alone, and her long, quick strides indicate she is in an uncomfortable hurry.

As Eythora draws close, a knot of apprehension slowly unfolds itself in the pit of Aliya’s stomach. When Eythora is within a mere two steps from them, it’s clear she shares the same apprehension. Purposefully avoiding Aliya’s watchful gaze, she immediately darts over to seek a private audience with Laurie.

“Laurie. May I speak with you?”

Laurie starts, distracted mid-sentence, and turns to where Eythora is hanging back.

“Eythora?” Laurie’s mouth gapes open, before pulling into a big, excited smile. She doesn’t seem to register the worry Aliya observes hovering in Eythora’s eyes. “Oh wow. I’ve been meaning to introduce myself to you. I’ve watched your floor routines about a thousand times. No, definitely more than that. I love you.” 

Laurie launches forward as if she’s about to hug the Dutch girl, but hesitates right at the last second. Eythora gives a light laugh and closes the distance, pulling the American into a friendly embrace.

Aliya lingers silently to the side, certain Eythora hadn’t come all this way just for a hug. She can feel Seda next to her, itching to go up and make proper acquaintance with Eythora too - like Laurie, she harbors a huge respect for the Dutch gymnast - but it is clear Eythora’s attention remains entirely focused on Laurie. 

“It’s great to finally meet you,” Aliya hears Eythora tell Laurie when they separate. “I was wondering… do you have a few minutes?” Eythora makes a subtle motion with her head, a universal sign that whatever she’s about to say would be best kept between them.

“Oh. Sure.” Laurie casts an apologetic glance towards Seda and Aliya before shuffling a few steps over to where Eythora has planted herself. It’s not so far that Aliya can’t pick up key bits of information over the noise by straining her ears.

“I don’t… Aly needs… best if you take her home. I can… but… show me the way to… apartment.”

Aliya’s breath seizes in her chest, and her fingers curl into a fist. That name, and the way Laurie’s face takes on a panicked expression, sends her striding over to them.

Aly needs help.

Laurie looks up with a jerk when Aliya nears.

“Something is wrong?” Aliya asks the girl, spine rigid, but voice quiet and steady. She is unfazed by the enigmatic look Eythora directs at her. It’s not exactly unwelcoming, but neither is it happy at the intrusion.

Laurie’s uneasiness over whatever is unfolding causes an answer to tumble out in one quick rush. “Eythora says Aly isn’t feeling well and needs help getting back to our apartment. The sooner, the better.”

Aliya glances over at Eythora in time to see her mouth fall open, then snap shut, its corners tightening imperceptibly.

That only adds to Aliya’s suspicions, but concern for Aly overrides every other consideration.

“Where is she?”

-----

Even slumped in a chair, her head drooped down and resting limply on her chest, legs splayed out in front, Aly Raisman is beautiful. Aliya stops dead in her tracks at the sliding door, eyes transfixed on the girl. She barely notices when Eythora and Laurie push past her to get closer to Aly’s silent form. 

“Aly?” Eythora leans down to tap Aly lightly on the shoulder. Aly stirs with a small groan, but does not wake.

Aliya scans the balcony, expending little time on the impressive night views of the city. Her eyes come to rest on two tall glasses resting on a low-set table. One is empty but for a few familiar pink drops, while the other is still mostly full with the awful vodka-fruit juice concoction Ferlito had offered to them before.

“She drink all the glass?” Aliya points and asks, eyes widening slightly. 

Turning at the question, Eythora meets Aliya’s penetrating stare with a frown. “I didn’t realize what was in the fruit punch. We were talking, and before I knew it Aly had finished the whole thing.”

“It is almost all pure vodka.” Aliya doesn’t mean for the words to snap out so briskly, but when she sees Eythora’s jaw clench a little, she can’t bring herself to care much. Her thoughts are entirely preoccupied with why Aly was out here alone with Eythora, drinking herself to oblivion; how it was that Eythora hadn’t deduced that when it comes to alcohol, Aly can handle about as much as an infant mouse can; and, with a tiny hint of pride, how Aly had even managed to wash down so much of it.

The three of them stand there in the dim light of the balcony, staring at the hunched over, lightly breathing Aly Raisman.

It is Laurie who breaks the silence with a light cough. “Um. I should probably get her back to our place, but I’m not sure where my other teammates are. They left awhile ago with a few of the other gymnasts to get more food. They haven’t been back for awhile, and they're not answering their phones.” She trails off, anxiety clouding her features. 

An odd, instinctive sense of responsibility for someone she’s personally met for barely more than twenty minutes propels Aliya towards Laurie’s side to reassure her. “It will being okay,” she says, and Laurie looks at her with a grateful expression. “We help you.”

Striding over to where Eythora is stationed like a guard over Aly, Aliya kneels down and reaches out to give the American a firm shake on the arm. “Aly.”

Aly stirs again, and for a second it looks as if she hasn’t heard a thing. But then she cracks one glassy eye open. The other follows soon after. She blinks several times, bringing her hands up to rub at her eyes with the backs of her knuckles. When Aly manages to bring them into focus, she locks onto Aliya with a sudden, breathtaking grin that makes Aliya almost forget that they are not alone and in their own little world again.

“Aliya.” Her voice is scratchy, rasped with sleep. “Hi.”

Aliya feels the ghost of a smile brush her lips. “Hello, Aly.”

“Am I dreaming?”

Aliya shakes her head.

“I knew you’d come.”

A wider smile threatens to spawn on Aliya’s face, but she tamps it down. She reaches out to wrap her fingers gently around Aly’s wrist. “It is time to going back,” she says.

Aliya is completely unprepared for Aly how jolts in horror at those words. She has to quickly steady her hand on Aly’s shoulder to stop her from accidentally toppling to the ground.

“But I’m not ready to go back! I still have to compete in event finals. I have to watch the other girls compete in event finals. I have to - ” Aly chokes a little, wild eyes landing on Aliya’s face. “I mean, I still haven’t - “ The words die on her lips, but the truth Aliya sees burning in Aly’s panicked stare causes a sudden thickness to materialize in her throat.

“She means go back to the apartment, Aly,” Laurie calls out worriedly from behind Aliya. Aliya snaps her gaze away from Aly, the ache in her chest growing heavier by the second, but keeps the arm supporting Aly up in place.

“I’ll walk her back,” Eythora offers, up until this point having observed everything in silence. Aliya looks up at the Dutch girl, unsurprised but uneasy at the fierce concern on her face.

“Won’t whatever she’s on wear off after awhile? Can we give her something to sober up? Water?“ Laurie suggests.

“Water is no use,” Aliya tells her. “She is needing to rest. It will take some time. It is better she go back.”

Eythora clears her throat. “Like I said, I’ll walk her to where she’s staying. I would be happy to.” She stands with arms across her chest, mouth tightly set.

“No.”

They all turn towards Aly, who had somehow managed to follow the conversation enough to voice her objection. Aly struggles to sit up, pushing off on the chair with one hand, while pressing the palm of the other to her right temple with a grimace. This one moment of clarity is obviously costing her a huge amount of effort. 

“No, Eythora,” Aly repeats. “I’ve already taken up too much of your night and I feel terrible about it. Laurie can help me back.”

Laurie nods quickly and makes a move to step forward, when Aliya places a hand on her arm. “I will do this,” she says. She pretends not to notice Eythora’s eyes widen in protest.

“But - “ Laurie flicks her gaze rapidly back and forth between the other girls.

“You need to waiting here for your team. Tell them Aly will going back first, that she is okay.”

Aliya’s words make Laurie stop short. “I guess. Yeah, they might worry, otherwise.” Her brows furrow. “Are you sure you don’t need me to go with you? Do you know where our apartment is?”

Eythora’s cuts in. “I do. I can help you escort her back, Aliya.” 

But Aliya already has an answer for that too. She gives a firm shake of the head. “Russia apartment is very close to Americans. It will be no problem for me to walk with Aly.” Looking straight at Eythora, she states matter of factly, “It is far for you.”

As she lays down her case, Aliya utters a silent prayer of thanks to whoever planned the layout of the Olympic Village. By complete chance, Team Netherlands is staying at the opposite end of the Village to where the Russians and Americans are located, and it would take Eythora a good half hour of walking to return to her own living quarters. It gave Aliya the advantage of convenience, and the perfect cover.

Cover for what, exactly, is the part Aliya is unsure about.

Aliya sees Eythora suck in a sharp breath, her shoulders bunching up as if readying to put up resistance. She almost doesn’t believe it when the Dutch girl gives a curt nod, and the matter is decided.

Relief washes over Aliya like a crashing wave. She turns her full attention back towards Aly, who has evidently lost her fight with gravity and sunk into the chair again.

“You can walk, Aly?” Aliya asks, not without a little worry. They aren’t going to get very far if she can’t.

At that, Aly snaps her gaze up to Aliya’s face and rolls her eyes - or rather, she tries to. Mid-eye roll, Aly hisses in through clenched teeth and slaps a hand to her forehead. Still, she manages to throw out, “I flip on beams. Of course I can walk.” 

Aliya only nods, biting her cheeks to hide a smile.

At Aliya’s suggestion, and with Aly sandwiched between Aliya and Laurie, one arm slung over each of them, they stagger back inside the apartment and skirt around the darkest edges of the room to the exit in order to draw as little attention to themselves as possible. Eythora follows closely on their heels. Most people are now so well advanced into their partying, they don’t take a second glance at a few gymnasts stumbling awkwardly together. 

“Alka?”

The implicit challenge that zips through the air in the form of her name sends a chill down Aliya’s back. She should have known that even their best attempts at being inconspicuous couldn’t have kept Masha at bay. 

Aliya pauses, shifting slightly to rebalance Aly’s weight, watching warily as Masha jogs up to them, Seda right behind her. She signals to Laurie with a small smile that this will only take a moment. Inwardly, Aliya braces herself for the confrontation that is sure to ensue. She knows what this looks like; already, Masha’s completely sensible warnings about ‘moving on’ and ‘self-preservation’ and ‘doing what’s best for yourself’ are sounding off in her head.

As soon as Masha halts in front of them, her gaze darts mistrustfully towards Aly. Her lips part, and Aliya prepares to shut down her teammate before she has a chance to say anything.

Instead, Masha merely crooks an eyebrow at Aliya in a silent question.

“I will explain later,” Aliya says in Russian, faintly surprised, and suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude at her friend’s restraint. “Make sure the other girls get back safely tonight.”

by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), whose first and greatest love was an orphaned mathematician-in-training by the name of Susan Gilbert.

“That’s not true. Quality vodka mixed with fruit juice gets to me.”

“You still care for her.” It’s more statement than question.  

“Who?”

“Her.”

Aliya feels herself hardening, ready to do battle the same way she’s continuously been doing for what seems a lot longer than four years. It feels like forever, given how arguments with and for and over Aly have sunk into and fused to her very bones. She risks battle at almost every corner, in every conversation; battles with friends over the foolishness of letting an American gymnast get under her skin, battles with herself over her inability to let that gymnast go, no matter how much the fighting tears her up inside. Even if she was born to fight, and everyone who has ever known her tells her she was, Aliya thinks that maybe she no longer wants to.

So for once, Aliya surrenders. She lets quiet resignation emerge from the shadows of imprisoned hopes, lets it wind and soothe its way over raw pain and the permanent chill in her heart, lets it shape the words that fall softly from her lips.

“Yes. And I will, always.”

- Preview - Second Thoughts, Chapter 8

Written to Hurts Like Hell, Fleurie

Hi Anon! Yes I am. I’m up 18,000 words on Chapter 8, essentially three chapters smooshed into one. Almost done, filling in the details now. It’s a special chapter to me (lots of cute moments) and hopefully will make up for the rather long break. It’s been a task trying to fit in writing between uprooting cities, but it’s starting to feel like the ground isn’t heaving beneath my feet as much.

Stay tuned. 

ST?