Chapter Text
There’s nothing like being in the water.
Nothing quite like gliding through the lane in the pool, arms and legs perfectly coordinated with each stroke as the waves curl over and under the body, ripples trailing behind. The symphony of motions creates a sense of peace and tranquility, all noise blocked out and muffled under the surface.
While some visitors utilize lap swim for casual exercise, others need the pool to train for competitive events like regional swim meets or triathlons.
Bertolt Hoover used to swim competitively, but now he mostly comes to the aquatic center to coach and help manage the youth swim club.
Despite today being one of the few days he has off from work, he still finds himself in the water, goggles fastened and swim cap fitted. He kicks to a steady rhythm, legs fluttering up and down, with equal emphasis on precision and force. As he streamlines down his lane in the Olympic-sized pool, like an arrowhead cutting through with ease, he reaches and pulls with one arm, takes a breath, rotates his shoulder, then reaches and pulls with the next. Nearing the end of the lane, he grazes the wall with his fingers, then swiftly tucks his body under, and flips before pushing off and resuming the freestyle stroke in the opposite course.
Back and forth, back and forth…
Bertolt swims until the hour is up.
The scent of chlorine follows him into the locker room.
Bertolt marvels at how despite all the shampoos and soaps he’ll lather up in, showering never seems to fully rid the lingering trace of pool chemicals.
When he’s done drying off and changing in the men’s locker room he reports to the aquatic center’s main office per the director’s request.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” he says, idling in the doorway.
“Yes, Hoover,” the director replies. He bids him entry, and Bertolt obliges. “I have a proposition for you.”
Bertolt tilts his head, questioningly. “Really?” He hopes he doesn’t sound too clueless. Or meek.
He’s always been too polite – particularly polite for an athlete. Apparently, antiquated things like respect and courtesy are problematic in testosterone fueled environments. It’s tantamount to weakness.
Which is ironic, Bertolt thinks to himself, because he was the only one back in his college days who qualified for the Olympics. Always the top swimmer at nationals. Practically dominated every stroke and never once gloated or showboated his achievements like his opponents or even some of his own teammates.
His father had raised him better than that.
“What kind of proposition?” Bertolt asks, brushing off the thought.
The director waits a few beats before offering further details. “How are things with the MYSC?” he pries instead.
The MYSC is an acronym for the “Marley Youth Swim Club,” a private and elite team comprised of the region’s top swimmers from the ages of ten to seventeen. Only serious athletes, hoping to one day compete at the collegiate and professional level, are accepted into the prestigious program.
Bertolt takes pride in his work, more than grateful for the opportunity.
“Great,” he responds, smiling. “The kids are excited for the training camp this fall. Gabi beat her personal best at last weekend’s meet. Falco should qualify for the Junior’s Classic next season.”
“Good to hear,” the director says, listening intently. “You’ve been coaching for how long now? Three, four years?”
“Almost five,” Bertolt amends, wondering where this conversation is heading.
“And in those five years, according to these stats here,” the director continues, reaching for the clipboard at his desk, “you’ve managed to keep our swim club consistently ranked… first in both the boy’s and girl’s divisions.” He stops reading the numbers on the spreadsheet only to look up, pointedly as though searching for confirmation. “Is that correct?"
Bertolt chuckles awkwardly, downplaying it all. He’s never been one to brag. He’s never liked being the center of attention.
But it’s a simple fact. He’s a damn good swimmer - and he’s a damn good coach. “Yes, sir. That’s right.”
The director finishes perusing his clipboard and sets it back down, satisfied. “Think you might be ready to move on to the big leagues?”
“Move on?” Bertolt repeats. “You mean-” He trails off when the director pulls out a manila folder inscribed with the official monogram of the Marleyan Professional Swimmer’s League.
“I want you to be an assistant coach for the pros this season, Hoover,” the director interjects, no longer keen on formalities. Cuts right to the chase.
“But what about MYSC?” Bertolt asks, rather impulsively. “I’ve been working with some of these kids since-”
“Yes,” the director interrupts again. “For the past five years.” He briefly leafs through the folder before handing it over. “But you have the chance to train real professionals. You know, the kind with medals and sponsorships. The works. Here, take a look at the roster.”
Bertolt hesitates a moment, but he ultimately relents and quietly assesses the contents of the folder.
He recognizes a few faces; swimmers he’d trained with back in college. There’s the Galliard brothers, Porco and Marcel. The rest are strangers. Fresh meat.
“We got some new recruits, too,” the director says as an equal means of enticement and boasting. “Should be good for publicity. Pedigree. Whatever.”
It’s by some sort of miracle Bertolt suppresses the frown tugging at both corners of his mouth. Sometimes he wonders when the director stopped being an honorable man with genuine love for the sport and morphed into a sleazeball who cares more about sales and numbers.
He almost slips out a word in defiance – but all thoughts are quickly frayed when he turns to the next page on the roster sheet.
He freezes, eyes glued to the page in shock, mouth slightly agape.
He knows the athlete featured on the page. Knows her all too well.
Ymir…
She still looks like herself. Chestnut brown hair. Bright hazel eyes. Freckles and all.
It’s like seeing a ghost.
“Something wrong?” the director probes.
Bertolt snaps himself back to the present, shaking his head in dismissal.
“No, sir,” he says, feigning conviction. “I appreciate the offer, generous as it is. But I’m perfectly content with what I do.”
The director rebuffs the rejection – for the time being. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a couple weeks to think about it.” When that’s not enough he throws in extra bait. “You’d be making double, or even triple, what you make now. Just think about it.”
Bertolt can’t stop thinking about her.
He barely makes the next train. Nearly misses his own stop when it arrives downtown.
His thoughts are a cluttered mess, consumed by memories of his hometown, his early swimming days, and his friends from back then. Friends like… Ymir.
It’s not until his phone buzzes in his pocket that he finally stops his aimless pace out of the train station to answer the call.
“Bertolt!” It’s Reiner, and he sounds frantic. “Where are you? We’ve been waiting here for over half an hour!”
“I’m almost there,” Bertolt assures, hurrying past a stoplight. He stays on the line with Reiner for a few more blocks until he reaches a familiar and bustling bar.
It’s busier than usual tonight; louder and noticeably warmer.
Reiner practically drags Bertolt to a corner booth away from the chaos where he’s welcomed and comforted by Pieck, Colt, and an excess of booze.
“Hey, stranger,” Pieck greets with a hug. “Got something for ya.”
Bertolt’s unable to get a word out before she funnels a sampling of her mixed cocktail down his throat. He swallows, and then coughs a few times in the aftermath of the burn. Strong. Too strong.
“Soooo… shots?” Reiner suggests, hyping up the peanut gallery.
Bertolt hasn’t quite finished coughing yet, but he powers through it and takes a tequila shot in tandem with the group.
“I guess I’m getting drunk tonight,” he says, as though accepting fate.
“That’s the spirit!” Pieck chirps, clearly a few steps ahead. Or drinks ahead, rather. “You guys have any quarters?”
Colt is the only one with change. Offers a hefty supply. “Playing pinball?”
Pieck shakes her head. “Jukebox,” she reveals, hiccupping. “I wanna change the song for when Porco shows up.”
Reiner laughs. “Ha! What song?”
Pieck shrugs. “I dunno yet… but I gotta time it out just right.” She slips out of the booth and makes a beeline toward the jukebox, humming in consideration.
“Let me help,” Colt huffs, following her in concern. “I have extra quarters if you need them.”
Left alone with Reiner in the booth, Bertolt releases all prior inhibitions and completely unloads.
“If I’d had known Porco was invited tonight, I probably wouldn’t have come,” he admits, taking a swig from his mug.
Reiner quirks a brow, sensing trouble ahead. “Why? ‘Cause he’s an asshole? You swam together for years. You should be used to it.”
Bertolt chuckles, but it’s mirthless. Shakes his head. “I can put up with jerks, and to be fair, it’s not like back when we were in college. Porco’s mellowed out a lot. It’s just… I can tell he’s never really cared to be around me.”
Reiner waves him off. Offers a reassuring pat on the back. “Porco doesn’t hate you,” he clarifies. “But I think it’s obvious he’s threatened by you or feels inferior in some way.”
Bertolt’s eyes widen to their maximum circumference, in pure and utter disbelief. “Threatened? By me?”
“I was trying to avoid the word ‘jealous,’” Reiner replies, grinning behind an emptied bottle. “Jealousy seems like such a juvenile emotion. Anyway, like I said, it’s obvious. You were always the better swimmer and you were always so humble about it.”
“No need to dwell on that anymore,” Bertolt mumbles, almost unintentionally. On the subject of envy, however, Bertolt’s always wished he had Porco’s competitive edge. Wished he had more of an aggressive drive.
“Alsooooo…” Reiner carries on, reminding him of one key detail. “I think it drove him a little nuts when you and Pieck were dating.”
Bertolt grimaces in recollection. “That was forever ago.” Oops. “What does that matter now? They got together not long after she and I broke up.” By all accounts, Porco’s won.
Reiner laughs before ordering another round. “Still bothers him, I bet. He’s always been territorial.”
“Well…” Bertolt sighs, no relief achieved. “Think it’d bother him if I were to somehow become one of the new coaches for the team?”
Reiner nearly spills his drink at that. “Holy shit, you got a promotion?!” He raises his glass and clinks it against Bertolt’s drink, booze sloshing onto the table. “Congrats!”
Bertolt’s quick to remedy the mess, wiping the sticky surface with a handful of napkins. “Not officially,” he explains. “They offered me the position, but I said I’d have to think about it.”
“Why?”
“Because I like coaching for MYSC.”
“Time to upgrade. I bet the pay is up to snuff.”
“Well yeah but… it’s more than that…”
“What more do you need?”
“Quite literally nothing. I’d be set. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“Okay… then what’s holding you back?”
The question stings. Cuts. Hurts.
Bertolt’s not drunk enough to reveal the truth. To numb the pain.
But he’s with Reiner, his best friend. The one person he can tell absolutely anything, anytime. After his father’s passing, that is. Damn, he’s really been missing his father lately.
Bertolt finishes off his drink. Then downs another for good measure. The burn’s starting to feel pleasant.
“I saw the roster,” Bertolt begins. “Saw some of the recruits.”
Reiner’s smile fades, instincts tuned in to the ominous precedence being set. “New recruits. Go on.”
Bertolt doesn’t leave him in suspense for too long. “Ymir’s on the team this season.”
Reiner lets out a low whistle. “Ymir?” he asks, realization sinking in. “I take it she has no idea you coach at the aquatic center.”
“We lost touch years ago,” is all Bertolt’s tainted sobriety will permit.
Reiner releases a harsh grunt. Slams down another shot. “That…” he drawls, pausing, “is gonna be really awkward.”
Bertolt eyes him disdainfully but says nothing. Despite the warmth radiating in his chest from the booze, he doesn’t feel any better than he did the moment he saw Ymir’s photo in the roster booklet. Sure as hell doesn’t help that he might actually consider stepping down from coaching the youth swim club – for the money, of course – when he genuinely loves the work he does.
And to top it all off, he’s been thinking about his father more and more every day. Misses him most when he’s in the water.
Can this night get any worse?
Reiner perks up, breaking Bertolt’s fixation on the stains splattered against the booth cushions, and alerts him that yes, this night can and probably will get worse.
Pieck, in impeccable timing, purposefully selects her song of choice on the jukebox, (I Just) Died in Your Arms by Cutting Crew, and waits for her master plan to unfold.
Reiner and Bertolt watch from the safe distance of the booth as Porco and Marcel stroll inside the bar – and soon discover that they’ve invited some extra company.
Ymir emerges from behind Marcel as Porco wanders off to meet Pieck at the jukebox, crooning and swaying along with the music.
“Ohhh, I just died in your arms tonight!” she sings, drunkenly off-beat. “Must’ve been something you said…!”
Porco cuts her off with a kiss, hoisting her up and twirling her around as she laughs and laughs.
Ymir and Marcel waste no time heading to the bar and quenching their thirst. Colt joins them when he tires of third-wheeling for Porco and Pieck and informs them of the booth they’d reserved earlier.
“Reiner saved us a spot,” Colt says, hopelessly unaware of the awkward repercussions. “Let’s go sit down.”
Reiner tries to give Bertolt a heads up as Marcel and Ymir follow Colt to the booth, his presence seemingly unnoticed. “They’re heading this way,” he whispers, but it’s too late.
Bertolt has never really been one to swear or use an excessive amount of profanity.
But much like his entire day thus far, tonight has been difficult.
“Shit.” Bertolt hastily rises from the booth and stands to his feet, only to be stopped in his tracks.
Marcel is the first to burst into the scene. “What’s up?!” he shouts, far too cheerfully. “Hey, Bertolt’s here! Dude, it’s been a while. How’ve ya been?!”
Bertolt can’t so much as awkwardly wave in greeting before Marcel reels him in for a hug. Unlike Porco, Marcel’s always been a hugger.
“Yeah, good. Hi Marcel,” is the best Bertolt can do.
When they part, Marcel hurriedly scoots inside the booth to greet Reiner, leaving Ymir and Bertolt standing face to face. No safeguard. No barrier.
Pieck’s song selection from earlier is still going, making the moment far more dramatic than it needs to be. Or maybe it’s fitting, Bertolt ponders. Either way, now that Ymir’s here, completely real and palpable, he decides there’s no other recourse than to acknowledge her.
“Um, hi,” he says, jaw clenched and hands thrusted into his pockets.
He half-expects her to blow him off. Perhaps even curse at him.
She does neither. Instead…
“Hey, Bert.” She’s as nonchalant as ever. Except the thing he remembers most about her from when they were kids is how her eyes always revealed more than words and body language. Hazel rimmed irises with bright splashes of green. There’s always a certain kind of intensity in her eyes.
She doesn’t approach him with hostility. Merely offers condolences.
“Heard about your dad,” she says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Bertolt can’t handle much more. He already feels every emotion cycling through his entire body with turbulent force. On the one hand, it feels good seeing her again. Relief even. He’s glad she doesn’t seem to being holding any sort of grudge against him.
But on the other hand, he feels guilt washing over him like acid. Guilt for not speaking to her for so long. Guilt about his father…
“Yeah,” Bertolt says quietly, avoiding her gaze. “Me, too.”
His head hurts, like it’s spinning, and everything blurs to background noise. Like a hum. Static.
“I’m…uhhh…” Bertolt stutters, finds his bearings. His equilibrium. He’s good. Totally fine. “I’m gonna get another drink.” Seems like a good idea.
A good idea until… “I’ll go with you,” Ymir says, falling in step behind him.
As they disappear into the crowd, Reiner silently bids them both good luck.
But Bertolt finds nothing of the sort, lost in the crowd, the bar just out of reach and lights strobing above.
Ymir finds him. Grounds him. Brings him out of the darkness.
“Woah there, big guy,” she says, leveling her voice above the noise. “You okay?”
This time Bertolt looks her in the eye, and he’s lost again. Somehow, her eyes seem to glimmer as though they were the brightest light in the room. It’s all he can do not to pull her into his embrace.
“I missed you,” he says without preamble. Liquid courage is finally kicking in, at the expense of his grip on reality.
“What?” Ymir thinks she heard wrong. Perplexed.
Bertolt commits. “I missed you,” he repeats. “I missed you so much.”
Ymir frowns. Her gaze, and its intensity, never falter. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I should’ve called you…” Bertolt blurts, his admission lifting the burden of guilt ever so slightly. “Should’ve wrote you back. I read all your letters, after you moved away. Every single one of them… and I’m sorry I never wrote back. I’m sorry…”
For a brief lull, Ymir’s stunned to silence. In her quiet contemplation, she studies him, equally lost now.
“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” she finally says, dismissive. “We’re reunited now, I guess.”
Her smile is blink-and-you’ll-miss it, and Bertolt gives her a tentative nod in agreement.
“You’ve um… you’ve gotten so tall,” Ymir remarks, like the observation is the most shocking thing about seeing each other again.
Bertolt feels the ever-so-damning blush tingling all over his face, desperately hoping the shadows cast above him will conceal the bright red hue.
“You look good,” he reciprocates.
And that’s an understatement. Ymir has always been attractive. Pretty, in his opinion – but she’s certainly blossomed.
“Ah, okay,” Ymir sighs, half-smiling. “How much have you had to drink?”
Bertolt persists. “I mean it.”
They’re back to where they started. Face to face. Staring intently at one another. Music blaring but faded out. Muffled, as though underwater.
It’s not until Bertolt hears the faint hitch in her breath that he notices just how close they are. The crowd swells, pushing them closer and closer, until they’re suddenly crammed, bodies aligned.
Ymir instinctively holds onto him for support, her chest nuzzling against his own as the crowd packs them in tighter. She looks up at him then, as if insight has hit her like a bus. Jolting her back to the present.
Bertolt can’t explain his next move. Has no real accountability for his actions, or their actions, when he angles his head down, pressing his forehead against hers. Ymir wordlessly meets him halfway, slowly tilts her head up, eyes closed.
It’s a brief lapse in judgement. A moment of confusion. Desperation. Vulnerability.
But it also feels right. It’s something they both want. A comfort.
Bertolt kisses her softly, lips folding into hers gently.
But when they pull back, reality sets in, this time in a frenzy.
Neither can fathom anything proper to say. Neither can fully process.
“I’m sorry…” Bertolt finally breaks from his dizzying reverie, unsure what he’s truly apologizing for.
“Me, too,” Ymir whispers, voice raspy. She releases herself from his arms, and slowly backs away. Turns on her heel. Doesn’t look back.
Bertolt watches her disappear from view, his head spinning faster, their childhood memories cycling on loop in the throes of his mind.
Bertolt leaves the bar and catches the next train home.
He thinks about Ymir until he falls asleep.