Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One little known fact about the Olympics is that most of the athletes fly commercial. 

For some Olympians, this means hours of TSA checking shooting equipment, or haggling with airlines to let them board their vaulting poles. For equestrian athletes, it means flying separately from their partners. That is to say, BdoubleO One-Hundred is alone in the middle of the Toronto Pearson International Airport. And it freaking sucks.

Bdubs stands on the wall to the side of the revolving baggage claim, carry-on luggage surrounding him like the walls of a fortress. The carousel squeaks as it turns. The large backpack he’s wearing almost dwarfs him, the airline he flew lacking a size restriction. If he could wear it and feasibly fit it on his lap, it was flying with him. His small roller bag beside him is bright yellow, and its broken wheel spins aimlessly, slightly higher than the other three. 

Tapping his foot impatiently, Bdubs opens his phone and starts scrolling for the nth time, trying to distract himself while he waits. (He’s done this several times by now, opening and closing tabs just to keep himself busy.) 

Here’s the facts: Bdubs is in Toronto ten days before the Games begin. Lulu is traveling on the official Team USA equestrian cargo plane, set to arrive seven days before the Games begin, when the Olympic Village opens. He’s early, alone, and extremely irritated. 

His phone buzzes with a notification. It’s a picture from the team’s veterinarian with Lulu standing on an open field, nose down and brushing against the array of tack spread on the grass. “Choosing her gear!” the caption reads. 

Bdubs smiles despite his sour mood and sends a message back, sending a blurry picture of the crowded baggage claim. “Save me!!!!!” he responds with an inordinate amount of emojis. He switches tabs back to Chirp. Everyone’s talking about the upcoming Olympics, every news outlet speculating on medals, every self-righteous amateur athlete posting their predictions. ‘ Team USA’s Table Tennis champion Hills is back for gold…!’ ‘Team GB set to win men and women’s Diving gold for a third year…’ ‘Team Canada’s washed up fencing saviour is back, but can he secure gold…?’

Rolling his eyes, he closes the app. No use scrolling, even as a distraction. With his luck, all he’ll do is stress himself out even more! All of this talk of medals… Bdubs takes a short, sharp breath. He’s here, at the Olympics. Medals don’t matter, because he’s here , he made it. Him and Lulu against the world… literally. 

His eyes flick back up to the carousel, its deafening screech filling the air as it rotates slowly around and around. There! His huge roller bag, mossy green under its cloak of stickers from all of his travels, comes into view with the airport’s tag waving high. Bdubs weaves through the crowd, ducking under the elbow of a particularly tall fellow and passing through a thicket of gossiping teenage girls. His yellow wheeler bumps behind him, its broken wheel sending it spinning in non-linear directions. 

He’s almost to the carousel, pulling up alongside the river of luggage— WHAM!

Bdubs stumbles backwards, his heavy backpack pulling him down, while his carryon wheeler rolls away toward the thicket of people. The person in front of him spins around, legs tangling as they fall to the ground as well. 

Wrestling himself out of his backpack straps, Bdubs gets to his feet and snatches his luggage back up, darting his arm out to grab his wayward bag and slinging his backpack with the other hand. The nerve of these people! He turns his fiery gaze down at the person who slammed into him. 

“You better watch where you’re going!” he exclaims, waving a hand at the sea of people around them. The person on the ground clambers up to their feet, rubbing their head. 

They’re a tall man, dressed in a grey zip-up and a black facemask. He’s got one huge roller bag, a backpack, and what looks like a saxophone case—though when he picks it up it clanks like it’s full of metal pipes. Bdubs glares up at him. 

“You should watch where you’re going!” the guy fires back, checking over his large case for fall damage. “You’re the one who ran into me!” 

“I,” Bdubs begins, “was walking very slowly, very deliberately, before you ran right in front of me! You could’ve damaged my luggage!” Everything in his backpack is soft or wrapped in clothing, and ‘walking’ is a very generous word for what he was doing—but that’s besides the point. 

“Damage?!” the man fires back with a light laugh. He holds up his case. “This is thousands of dollars!”

Bdubs laughs in derision. “Maybe you should think about that before running in front of people then!” 

The man scoffs. “That was obviously your fault!” He takes a deep breath. “Alright, whatever. We’ll both be more careful next time.” Taking his luggage by the handle, he starts making his way through the crowd. Just before he’s out of earshot, he adds, “mostly you though.” 

And then he’s gone. 

“The nerve!” Bdubs exclaims out loud, staring in the direction of the exit, mouth open in shock. The carousel squeaks as it makes another rotation. Wait—his luggage! 

He turns back to the revolving bags, spotting his own green bag coming his way. At least one thing is salvageable today… Bdubs snatches it up and heaves it over the edge, grumbling under his breath about the weight. 

He’d just barely squeezed it into the weight restriction of the airline, something he’d carefully calculated during the packing process. He plans to stay the whole extent of the Games to cheer on his teammates and friends, which means a lot of packing. It’s not just general things for any sort of international trip, it’s got his gear and uniform too. All of Lulu’s tack and feed is traveling with her, but the rules were pretty strict on what he couldn’t make the cargo plane take (ie; anything not horse-related). In Bdubs’ opinion, riders were pretty horse-related. Despite this stunning and perfectly sound argument, he was not allowed to fly with Lulu. 

Which brings him here. The Maple Leaf capital. (Or wait, was that Ottawa? …Bdubs is confident they’re both in Ontario, so close enough.) 

He shoulders his backpack, grabs his roller bags on each side, and braves the storm. Ten days until the most important competition of his life. Geez. 

“Just for three days, from now until the 18th.” Bdubs smiles his customer-service smile at the hotel clerk, his left hand on his luggage and his right holding his phone to show his room booking. She doesn’t look particularly impressed. (Her own customer-service smile is probably ten times more blinding than his.)

“You’re not staying for the Olympics?” 

Bdubs laughs, tapping his fingers on the counter. The woman behind the front desk types something into the computer and looks up at him, waiting for his answer. 

“Well, I’ll be moving into the Olympic Village on the 18th,” he explains. “You’ll get to see this face again on TV!” He grins at her, faux-confidence broad on his face. 

“You arrived early!” she responds, rolling her chair backwards to grab a room key from behind the counter. “The Games don’t start until next month, right?” 

He nods. “I figured I’d get the lay of the land first, get comfortable with the Canadian climate.”

She looks up and down at him. “Team USA?” she asks, handing him his key card. “What sport?”

“Equestrian eventing!” When her eyebrows bunch in slight confusion, he adds, “it’s horse riding.” 

Eventing is the horse triathlon, testing both the steed and the rider. It’s the ultimate challenge for any professional horse rider; dressage followed by cross country and rounded off with show jumping over the course of three days. 

“Very cool. Well, enjoy your stay and good luck at the Olympics!” she says, nodding goodbye and smiling at the family behind Bdubs. He rolls his luggage away, heading towards the elevators. 

It still feels strange to call himself an Olympian. He’s worked so hard for this, but it still doesn’t feel real, not yet. It’s sort of got this childish glee whenever he says “I’m competing in the Olympics” like it’s a game he’s playing and not real life. It still feels like he’s a little boy on the farm, riding his first pony around the fields. 

Long way from then and now. 

The elevator dings cheerfully and the doors open. There’s a family of four in there already, dressed warmly and tumbling out in a sticky mess of lollipops and candies. Bdubs waves at the little girl with a licorice rope in her fist. She waves back, then gasps, pointing at his sticker-covered wheeler. 

“Horsie!!” she exclaims, her RedVine falling to the carpeted floor. 

Bdubs grins down at her. “Yeah, it’s a horsie! I ride horsies! My horsie’s name is Lulu!”

The sticker on his roller bag she points to is one he’d picked up on the West Coast during one of his first competitions. It’s a large image of a white horse, the closest he could find that looked like Lulu. (She’s not a true white horse, but it’s hard to find art of light-light-grey roan horses.) 

The little girl smiles at him, then picks up her licorice from the carpeted floor and sticks it in her mouth as she skips away, following behind her parents. It smells faintly of artificial sugar in the elevator when he slips in just before the doors close, his broken wheel catching on the crack.

There’s a poster for the Olympics on the inside of the lift, next to advertisements for the provided breakfast in the mornings and the map of the hotel. A woman with orange curls stands front and center in the poster, a sharp smile aimed at the camera and a kayak paddle in one of her hands. She’s dressed in a red jersey and wears a white helmet with red maple leaves on the sides. The caption at the bottom reads “Canoe Slalom – Gemini Tay” with a little Canadian flag beside the woman’s name, the five interlocking rings of the Olympics logo hovering above her head. 

Huh. Canoe slalom. That’s whitewater kayaking, going upstream or downstream as quickly as possible through the flags. Faintly, Bdubs remembers watching that event at the last Summer Olympics. Maybe he’ll run into her at the Games!

The elevator comes to a stop with another ding! , the doors opening smoothly. This time, Bdubs lifts his broken roller bag over the gap. 

“Room 1208…” he mutters under his breath, dragging his bags behind him on the plush carpet. “Why are the numbers going backwards?!” 

He comes to a halt, staring at the door in front of him. If he’d left the elevator at 1217 and went in the direction of 1216, why is he now in front of room 1221?? Bdubs turns around and heads the opposite direction. 

Sure enough, there’s a little loop behind the elevator terminal. He ducks behind the hanging lamps, following the descending numbers until he reaches the back hall on the opposite side that he was originally going to. 1208. Who designed this floor??

Fumbling the card, he almost drops it before he manages to swipe it correctly, his wheeled bag tipping over precariously when he lets go for the briefest moment to open the door. He really should get a new bag. Maybe when the Games are over? He puts it on his mental to-do list. (It’s already very full. There’s a lot Bdubs says he’ll do.)

The room is small inside, large enough for one person and some bags. Perfect for Bdubs. The far wall has a large window, the curtains open for him to see the city of Toronto laid out beneath him. Below, toy cars go about their day and little people scuttle around like bugs. Everything looks so small from up so high! 

Bdubs abandons his luggage by the bed, electing to instead curl up in the single armchair provided and look up places to sightsee in the city. A little spontaneous, but he hasn’t got much else to do until the Village opens. Besides, going early before Lulu was supposed to give him time to relax before all the stress of the Olympics. There’s no way for him to overtrain yet, not while he’s all the way in another country and his horse is still at home. So, tourist attractions it is. 

His phone delightedly chirps at him, displaying headlines of British cyclers and Canadian fencers. He deletes the notifications. From now until the 18th, there is no such thing as the Olympics. Bdubs glances out the window again, staring off into the city’s skyline. 

What’s that tower..? Do Canadians have their own Space Needle? He looks back down at his phone, pulling up a local map of Toronto. According to the images, that’s the CN Tower. Toronto Needle, Bdubs dubs it in his head. 

Well. Not like he has anything better to do. 

The elevator trip down is swift, Bdubs only shedding his travel jacket before leaving his room and luggage. It’s far warmer than he would have expected of Canada, sunny and mid-70s. Not everything is snow and moose, he supposes. He’s got a soft tee underneath, a worn graphic of a golden pocketwatch floating in the stars adorning the front. It’s an old shirt, comfortable from use. Sort of a lucky charm—he always wears it when he travels. 

CN Tower is just across the street, standing tall and piercing the sky with its peak. Seattle’s Space Needle is definitely better, but Canada’s version still looks breathtaking, especially from below looking right up. As he walks closer, he starts to pick out more posters scattered around the base of the tower. 

He crosses the street quickly, meandering around the pathways and coming to a stop beside the entrance to the CN Tower. There’s a line already, so he slips in the back and looks over all the posters of Canadian Olympians. 

All the pictures are of athletes in uniform, holding their equipment and looking into the camera. Bdubs remembers doing a photoshoot with Lulu a few weeks back after he’d qualified. Team USA had posted pictures of the equestrians in a couple of social media posts during the promotional period. 

On the walls are large, glossy posters of athletes, each with a caption of their sport and name. There’s a sprinter, his caption naming him “Fruit Berries”. The canoe slalom woman from the elevator is here as well, beside a poster of three fencers. Their masks cover their faces, triplet figures in white fencing gear and swords pointed at the viewer. 

“Fencing épée,” the poster reads, the names of the fencers beside a Canadian flag. Bdubs has no idea how to even begin to pronounce ‘épée’. It seems like a pretentious sport, anyways. 

The line trudges forwards, and Bdubs pulls up the digital ticket he’d bought earlier on his way down. Inside, he passes the gift shop with its scarlet maple leaves adorning every available surface, just in case tourists forget what country they're in. 

A map on the ground floor detailing all of the upper floors of the tower is on the wall. There’s a restaurant here… This really is the Canadian Space Needle! 

The elevator trip is fast, Bdubs’ ears popping at the change in elevation. It’s about a one minute ride, but the lift goes at 15 miles an hour (according to the notice on the inside of the elevator). The whole tower is just under 2000 feet tall, but the observation decks only go up to a little below 1500 feet. 

Main Observation Level, the floor reads. The walls are floor to ceiling glass all around the central column of the tower, almost three inches thick. If he’d thought that everything looked small from the hotel room, this is like child’s play compared to then. He squints down at the people below, nothing more than miniscule ants. 

One level down is the Lower Observation Level with its signature glass floor. Bdubs treads carefully here. The glass is still as thick as before, but looking down 1000 feet is enough to induce vertigo. If he had a fear of heights he’d never have started riding horses, but it’s still a really, really long drop if the floor went out. He’d have enough time to think about all of his life’s regrets on the way down, at least. 

He steps back closer to the base of the tower, where the floor is thankfully not transparent. There’s a couple of people milling around here, mostly families and a few couples that seem to be out on dates. Bdubs wouldn’t be surprised if more than a few were tourists in town for the Olympics. 

His eye catches on a man leaning on the wall to the left of him, bleached white hair with wispy dark brown roots covering his face. Bdubs squints, trying to remember why the man looks so familiar. Was he on the plane, maybe? Wait. Plane… Airport… —It’s the guy from the airport, the one that ran into him and knocked all his luggage over! 

The guy straightens out, brushing his hair out of his face and swiping out of an app on his phone. Bdubs catches a glimpse of the black face mask he’s wearing. He must’ve made some sort of noise when he’d recognized him, because the man turns and looks to the right, straight at him. 

There’s no recognition. After a moment, the guy shrugs and turns back to his phone. Here, Bdubs definitely scoffs. Maybe a bit impolitely, but it’s been a long day. 

Looking up again, the guy cocks his head and stares at Bdubs. “Sorry, do I know you?” 

“Yes,” Bdubs responds, wheeling around and putting his hands on his hips. “You’re the guy that knocked over all of my bags at the airport!” 

He frowns under the mask (or at least Bdubs assumes he does), eyebrows furrowing. “At Pearson?” He seems to think for a moment, before realisation dawns on him. He snaps his gloved fingers, pointing at Bdubs. “I do remember you!” 

“You know,” Bdubs begins haughtily, “I never got an apology from you.” He looks expectantly at him. 

The guy raises a single eyebrow in incredulity. “That was basically yesterday!” he exclaims. “You cannot still be mad about that, right?” 

“I’m mad that I was lied to! Clearly Canadians aren’t very polite at all.” He crosses his arms and huffs. (Frankly, arguing with a stranger is the most relaxing thing he’s done all day. It helps that the guy is a massive asshole.)

He laughs at that, eyes crinkling up slightly. Bdubs thinks he looks extremely punchable. “How do you know I’m Canadian? I could be an American; this is a very popular tourist attraction.”

“Setting aside the fact that you’ve got a Canadian flag on your jacket, you just said ‘sore-y’ earlier.” Bdubs smiles smugly at him. Checkmate.  

“That is not what I sound like,” he argues, stepping slightly closer to Bdubs, “I’m not from Newfoundland!” 

Bdubs points at the maple leaf patch on his dark jacket. “You are Canadian though!” Right below the flag are five interlocked rings. Huh. He’s wearing Olympics merchandise. Must be here for the games, then. 

The man shakes his head in exasperation, throwing up his hands in mock-surrender. “Fine, you got me! You are American though, I can tell.” He looks inquisitively at Bdubs. “Are you in town for the Olympics?”

Dangit! That’s what Bdubs was going to ask! 

“If you must know, I am! You are too, aren’t you?” 

He glances down at his jacket. “That gave it away, didn’t it… If you really are going, you should check out fencing. I’ve heard Team Canada’s pretty good at it.” He says it like an inside joke. Based on the things Bdubs has read about Canada’s fencing… it might really be a joke. 

“Well, I’ve heard they’re washed up,” he replies, recalling the headline he’d skimmed at the airport. “They used to be good, maybe. If you want to see real athletes, go watch the equestrian events.” 

He looks at Bdubs inscrutably. After a moment, he turns away with a scoff. “You clearly don’t know anything about the Olympics,” he replies haughtily. 

Moving back to his spot on the wall several feet down from Bdubs, the man turns back to his phone as if Bdubs was never there. It’s quiet again, save for the background chatter of the other tourists on the observation deck. (Admittedly, he had forgotten there were other people around.)

Bdubs blinks, eyes darting back and forth. What an asshole! He knew he didn’t like that guy since their first airport encounter… Must be some sort of nationalist, couldn’t handle Bdubs badmouthing his glorious maple leaf country. Polite Canadians are a lie— this guy is proof enough of that!

He sighs, pulling out his own phone to check the time. Maybe he should head back down to the hotel now, get some rest before more sightseeing tomorrow. No more weird encounters with terrible airport guys. 

“You’re joking.” 

“Oh no, not this guy again!” 

Bdubs lets go of his luggage and steps right into the personal space of Airport Guy. 

“Tell me you’re joking,” he commands, staring right up into his eyes. One of them is discolored, almost a milky white, off-color skin running above and below it in a slash before disappearing under his mask. “You’re here to help a friend unpack.”  

“I’m here to help a friend unpack,” AG (Airport Guy) repeats dutifully. Beside him, two men holding roller bags wave at Bdubs. “These are the friends. I’m also here to help me unpack.” 

“Un-freaking-believable!!” Bdubs throws up his hands and turns on AG’s friends. “This is a joke, right??” 

“You know Ladders?” one of them says. He’s wearing a soft brown sweater and blue-framed glasses. “I didn’t know he had friends, other than us!” he jokes.

Bdubs scoffs. “ Know him? He’s the menace that nearly killed me at the airport!” 

“Hey!” AG cuts in, “ you accidentally ran into me. That’s far from attempted murder.” 

“–Also,” Bdubs continues, turning back to AG, “Ladders?” 

AG sighs, long and suffering. The bespectacled man who spoke earlier laughs in response. The third man, tall and broad, rolls his eyes. 

“They call him Ladders ‘cause he goes up and down the piste,” one of them answers, miming a person running back and forth with two fingers. “It’s his signature move.” 

AG/Ladders turns on his own friend, pointing a finger at him. “And they call you Pause on account of the way you freeze on the strip.” 

Maybe-Pause gasps dramatically. “Betrayed!” he cries, “Backstabbed! That happened once and never again! We swore we would never speak of it!” 

“Get used to it,” AG/Ladders fires back, “it’s a cutthroat world out there. Welcome to the Olympics! Do you want a little nappy while we’re here?” 

“Asshole.” 

Airport Guy makes an expression that reads as a smug smile behind his mask. He turns back to Bdubs as Maybe-Pause and Third Guy start bantering with each other. 

He holds out his hand, fingerless black gloves covering his palm. “I’m Etho. Those two idiots are Pause and Beef.” 

Bdubs eyes the hand suspiciously for a moment, then shakes it. He still doesn’t trust this guy. “Bdubs. Are you all competing?” There’s no use denying it anymore. They’re at the Olympic Village, right in the center of Toronto, one week before the Games begin. (So much for never seeing Airport Guy ever again.) 

Etho nods, ruffling his hair with one hand and looking towards the skyline. “Yeah. Fencing. It’s my second Olympics—first with Beef and Pause, though.” 

There’s a brief delay in Bdubs’ brain, then he remembers the conversation in CN Tower. That’s why Etho was such a dick about fencing! It’s his sport. Bdubs internally rolls his eyes. Unlike him, Bdubs would never ever boast about his own skills! His sheer talent speaks for itself. 

“I’m doing equestrian eventing,” Bdubs offers reluctantly, “me and Lulu.” At Etho’s questioning look, he adds, “that’s my horse. She’ll be here by tomorrow.”

Etho hikes up his roller bag, glancing back at his teammates. “Maybe we’ll see each other at the games,” he says as he turns to leave, “or before. I want to meet her.” Lulu. He wants to meet Lulu… 

Absolutely not. 

Bdubs is not letting that guy anywhere near his horse! What, three chance meetings and suddenly he thinks that he’s good enough for Lulu? What a load of junk. No way. If the Airport Incident wasn’t enough already, Etho’s more than proved that he’s not capable of anything more than being an absolute piece of garbage! Bdubs is very good at judging people’s character. He’s really very sure that he would like to never see that stupid face again. 

Unless… The only person better at judging character than Bdubs is Lulu herself… and what Bdubs wouldn’t give to see her take a swing at Etho! His horse has consistently been a true radar for people for Bdubs to stay away from, which means Etho will have a great time meeting her. If their paths cross again (heaven forbid), maybe Bdubs will allow Etho a meeting with Lulu. Just to indulge himself and prove that Bdubs is right in his just-now-decided hatred of the man. 

Bdubs watches Etho leave with his friends, their gentle ribbing drifting through the air. He grins to himself, pivoting away on his heel. The only time he’ll be happy seeing that guy again is when Lulu is grabbing the mask right off of his face!

For the only time since their fateful airport meeting, Bdubs finds himself looking forward to seeing Etho again. (For entirely innocent reasons.)

Chapter Text

“42.” 

Lower torso, right. Aim. Lunge. Strike. 

“15.” 

Left shoulder. Aim. Flick. Miss. 

“23.” 

The number goes ignored. 

Etho shakes out his arms and steps over to his phone to pause the video, one of the many ‘random numbers 1-60’ videos that he has saved for training. (At this point, 70% of his MeTube feed is just ASMR.) He takes a deep breath to ground himself, then looks again at the dummy intently, picking apart the model with a sharp eye. 

It’s a mannequin in en garde position, back leg stretched out and arm pointed forwards. All over its body are little white stickers with numbers on them, randomised in their placements, speckled like little constellations on a dark backdrop. Épée’s target zone is the whole body, including hands and feet; a valid point can be scored anywhere. 

Holding his blade, he settles back into position, arm outstretched. Flicks are precise, quick, and hard to parry—done in a whip-like motion of the blade to bend it around parries or, in this case, shoulders. He focuses on the left shoulder again, number 15. 

He misses. 

A small noise of frustration escapes him as he slides back into en garde. This shouldn’t be so difficult. Two years ago, he could’ve— He cuts himself off. He can’t go back. Eyes forward. Strike fast.  

Again. 

This time he manages to land a hit, though not quite on the sticker. He’ll take it for now, but he can do better than that, he’s sure of it. He just needs to practise more, that’s all, maybe imagine a certain idiot’s face as his opponent. (Horse Guy, Etho had dubbed after the unfortunate Airport Incident had introduced him to a world of alternate horse girls.)

En garde. He turns the video back on, returns to position, and readies his blade. It’s still early in the morning, so he figures he can fit in another hour or so of practise before Pause or Beef comes to drag him away, citing ‘overtraining’. 

The morning passes in a blur of practised strikes and footwork exercises. He’s not desperate enough to bring out the good old tennis ball on a string, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. The best training facility in Canada, and he’s still not good enough. You’re at the Olympics again. Can’t you be satisfied?  

“Never,” Etho says out loud. He feels like an aging dog chasing a bone, old and weary, trying to perform tricks it can’t do anymore. 

“Never?” says a voice from the doorway. “Never shuts up, more like it.”

Etho turns. Standing there, silhouetted by the light from the hallway outside, is Etho’s Airport Acquaintance/Horse Guy and resident ‘certain idiot’. He checks his watch, eyeing the angle of the sunlight through the windows. 11:00 in the morning. 

“You’re up early,” Etho says flatly, sliding his épée back into its case. “Get lost on the way to the exit?” 

“If you must know, yes, I did.” Bdubs crosses his arms and glances around the indoor training gym. Padded mats are on the far end of the gym for gymnastics, and several uneven bars fill the space between the three training pistes and trampolines. “Worst thing to see in the morning. Your face.”

Etho raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t actually just wake up, right? Only someone who hasn’t had coffee yet would come up with an insult that bad.” He could never knock the practical effects of sleep, but the Olympic Village was sat in the centre of certified world-grade training facilities. Better to spend that time practising before the Games, unlike some slackers.

“I need my beauty sleep!” Bdubs replies defensively. “Not that you would know anything about that. Eight hours is not enough for this face.” 

“From the looks of it, twelve hours isn’t enough either,” Etho says, smirking through his mask. Bdubs huffs and turns away. 

“This clearly isn’t the dining hall, and seeing your dumb face has made me feel really terrible. I have a stomachache now! I’m getting lunch,” Bdubs announces, grumbling in the way that freshly-woken people tend to do. 

“You mean ‘breakfast’?” Etho calls out as Bdubs turns to leave. Horse Guy doesn’t respond. 

He casts a look towards the training strip, then back towards Bdubs’ retreating figure. After a moment of deliberation, he grabs his phone and slings his sword case over his shoulder to chase after Bdubs. It’s a little early for lunch, but… he won’t pass up on the chance for a small break. Chances are that Pause and Beef are over there already. 

With long legs, his strides catch up fast enough, and Etho leans over slightly as he walks in step with Bdubs. Before he can get a word out, Bdubs holds up a finger and pins Etho down with a sharp glare. 

“I don’t wanna hear a single word out of you!” he exclaims, steps not slowing down. “You act like you’re so high and mighty, but someone’s gotta bring you down to earth!” 

Etho blinks. He was about to make a joke about Bdubs’ height… who is he kidding, he’s still going to make a joke. It’s too easy. 

“I bet everyone is high and mighty to you, since you’re so short,” Etho says easily, straightening his back and looking straight ahead. His strides lengthen slightly, just so Bdubs has to walk a little faster. He takes a silent breath, bouncing on the balls of his feet slightly.

“Why, you—!” 

Etho breaks off into a sprint, dashing down the hall with a wide grin. He shoots a quick peek over his shoulder, watching as Bdubs gasps in indignation and starts running after him. His sneakers on the concrete floor make echoing noises up into the ceiling, and Etho hears himself laugh as they break out into the sunlight. 

Outside, a couple athletes mill around, most chatting and some just arriving into the Village. Etho dashes through a group of Germans, apologizing before Bdubs comes barreling through the gap he’d just made. 

What ensues is a chase around the various buildings while Etho tries to figure out where the mess hall actually is. He’d looked at maps before, but only to figure out where the indoor training hall was in relation to his room. As he runs into an open courtyard, he spins around to face Bdubs. 

“I surrender!” he declares suddenly, hands up. “How about a draw?” 

Bdubs comes to a halt, hands on his knees and heaving deep breaths. After a long moment, he stands up and points a finger at Etho. 

“How,” he says, “are you so fast!?” A brief pause. “That is not how surrender works.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be one of the world’s best athletes?” Etho mocks, ignoring Bdubs’ second statement. 

Bdubs exclaims, “I ride horses! I’m not a sprinter. ” 

He pauses. Bdubs looks around, eyeing the buildings surrounding them and the distinct lack of maps. He narrows his eyes and looks at Etho. 

“Did you get us lost?”  

“No, I know exactly where we are,” Etho responds confidently. Bdubs’ expression doesn’t waver. “Oh, alright, fine! I’m lost.” 

“Of freaking course you are!”

The next twenty minutes are spent arguing over the terms of Etho’s surrender as they search for a map or someone to ask for directions from. Eventually, they run into a white-haired Korean swimmer who attempts to direct them eastward before giving up on English and just leading them there. (Apparently, Etho had led them all around the residential area to the edge of the Olympic Village.) 

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” Bdubs says as they follow behind their appointed guide. “I still hate you.” 

Etho scuffs his shoes on the pavement, hands in his pocket as he strolls. “You hate me?” 

Bdubs splutters, words falling out. “The airport! CN Tower!! Literally just now??” He waves his hands around. “You’re like a dog or something, running around aimlessly.”

“You’re the one who chased after me,” Etho says pointedly.  

“Well, you’re the one who’s being so rude!” 

Etho rolls his eyes. “Agree to disagree.” This guy is such a joke. And he clearly doesn’t take this seriously! Waking up at eleven in the morning? (Etho pointedly ignores that Bdubs’ most important component of training isn’t available yet. And also his decidedly unprofessional impromptu chase sequence.)

They walk in silence. By the time they reach the dining hall, their guide is awkwardly waving goodbye and jogging away at what Etho assumes is the fastest the man can manage without seeming rude. Just as Bdubs is opening his mouth to say something, Etho pivots and walks away without saying anything. 

…And Bdubs follows right behind him. Right. They’re going to the same place. Etho opts to simply just ignore the man, searching for familiar faces in the crowd. The dining hall stays open all day, but it’s starting to get busy as people battle the demons of jetlag with scheduled meals. 

He waves through the crowded tables, spotting Beef at a table full of smiling faces. Score! As he walks closer, he realizes that the round table is full up at all of the seats, an international array of people dining together. Pause waves at him. 

“No spot for me?” Etho asks, standing in the pathway. Beef looks for an open chair, but comes up empty, shaking his head. Next to him, an American athlete dressed in blue finishes a joke, and the whole table bursts into laughter. 

“You gonna be good on your own?” Beef asks, looking like he’s ready to get up and accompany Etho somewhere just so he isn't lonely. Etho steps back, glancing back at the doors. Beef and Pause look happy here, hanging out and meeting new people. It’s their first Olympics, they should have some fun with it. He gives Beef a reassuring thumbs up and tells him he’ll just ‘find somewhere else to sit’. With a reluctant nod, his friend lets him leave, turning back to the conversation. 

“Ooh, left out!” says a voice to Etho’s right. He turns around, fixing Bdubs with an unimpressed Look. “If you’re so lonely… I got something fun later.” And then he turns and leads Etho out of the sea of diners, lunchtray in his hands. 

As it turns out, Bdubs is going outside. He walks into the plaza and then left, turning down a grass path and towards an open field with picnic benches scattered around. There’s a couple of people here eating, but it’s a lot less crowded than inside the mess hall. Etho takes in a deep breath of fresh air; he hadn’t even realized how stuffy it had felt in there. 

“So!” Bdubs starts, putting his tray down. “Since you said you wanted to meet my horse, Lulu, I figured we can make it happen today! She’s arriving in the afternoon, so you can see her then.” 

Admittedly, Etho had just been saying words yesterday, something to get Bdubs riled up. He didn’t actually expect to get to meet a horse… He’d never seen one up close and in person before. 

“A warning, though,” Bdubs continues, “she’s just done with all her traveling, so she might be a bit snappy.” He smiles angelically at Etho. Suspicious. Still, though… he does sort of want to meet an Olympic horse. Even if it’s this guy’s horse. 

“Yeah, sure,” Etho agrees, though slightly hesitant. The same person who openly admitted to hating Etho inviting him to meet a horse (famously dangerous creatures)? What could go wrong! “Sounds fun.”

The first thing Etho notes about horses is that they are a whole lot larger than they seem on camera. It’s not that he’d thought Lulu would be a pony (even though her name isn’t really all that intimidating), but she’s just so big. He stares up at her, watching Bdubs carefully as he leads her through the Olympic stables. 

“Come closer,” Bdubs says, “she doesn’t bite.” He grins widely again, the toothy one that makes Etho mildly uncomfortable. 

Lulu is a thoroughbred, Bdubs had explained as they’d walked through the horse-version of the Olympic Village. Etho had marveled at the fact that the competing horses got their own spacious room and board. As for Lulu, she’d taken it all in stride, greeting Bdubs and allowing her rider to lead her around the empty dirt course. Dressage practice arena, Bdubs said.  

Right now, they’re using it to get Lulu warmed up and soothe her jittery nerves from being cooped up during travel. Etho walks on the side of Bdubs not already taken up by Lulu, keeping a respectful distance from the mare. He’s not really sure how to approach her. 

“I’m good here,” Etho replies back after the long pause, still keeping a careful eye on the two of them. Seeing Bdubs now, in his natural environment and home turf, there’s a different air to the way he walks. He’s more confident with his motions (not that the guy was anything less than boastful before), firm and steady as he talks about his horse. 

It’s aggravating, watching Bdubs work with Lulu. If anything, it makes him that much more annoying instead of regal. Etho keeps looking for ways to get under his skin, trip him up, but Bdubs just keeps going, water rolling off of a duck's back. Like a fish out of water, Etho is floundering. He fixates on the angle of Lulu’s neck, admiring her smooth nearly-white coat. 

“Boo!” says Bdubs’ voice close to his ear. Etho jumps back, startled. Bdubs looks at him intently, then breaks out into a small incredulous laugh. “Hah! It’s Lulu! She makes you nervous!” 

Etho attempts a protest, but Bdubs barrels on. 

“Who would’ve thought,” he announces, all grandiose, “the great Etho Slab! Brought down by a horse! They must not have horses in Canada. …Well, I wouldn’t know, ‘cause I never see Canadian equestrians on the podium!” 

“I’ve never seen an American fencer on the podium!” Etho scrambles for a witty response, instead leading with a dulled blade and a weak parry. There very much is a dominant American in fencing, but in a discipline he doesn't compete in. He hopes Bdubs doesn’t know anything about the fencing medals. “Or an equestrian,” he adds quickly, wracking his mind for any recent American equestrian wins in the last two Summer Olympics. 

He must have guessed right, because Bdubs scoffs and turns his head away. 

“There will be this year,” Bdubs mutters. He glances at Etho, fire in his gaze. “I doubt Canada’s winning anything in fencing with you on the team.” 

Etho stumbles, just a little bit. Bdubs probably doesn’t even notice. It’s the same thing Etho says to himself every time he practises, each time he misses a point. It shouldn’t mean anything coming from someone like Bdubs, but it still hurts, just a little bit. He recovers, his stride lengthening smoothly. It doesn’t matter. Bdubs’ opinion means nothing, just another leaf falling from the trees. He’s not gonna take that kind of talk from this guy. 

“You?” Etho responds incredulously. “Do you plan on winning gold by sleeping until noon everyday?” 

Bdubs doesn’t say anything for a moment. Lulu turns her head to face Etho, hooves till plodding forwards around the arena. Her equine eyes seem to stare into his soul and he finds himself holding his breath… but she just shakes out her head, mane tossing, and turns back to face front. Not so unicorn-like, despite the almost ivory coat and delicate name.  

“Out of the two of us, I’m way more likely to win gold than you,” Bdubs says finally, overconfident and boastful. “I’d even bet good money on that!” Then, “If I win, you have to admit that the Airport Incident was your fault.”

Familiar waters, arguing and exchanging insults. Etho laughs mockingly at him, turning to face him. “I’ll take that bet,” he says, the challenge evident in his body language. Bdubs matches him, pace quickening as Etho’s steps gain speed. “And if I win?”

“It doesn’t matter! Because you won’t win!” he replies loudly. Lulu chuffs as punctuation. 

Without either of them noticing, their slow walk had stepped up into a lively trot, Lulu’s hooves drumming out a steady beat to their jibes and taunts. (Though admittedly the speed change is likely nothing to the horse.)

Neither of them seem inclined to let the speed sink back down, so for the next several minutes they half-walk half-jog in bitter silence. Etho has made up his mind that he is going to win. Not just for his reputation or to prove a point, but to win this bet. He won’t lose to this guy. 

Another minute of silent trotting passes by, and Etho remembers another important thing about himself. He’s a coward… But more importantly, dedicated to making Horse Guy’s life terrible. So he draws back, pulling the reins on his speed and gradually bringing their pseudo-race to an end. Before Bdubs gets to say whatever awful remark he thinks is witty, Etho turns to face Lulu and takes a breath. 

“What’s a girl like you doing with a guy like this?” 

Bdubs draws to a stop. Etho holds his breath, staring into Lulu’s eyes. She’s tilted her head down to look at him, mane blowing slightly in the light breeze. Etho raises a single finger to shush Bdubs, eyes not moving from Lulu, inciting a tiny, angry noise from the man. Lulu takes a step towards Etho, and Bdubs snaps his mouth closed. 

She sniffs his hair, then pulls back, snuffling at Bdubs gently. Etho blinks at her, body tense. That’s it, right? He’s passed the weird horse taming test? Or should he hold out his hand for her, like you do when you meet new dogs? He’s debating whether to risk his fingers for a horse when Bdubs begins speaking again. 

“I cannot believe this!” he exclaims, audibly annoyed. “One stupid pick-up line and she’s fine with you?!” He turns on his partner, gently holding her head in his hand. “You’re not supposed to like him,” he says firmly, “that guy’s a huge jerk!” 

Etho chuckles, staring in awe at Lulu. Easiest way to make Bdubs angry! “I bet she likes me better than you,” he says, nodding conspiratorially at her. Bdubs ignores him, stroking Lulu’s head and whispering to her. “Did you hear that, Bdubs? Your horse loves me.” 

“She does not, you jerk!” 

“Mmh, yep yep. Does too.” 

The second day of pre-week starts the same as the first; relentless practise, though this time with significantly more stewing over a rival in an entirely different sport. A good use of emotion, focusing his hits and landing points. More testing needed, but maybe thinking about Horse Guy is a valid—yet unorthodox—strategy to winning… 

Lunch is found, thankfully, at an open table with Beef and Pause. To their usual rhythm, Etho elects to eat later in the privacy of his suite, spending the time instead of fill his friends in on his equine adventures yesterday. Likewise, Pause and Beef regale him with tales of Scottish super-gymnasts and canoe slalom rivalry gossip. As it turns out, Australia and Canada have (lowercase) beef on the water.  

The afternoon is team practice, working with their coach to figure out placement and blocking. Etho diverts all conversation attempts about anchors and setters into intel on their opponents. France will be coming back with a vengeance this year, not to mention whispers of up and coming American fencers—though Etho’s heard they’re in sabré and foil, not épée. 

He doesn’t sleep well at night. He tries, thinking about the importance of a good night’s sleep, but there’s not enough time and the Olympics begin in just days and he’s not ready and—

Rinse and repeat. Each day feels the same, rote and familiar. Etho likes schedules, everything done right and exactly as planned. 

Sometimes he sees Bdubs. Those are always unplanned. Bumps in the pathways, occasional sightings in the mess hall, and once on the fifth day when Bdubs had spilled lukewarm coffee on Etho ‘accidentally’. They talk when they see each other, exchanging insults and spitfire-quick remarks. It almost becomes familiar like a schedule, almost starting to fit into a rhythm, but then the week is suddenly and abruptly over. Etho is left floundering again, treading water with no land in sight. 

Their week is up, and the Games begin…but not yet! 

Between the wisps of clouds in the sky above the open roof of Rogers Centre, 431 Air Demonstration Squadron—better known as the Snowbirds—dart in and out, weaving a pattern with jets of steel. Synchronised in their dives, they swoop down to complete their smoke circles in the shape of the Olympic Rings. Below, in the stadium, the crowd stomps their feet and claps their hands, applauding the air show. 

Etho, for his part, argues with Gem behind the curtains. It’s inane and pointless, but both take to banter and stakeless debates to destress. Gem pokes fun about his training schedule, Etho asks pointed questions about Australian kayakers. She brings up Cleo, he ribs her for avoiding her problems. They’ve known each other long enough to fall into a familiar pattern of friendly teasing, though Etho finds himself losing more than winning. Gem has a quick tongue and a way with words. 

As the host nation, Team Canada goes last during the Parade of Nations. While the 200 other nations prepare to march out after the Anthem finishes, Etho attempts to prevent Gem from destroying his ego altogether, throwing up flimsy defences to her jibes. Despite what Etho assumes is the crushing weight of expectations, Gem seems to have a flippant attitude and an unbothered stance. She’s always like this, even in high-stress environments. 

“You’re not worried at all about the flag?” Etho asks, tone light. “Like, what if it falls over while you’re holding it and crushes all of us!” Gem gives him a flat, unimpressed look. 

“I hope it falls on you,” she replies, miming the flag squishing him. Etho pretends to look put out, casting a forlorn look at her. 

Sobering up quickly, he asks, “Seriously, though, you’re not worried? Being flagbearer is a big responsibility.” 

Gem thinks about it for a moment. This is only her second Olympics, like Etho, but she’s been given the opportunity to bear the flag during Canada’s march at the end of the Parade of Nations. Though sometimes a two person job, she’ll solely hold it to represent Canada. If it was Etho, he’d be at least a little stressed about it. Gem shrugs. 

“I guess,” she says, frowning, “but in the grand scheme of things it’s nothing important. I couldn’t name any of the other countries’ flagbearers.” Etho stifles a small laugh. Gem throws up her hands. “Oh, alright! I’m excited! It’s going to be so cool. Besides, I don’t think Pearl is bearing Australia’s flag.” 

Now, this Pearl person, Etho has heard a lot about her. Half of it is gossip from Pause and Beef and the other half is made up of sheer complaints from Gem. It reminds him of a certain American equestrian, a likeness he’d drawn after about the fourth time Gem vowed she was going to win gold at a time Pearl couldn’t even hope to beat. The difference is, of course, that only one of them can get the medal. And that Gem and Pearl clearly have unresolved feelings, unlike Etho and Certain Idiot. 

While they speak, the events transition and the Parade of Nations begins, Afghanistan beginning their trek across the stadium. By the time Gem and Etho have wound down from their next round of verbal sparring interspersed with friendly interrogation, Comoros is making their way through the arena. The screen in the back room is turned on, providing live televised footage of the event happening a couple hundred meters out from where they are currently. 

They’re supposed to be ready by the time Paraguay marches, providing ample time for all the Canadian athletes to get ready and watch their opponents stride with their nation. Beside Etho and Gem are several of their fellow Canadian athletes—among them Beef and Pause, of course. 

Etho sits beside them on the benches, watching the colourful delegations march across the screen in traditional clothing and the occasional traditional song. All of Team Canada is decked out in red this year, white accents dashing up and down the garments. LuluLemon is the official clothing brand that sponsors the team, and their logo is broad across the backs of all their uniforms. 

After what might be hours, Paraguay lopes across the field and Peru follows quickly behind. Etho is jostled out of the backrooms in the sea of red, packed in tight beside his teammates. Ahead, Gem leads the way, having fought her way to the front when Paraguay’s three stripes had graced the screen. Their flag is already waiting by the entrance beside the other NOCs’, so Gem doesn’t have to fight the moving crowd while holding a massive maple leaf adorned flag. 

Outside, South Africa passes through, then Rwanda and Samoa. Each nation is heralded in two languages, French and English, the official language of both the host country and the International Olympics Committee. 

While the host country traditionally marches last, the two countries directly before Canada are the United States and Australia, the two next host countries for the Olympics. And also, coincidentally, the nations of resident rivals. All of this goes to say that Etho can very much see the star spangled American athletes mingling nearby, prepared to fly their flag as Sweden finishes their journey. 

The flagbearer for the United States is apparently a sharpshooter who goes by ‘The Queen of Hearts and Heads’ for her alleged ability to accurately snipe someone’s head or heart from nearly a thousand metres away. As for Australia… it turns out Gem was wrong. Across the way, a tall brown-haired woman hefts the brilliant blue flag of Australia from its resting position. Gem silently seethes. 

Türkiye crosses the field, and then before Etho can find the almost-familiar face of a certain someone, Australia is out the door and people are being pushed around like fallen leaves in a river’s current. Etho admires the efficiency of the Parade, because soon after that USA takes their leave and marches off, headed by a blonde woman holding their striped flag high in the air. They’re lined up in neat rows, organized by sport and day of competition. Etho doesn’t see Bdubs anywhere as they leave. Maybe he’s at the front? 

IOC organisers arrange everyone into columns and rows, Etho finding himself square in the middle of the pack beside his teammates. Up front, Gem hoists the flag. Next to her is Fruit Berries, holding a huge double-sided sign with their nation labeled, just in case spectators forget who the host country is. 

They march out. 

The light is blinding, sun high in the sky and burning what remains of cloud trails away into a smooth azure blue. The audience cheers, a large portion of them Canadian, waving little flags and holding up signs Etho can’t read from the field. A shorter abridged version of the anthem plays as they march across. The thunderous sound of the spectators matches the deafening beat of Etho’s heart; he’d forgotten truly how much the Opening Ceremony is, with its grandiose events and booming audience. It’s almost over, thankfully. 

They cross quickly, the rest of team Canada dispersing and being directed away by employees while Gem and Fruit find their spot on the side of the field with the rest of the sign and flagbearers for the finale of the ceremony and big speech. Etho elects to head back to the Village. 

He’s not much for fireworks (especially in the mid-afternoon) and he’d rather wind down from the high of the Parade than spend more time in the overstimulating arena. Beef and Pause peel off to chat with other countries’ athletes, so he waves goodbye at them as he ducks out of Rogers Centre and into the daylight of greater Toronto. Dozens of other athletes stream out as well, headed either into the city for brief sightseeing or back to the Village for an early night before the Games officially begin tomorrow. 

Fencing begins as early as tomorrow, team épée in the late afternoon. Far too soon for comfort. The temptation to spend all of tomorrow in the gym is strong, but it’s better to have a (light) active morning before competition. There’s plenty of events that begin tomorrow… maybe it would be good to go and watch another sport to take his mind off of things. There’s plenty that begin on the first day, and plenty more than have technically already started. 

(Briefly, Etho wonders what day equestrian eventing begins. He tries not to think too hard about Bdubs, but it’s just like the white bear experiment… the more he tries to avoid him, the more he can’t stop thinking about him. He can’t afford to get distracted like this, not during the most important competition of his life.)

Tomorrow, Etho decides, he'll take it easy. No distractions, no overtraining, and no infuriating American horseriders. 

Easier said than done.

Chapter Text

Bdubs holds Lulu’s head cupped gently in his palms. He has less than half an hour before he’ll be called for the Grand Prix test, the sixty competitor qualifying competition to make it into finals for dressage. The first hurdle in eventing is dressage, the freestyle event meant to test control and finesse. It’s sort of like artistic gymnastics, except with significantly more horses. This will be easy for them. 

“This will be easy for us,” Bdubs says out loud to her. “When we go out there, I’m going to listen to you, but that means you have to listen to me.” Lulu blinks slowly. “Good. We practiced this, so it’s going to be fine. We’re gonna do great.” 

He strokes her mane and pulls away, checking her tack and braids. He’d known that he’d have to compete on the very first day after the Opening Ceremony, but he still feels unprepared in front of Lulu. Despite what a certain Canadian fencer might say, Bdubs has been practicing with Lulu relentlessly during the pre-week; endurance runs in the evenings after show jumping practice in the afternoons, alternated with run-throughs of their dressage routine on the off days. It really goes to prove that a good athlete doesn’t have to sacrifice important sleep hours for more training. 

The day of the Opening Ceremony, Bdubs had forced himself out of bed early to walk with her around the practice fields, guiding her through slow paces and movements. (So, alright, a little bit of sleep was sacrificed.) During the ceremony, he’d entrusted her groom to make sure she was resting and ready for the next day. 

Beside Lulu’s stall, a gorgeous chestnut thoroughbred is led out by a Swiss rider. Bdubs and Lulu watch quietly as the duo prepares to ride onto the arena. The Swiss dressage uniforms have a splash of red under the swallowtail of their coat, the majority of the uniform being the traditional black and white. 

As for Team USA’s uniforms, Bdubs is dressed in dark blue and off-white, per the standards of dressage. It’s a little stuffy in Bdubs’ opinion, and he much prefers the lighter and more informal cross country uniforms. His black helmet hangs on the stable wall, a matte mini-US flag on the back of it. Lulu herself is in an English-style saddle with long flaps that allow the riders’ legs to be close to the horse, the required wear for dressage. She’s all ready, double bridle fitted and mane carefully braided. 

Bdubs takes her reins in one hand and a deep breath through his lungs. With his other hand, he finds his helmet and carefully buckles it, adjusting the strap with deft fingers. This is it. His mounting step sits beside Lulu, waiting impatiently for him to get on. Lulu tosses her head, sensing Bdubs’ trepidation. 

“Alright, alright, I’m going!” he complains, hiking up his coattails and stepping up to swing over onto Lulu. “You ready?” 

Lulu chuffs her answer, and he casts one last glance over all of their gear. Their routine was already given to the panel, Lulu’s got all her tack, Bdubs is in the correct uniform… The only thing left to do now is to actually go out and compete. 

“What are we waiting for?” he mutters under his breath. “Let’s ride.”

Outside, the crowds are thick in the stands, flags and signs held by almost every spectator. Just outside of the actual performance arena, a couple of other riders wait on their horses. Bdubs isn’t quite next, but riders only get forty-five seconds after being called to make their appearance on the field or they’ll suffer a penalty, so no one is willing to risk the chance of being late. 

He draws the reins back, slowing Lulu to a stop next to a gorgeous black roan horse. The two beside each other provide a contrast, Lulu’s shimmering off-white coat beside the ebony of the other horse. Bdubs waves to the rider. They don’t look at him. 

Suddenly, Lulu turns away from where she was comfortably watching the dressage performance, looking left and downwards. Bdubs follows her gaze to a figure standing awkwardly beside them, a masked man with a shock of bleach-white hair. Etho. 

“What are you doing here?” Bdubs blurts out before he can stop himself to say something wittier than that. “I mean, don’t you have other things to do?” 

Etho fidgets, rocking between his feet. He shrugs. “My favorite pastime is bothering you,” he replies, looking up at Lulu and avoiding his gaze. “Where would I be without you?” 

“Oh, you’d definitely be lost without me,” Bdubs agrees. A pause. “Here to watch me win?” 

Etho chuckles, finally looking at him. “You wish. I’m here to… wish you luck.” Bdubs has a brief moment to think a single nice thought about Etho before the man promptly shatters the fragile budding flower. “You’re definitely going to need it. I mean, look at these guys! They’re serious!”

The rider beside them is called in, the black horse trotting away at the sound of the bell ringing. Lulu shifts on her hooves. 

“Well, you can keep your luck!” Bdubs says. “I don’t need it. Me and Lulu? Pure skill.” He pats her neck gently, careful not to muss her mane. Etho doesn’t take the opportunity to make another joke, instead just looking carefully at Bdubs as if he’s got something interesting on his face. Bdubs restrains the urge to wipe off his mouth, just in case his breakfast is still on there. 

“I guess we’ll find out.” And then he turns away and strolls out, hands in his pockets like he hasn’t a care in the world. Agh! He’s so infuriating! 

Bdubs huffs in frustration. He never can figure out what Etho wants, or even if he means half of what he says. For all he knows, everything Etho says is either a joke or completely serious! He needs some sort of Etho-translator, something that will tell him exactly what the man means when he says cryptic things and then leaves without elaborating. 

He looks down at Lulu. “I don’t understand what you see in him,” he says seriously, shaking his head in disappointment. Lulu flicks her ear. Bdubs rolls his eyes and takes a deep breath, stalwartly not looking in Etho’s direction. He needs to focus! No more Canadian distractions! This is the most important event of his career. He looks ahead, relaxing the tight grip he’d had on her reins. 

Him and Lulu vs the world. 

A bell rings. He enters the arena. The world stops.  

For a moment, everything narrows to the sound of blood rushing in his ears and the unfathomably deafening thump of his heartbeat. Lulu beneath him feels like thousands of staticky pinpricks, and the crowd looks like millions of kaleidoscope stars in a galaxy far, far away, the sun overhead like a crashing lunar satellite. 

Then, the opening guitar notes to Aries begin to play, and suddenly the world shifts back into place. The moon isn’t falling to the Earth, and everything will be okay. Sound floods back in, his sight sharpens, and he isn’t just Bdubs anymore. 

Few people will ever understand the bond between a rider and a horse. It’s not just someone directing an animal, it’s understanding that what binds them together is trust. Bdubs and Lulu work together, trust together, fall together, and most importantly? Win together. 

Practice moves them together smoothly, on beat to Seb Jaeger’s music, passage to piaffe as the drums kick in. They move as one unit, across the floor diagonally in a half-pass trot, each hit of Lulu’s hooves on the syncopated offbeat, her movements on the downbeats. A circle, a serpentine, back to diagonal. Bdubs subdivides the rhythm in his head, anticipating the moment when—

—the beat drops, and they kick into a flying change, Lulu’s front and hind legs changing in a single stride as they drop down into a cantering pirouette for six strides. Back across the arena as the bridge continues for several more beats, zig-zagging with half-passes and flying changes combined. The electric guitar ascends another octave and then dips below the surface again, quieting as it was in the beginning. 

Lulu slows, as they practiced, on beat and in a graceful show of flexibility. They turn again, and Bdubs finally looks at the audience as the electric guitar sings its swan song and they finish the routine. The final notes to Aries bleed away, and there in the stadium, eyes drawn to him like a lighthouse against the tides, is Etho. Tall and still, at the very front of the crowd just behind the barrier. He’s too far for Bdubs to see his face clearly, but for a second he swears they lock eyes. 

And then the routine is done and the crowd goes wild and Etho is gone. Everything slams back into him, ambient sounds and the percussive clapping of the audience. He’s shaking. That was it! Bdubs looks down at Lulu, then back up at the crowd, then at the judges. 

There’s quiet discussion, then the panel presses a few buttons. A short pause. Then— 

89.971%. For a moment, Bdubs stares in shock at the score. Ten percent error. Ten percent error. He would’ve been happy with at least an 80%! Really, anything about 65% is considered respectable, but this is the Olympics. And he just scored nearly in the 90s. 

Quiet, you! he scolds himself. This is only the qualifier for the real competition for the medal, and even then he won’t know anything until after all three disciplines are over. Focus! He leads Lulu out the other exit from the floor, guiding her around the back to the stables. The finals are later this afternoon, the time of day where it bleeds into evening, and Bdubs is—not to be egotistical—very certain he’s going to make it there. 89%... 

He needs to find Etho. This’ll really show him! He’d just seen him there, in the stands, so surely if Bdubs moves fast enough he can find him in the crowd. He remembers the exact section of the arena he was in, at the very least.

Lulu’s groom is waiting by the side of the building, so Bdubs dismounts carefully and pats her on the neck. “I promise we’ll see each other again before finals,” he tells her, “I just have to go do something really quick, okay? Be right back.” He spares her one last look before taking off, unbuckling his helmet as he jogs back around the side to the audience entrance. 

Bottom left, front row, Bdubs thinks to himself, tucking his helmet under his arm. The stupid uniform is really feeling stuffy now, his adrenaline high still pumping warm blood and his face all flushed from the performance. It’s too hot outside for this. Canada’s supposed to be cold! 

Down the stairs now, brush past people and quickly mutter apologies that don’t make it to their target. Bdubs breaks past the crowded rows and into the tight knot of people standing by the barrier. There’s a gorgeous almost-golden Chinese horse on the floor right now, cantering across the dirt arena. He ignores it, searching instead for the beacon of white Canadian hair, a six foot tall package of what Bdubs assumes is Canada’s most polite. 

There’s no one. 

Well, technically speaking, there’s a lot of people, tons of them, even. None of them matter. Where did Etho go? Bdubs scans the crowd again, this time looking a little lower. Maybe Etho’s leaning against something? There’s just a sea of people, Bdubs pushed around like a little rowboat in a storm. (This time, there’s no lighthouse.) 

He pushes his way back out of the crowd, rowing with all the strength his arms allow. It’s quiet out here. Lulu is long gone with the groom, and Bdubs is alone again. 

…What a mess. He got one of his best dressage scores of his life and now he’s distraught over not finding his sporting nemesis in the crowd? 

Bdubs sighs despairingly. “Oh, Lulu,” he says to thin air, “we’re really in it now.”

The finals go fine. Alright. Passable. (Admittedly, they go more than alright, Bdubs had just envisioned a score of at least 95%, so he’s just a little heartbroken now.) He’s barely top five at the moment, his penalty score just shy of 18. 

They do their second routine to Jon Björk's Pipe Dreaming, but everything feels offbeat and out of time compared to Aries during the qualifying round. Bdubs has half a mind to check the Olympic speakers, but refrains from doing so out of sheer respect for the organizers. (He is so doing secret detective work later on the sound system.) He’s not a perfectionist (lie) but something is clearly wrong. He decides to spare himself from his own wrath for this score (83.050%) because it was obviously not his fault. The speakers were broken!

He says as much to Lulu in the evening while he’s destressing by taking out her dressage braids, her mane squiggly and curled. The conditions weren’t right anyways, even if the speakers were fine. Besides, he justifies, there’s still two more events left before the end. More than enough to redeem themselves. He may bluster and boast about dressage, but Lulu’s true strong suit is in racing and jumping. This is just a little setback. 

(Privately, Bdubs is a little relieved Etho didn’t show his face at the finals. If he were to show up, Bdubs would’ve wanted him to see a far better score than that. …Or maybe, Bdubs reasons, the reason the score was so poor was because Etho wasn’t there. Is it possible to have a lucky charm that’s an infuriatingly smug Canadian man?) 

He thinks about that as he drifts off to sleep. Bdubs better see Etho’s face tomorrow at the cross country race… 

“This is perfect,” Bdubs says confidently to Lulu, “I’ve decided last night that seeing Etho is a good sign. It’s sort of like how seeing pests is a sign of a healthy environment—Etho at our competition means we’re going to do great.” 

Lulu flicks her tail, unimpressed. Bdubs rolls his eyes and pats her placatingly, eyeing Etho in the crowd again. All the horses are waiting on the side of the course, looking at the obstacles and the audience. He doesn’t seem to be paying that much attention, looking down at his phone and then periodically back up at the course. Bdubs takes this as a personal slight. If he has the gall to show up, he should at least have the decency to look at the obvious winners. (Bdubs and Lulu, of course.)

The six kilometer course extends into the outskirts of the city, sprawling out over the rural patches over Toronto. This event, much like the biking and other long-distance events, had to be taken farther from downtown. The course itself involves obstacles both natural and manmade, like fences and rivers, all built to provide a diverse array of ground for riders and horses to cover. The Olympic Village’s training grounds were a lot more simplistic than this, but Bdubs and Lulu have had plenty of practice on this kind of course. The audience is placed where they can view the beginning/end and densest part of the course, though there’s stands all the way around. 

For cross country eventing, the score isn’t calculated by who crosses first. Rather, it’s a mixture of time and performance penalties. The lower your penalty score is, the higher you’ll be on the leaderboard. It’s sort of like golf! The allotted time for this course is ten minutes, so any time higher than that would earn a rider time penalties. 

After what surely must be ages, Lulu finally trots over to the starting line beside the other ride pairings. Bdubs spares a final look at Etho—who is at long last actually looking at the competition—and waves in what he hopes is a witty and clever way that can most definitely be discerned through a gloved hand dozens of meters away. He waves back hesitantly. Yet another win for Bdubs, naturally. 

No more time to socialize! Bdubs settles himself more firmly, the saddle flaps just slightly forwards of his knees. He leans in low to Lulu’s neck, measured breaths gently brushing her woven running braids. Mark… Set… 

Go!

They take off like a bullet, peeling from the mass of galloping legs. Lulu is quick to duck under the first obstacle, a low branch with verdant green leaves, Bdubs pressed all the way down to avoid hitting his head. Once they clear it, he pops back up to survey the landscape. Already, he can feel Lulu underneath him tensing for the ahead jump over a small stream, the ground beneath them becoming looser nearer to the running water. 

It’s a song, crescendos and diminuendos, staccato and legato. Quick, a leap past a broken fence gate, then navigating the downhill rocky terrain. Slower, to take this turn and duck low beneath another branch. The six kilometer course has a standard of thirty obstacles, but each one can be tricky to count up, so it sometimes can be more than that. 

Halfway through, Lulu’s hooves skid through mud as she slips into a stream, a dark horse above them leaping across and passing their lead. Bdubs urges her forwards, and they jump for the path again, gaining speed across the even ground to chase down the single horse ahead. They’d had a couple of riders pass them here and then, but Lulu was always quick to catch them and put them long in her dust. This horse seems far more determined to stay in front than the others had been. 

The trail bends, curving around a thicket of trees and into more uneven terrain of loose dirt and pebbles. The horse ahead disappears behind the corner. The sound of hooves behind them has faded, leaving their lead successfully claimed and allowing Bdubs to focus on catching up to the rider ahead. He’d barely had the chance to spot the flag on their back, a flash of red amongst a hint of yellow. Germany, probably, considering their historical dominance in eventing.

Lulu’s hooves pound into the ground, the rhythm a backing track for their dance. The trees clear out and suddenly the horse ahead is in sight again, the dark bridle of their coat shimmering in the sunlight. The space between them lengthens slowly, then startlingly begins to close again as Lulu gains a burst of speed. 

Bdubs pulls her to the right, narrowly avoiding the abrupt outcrop of rock from the side of the hills they race aside. The course is beginning to loop in on itself, and Bdubs feels Lulu turning left again, following the path ahead. Too close of a turn, though, and she’ll clip herself on the various shrubbery of the side. 

Soon enough, they’re right behind the other horse, and Bdubs has to make a decision. Either he tries to force the other rider to the right and wedges himself between the horse and the wall, or he tries to go around and back in front, briefly losing him ground and giving the other rider advantage. Lulu keeps pace, staying a safe but close distance from the fast-paced hooves of the horse in front. 

There’s not much course left in the race, Bdubs thinks, and if he pulls a risky move and it doesn’t pay off there’s no chance he’ll be able to claw back with only one more kilometer left, especially if Lulu gets hurt in the process. On the other hand, he’ll have to push Lulu hard if they take the safer maneuver and try to power through. 

Split second decision. 

He pulls out, urging Lulu to pull alongside the other rider on the right. They’re coming up to another stream, the same one that felled him earlier, cutting straight through the course in either direction. They need to make this jump. 

The horse beside them starts to speed up, tempo rising as the rider realizes what Bdubs is trying to do. The ground grows softer as they near the water, and Lulu remembers what had happened before. She jumps earlier this time, soaring above the flowing water and landing on the other side, galloping past the other horse. Bdubs doesn’t look back as they begin to grow their lead, dodging the copse of trees in the center of the trail. 

He can see the end! Behind him, the hooves of the horse are thunderous, and he swears he can see the tip of their face. The finish line. Bdubs narrows in, like he has blinders on, and pushes Lulu just one last time.

They cross like a crack of lightning, running through the finish line and only slowing dozens of meters down from the line. The German rider is right beside them, gasping breaths in time with Bdubs. 

Beside the course, the massive display reads, “USA - 8:06 [WR], GER - 8:07.” Everything is so, so loud, but Bdubs can still hear the moment he realizes he’s broken the world record. 

The announcer’s voice comes through like fuzzy cotton, and Bdubs can barely pay attention as the other rider dismounts unsteadily and holds out a hand to help him down. He wobbles on his own two feet, holding onto Lulu for support. He shakes hands with second place, politely, then turns and screams with pure exhilaration into the sky. Lulu bounces between her hooves, ears flicking with the noise. 

Amidst everything, Bdubs has a single coherent thought that isn’t about winning, and it is unfortunately and irritatingly about Etho. I need to kiss him square on the lips. 

Bdubs would like to state for the jury that this thought was fueled by the adrenaline of breaking a world record, realizing he’s probably going to win gold, and the persisting superstition that Etho is the cause of his win. Naturally, the only conclusion from those three things is. Well. That. 

Somewhere between handing off Lulu’s reins to her groom and entering the audience bleachers did Bdubs realize that he most certainly did not want to kiss Etho square on the lips, despite his very clear (mental) intentions to merely minutes ago. (This is where he assumes his common sense finally kicked in.) Bdubs instead looked for Etho solely to thank him for showing up and nothing past a polite (hopefully only) two sentence conversation. 

He was not there. 

Now, at this point, everyone is caught up and Bdubs is deeply annoyed. A world freaking record set, and Etho didn’t even stick around to see it? This is unacceptable! Absolutely unacceptable. 

Bdubs knows exactly how to fix this. 

“Where’s Etho?” 

“Good afternoon, Bdubs, I’m well, how are you doing?” responds Etho’s teammate. Bdubs frowns suspiciously at him. 

“How do you know my name?” he demands. 

The guy shrugs, turning around from the coffee machine. “Etho’s a gossip. What do you need him for?”

“I,” Bdubs announces, “am going to beat some sense into him.” 

He puts his mug down and looks at Bdubs. “Great! I’m in!” he says with zero hesitation. Then, after a moment of deliberation, “Seriously, though… he needs it.” 

“I know! He’s such a jerk, showing up to all of my events and then disappearing right after! Someone needs to teach him how to be polite, because clearly Canada failed.” 

Beef, and Bdubs is about 70% sure this is Beef, looks in confusion at him. “Your events? I didn’t know he was there… Though, that does explain a lot about what’s been going on.” 

“Yeah, well someone’s gotta fill me in on that, because I have no idea what’s going on.”

Taking a small sip of his coffee, Beef thinks for a moment. “You’re gonna have to talk to him about that one on your own, I think. It’s not my business to say.” 

Before Bdubs can butt in again, Beef holds up a finger to pause him. “I can help you do that, though,” he says, pulling out his phone to send a quick text message. “Me and Pause will get you a single conversation with him after your next event, if he’s really showing up to all of those. You only get one shot though, ‘cause Etho’s wily and will slip out of the next if he really doesn’t want to talk to you.” 

“That’s fine by me!” With enough luck, Bdubs will only need one to hammer some sense into the man. And if not? Etho can’t be that wily. 

This time, Bdubs is ready. True to form, he spots a shock of white hair in the crowd and commits the seat to memory, along with the nearest exit. Next to Etho is Pause and Beef, both of them engaging their teammate in conversation. Bdubs himself stands next to Lulu, waiting in the wings for their turn on the course. 

It’s the final puzzle piece of equestrian eventing; show jumping. To fully recover from the mess of dressage, Bdubs had built a list of perfect conditions for the event. First, a good night’s rest. This is easy enough to accomplish, as Bdubs is an excellent sleeper. Second, Lulu is well fed and well rested. Again, not terribly difficult. Third, Etho must be present. Bdubs isn’t taking chances after the world record cross country time. Horrible person or not, clearly Etho must be present for Bdubs to perform well. Fourth, and most importantly, Etho must not leave before the event is over. (These are coincidentally also ranked in order of easiest to hardest.) 

Currently, Bdubs is a close second to the German rider he’d almost tied with in the cross country event. Both of them have penalty scores in the low eighteens, Bdubs behind (or, technically speaking, ahead) by just 0.80 points. The aggregate scoring system of eventing relies on penalty points, with each event offering the grand opportunity of screwing things up royally. Winning means having the least amount of penalties, so the lowest score wins in this case. Both him and the German rider had earned some minor penalty points from tripping during the cross country section, but luckily enough (for Bdubs) it looks like Germany also messed up during dressage. This is the epic comeback sequence—hopefully for the USA, not Germany. 

Bdubs has 400 meters of course to mess things up. Lulu has 400 meters to make sure Bdubs doesn’t screw up. Etho has a civic duty to stay where he’s seated and not move a single inch. 

The first rider represents Italy, and a shiny russet horse canters onto the course. The jumps are a mix of hedges, fences, and various other (presumably) aesthetically pleasing objects to leap over. Bdubs personally thinks that the designer could use a few tips (like making the bushes far less disturbing and horrifying to look at) but the obstacles are serviceable enough for the competition. The jumps are of varying heights, some terrifyingly high and others almost a tripping hazard.

As Bdubs watches, the Italian horse balks and doesn’t jump over a high wooden fence, landing to the left and galloping around. The penalty is updated on the scoreboard as they keep running the course. After this pair, Bdubs should be just a couple more horses down. He brushes his fingers through Lulu’s loose mane. Her hair is out of its braids this time, loose and curled in a way that Bdubs is certain will look majestic during the jumps. Like a unicorn!

Australia jumps, then Brazil. The Chinese horse looks like it's floating on air as it jumps, and the Irish rider moves almost as smoothly as their horse does midair. This is the endgame now. This is his chance to prove he’s good enough. 

He takes a breath. Mounting Lulu in a single swift movement, he takes the reins and straightens his back. This is the final stand. 

And he rides onto the course. 

There’s a stretch of non-course for lead up, and Lulu kicks into a steady canter to a gallop down the straightaway leading into the first jump. It’s a midsized one, a large wooden sign with a massive red maple leaf and ‘Toronto’ carved in serpentine scarlet serif script. (Nice! Alliteration!) Lulu clears it easily, landing gracefully on the other side still running. 

The clock runs as they jump, Bdubs guiding Lulu through the course and over the jumps. She only hesitates once, barely, on the tallest jump, the one the Italian horse had refused. It only takes her a moment to steel herself, and then they’re up in the air. The moment at the peak of a jump has always been one of Bdubs’ favorite moments of show jumping. It’s scary, that feeling of weightlessness, but it’s also exciting in that death-defying way when his heart skips a beat and his lungs seize up. 

Lulu’s hooves hit the ground like the crash of cymbals, snare drum rat-tat-tatting as she approaches the final jump. It’s low, a hedge of berry bushes ripe and red, but long and wide. They pick up speed. Bdubs lays low to Lulu’s withers, trusting her to make the jump, his hands tangled in her mane and the reins. 

They hang in the air, the world like a snapshot in a photo album. 

—And then it’s over, and Lulu gallops to the end of the course, her mane streaming in the wind just as majestically as Bdubs had predicted. He barely has the sense of mind to bow politely to the judges as he tries to make his heart rate slow down. This could be it! This could be gold… literally. 

He’s shaking, a little bit, on Lulu’s back as the scoreboard updates itself. For a moment, New Zealand clings to its first place spot on the board before the stars and stripes replace the deep azure. Before he can start freaking out live on television in the middle of the course, the bell rings again and Lulu canters to the exit. 

That’s not the game, not yet, but still— Holy crap. That’s silver, right there, Bdubs is calling it now. Gold if Germany makes a mistake. The sable German horse has yet to jump, but that’s the least of his worries right now. 

As Lulu passes through the side of the arena, Bdubs catches another flash of white hair through  the side railing. He’s quick to dismount and lead Lulu to the holding stables with the grooms, removing his helmet and stuffy overcoat as he goes. Again, he forlornly says goodbye to her, promising quality time later after he gives Etho the talking of his life. 

Gosh, he can barely even think straight right now! He holds his folded overcoat in one hand, his helmet left behind with Lulu, as he marches back to the audience section. He’s about to win the Olympics. He’s about to knock some sense into an idiot Canadian. He’s just proven that he’s good enough to be here. He’s got to say as much to the aforementioned idiot Canadian. He needs to curse out Germany later in a safe environment. He needs to curse out Canada right now. He needs to—

“Bdubs!”

He comes to a halt in front of Pause, the bespectacled man looking down at him awkwardly. Bdubs eyes the situation in front of him. 

Beef has one of Etho’s hands in his, still sitting in a seat, his other hand scrolling Chirp. He looks like a tired mother at the mall. Pause is standing in the aisle, leaning against the row to block people (read: Etho) from getting out. Etho, for his part, is halfway seated and pulling at Beef’s arm. They’re all staring at Bdubs. 

Etho yanks his hand free and shoves both into his pockets. Pause slinks away, gesturing frantically at Beef who looks up and slides out from the other side of the aisle, apologizing in that Canadian way as he slips by a British family. 

“So,” Etho says, looking anywhere except at Bdubs, “what’s going on?” 

“‘What’s going on?’” Bdubs repeats incredulously. “ You tell me what’s going on!” 

Etho looks at the horse jumping down on the course. “Well, you’re the expert here, so correct me if I’m wrong, but I think show jumping is going on right now.” 

“You know what I mean!” 

He’s silent for a moment, jaw flexing underneath the dark mask. His hair is unkempt and messy, the brown roots grown out nearly an inch from his scalp. Etho glances to the left, sighing in resignation. 

“I don’t know,” he says simply. “I shouldn’t be here. I thought it would make sense if I came, but it doesn’t… I—” 

“What?” Bdubs stares at him, stony faced and unmoving. Great. Now he’s confused and annoyed. “You ‘shouldn’t be here’?? Then go, just leave, okay? You’ve already been avoiding me!” His events are over. He doesn’t need this stupid lucky charm anymore, and he certainly doesn’t have to put up with Etho any longer. Bdubs feels drained all of a sudden, like he’s just run a thousand miles and swam a hundred more. 

“Sorry.” Etho, face still turned to the left, brushes past Bdubs and walks away, shoulders hunched and hands shoved deep into his pockets. “I need to focus on fencing. You were… distracting me.” 

Distracting?? Says the person who’s showing up to every single one of Bdubs’ events like he’s trying to max out a punch card! Bdubs watches him go, his slight figure disappearing into the crowd like a dandelion seed into the wind. A forgotten wish sent off into the ether. He can’t shake the terrible feeling settling around him that he’s losing something he might never get back, that he needs to shout until Etho turns around, that he needs to run and bring him back—

Etho is gone. Bdubs doesn’t move. Around him, the audience begins to stomp their feet and clap their hands, their cheers resonating through the stadium. For a moment, Bdubs forgets where he is and why there’s so many people. (He did, briefly, feel like a character in a soap opera, spotlight on him while the world slipped away.) 

He turns back to the course. The scoreboard is large, final scores displayed. The event is over, Bdubs realizes, that must have been why everyone was cheering. Well, is cheering. The crowd jostles around him, and then suddenly there are people pressed around him, staring at his face. 

“Hey, that’s you!” a man says, looking at his crisp riding uniform and the stitched American flag on the shoulders. “You’re up here!” 

Bdubs locks into the screen, staring into the scoreboard like a child into the eyes of a loving mother. That is indeed him. His eyes are drawn to the German flag, the second in the row of nations. And above that… USA. 

The stars and stripes of the land of the free and home of the brave. Team USA. BdoubleO One-Hundred and Lulu. Gold medal. He won. 

He won! He actually did it! Him and Lulu, against the world, and they won. 

“Take THAT, Germany!” Bdubs shouts, pumping a fist into the air. Several audience members swivel their heads to look at him. He ignores them, of course. 

For the briefest moment, he almost turns to a person that isn’t there; he’d love to rub this in Etho’s— …Right. He’s gone now. 

It’s sort of like biting into one of those chocolates that claim to have caramel centers and then you learn they cheaped out at the end. It’s a crunchy shell, smooth, dark, and delicious, but then just when you’ve reached the center of what you were waiting for, it’s just a disappointing mess. 

Bdubs narrows his eyes in determination. Who needs Etho, anyways? There’s more candy than just chocolate out there. Bdubs has a whole team of US athletes to support him! He’s won gold. He’s broken a world record. He’s got the best horse in the world (factually backed). Frankly, washed up Canadian fencers are so behind him that he’s barely got a reason to think about them. Yeah. He won’t even think about Etho anymore. 

“Boo.” 

Bdubs jumps about half a foot into the air, almost falling over as he turns around to look at the intruder. His very manly and masculine squeak of surprise is quickly forgotten as he looks into the emerald green eyes of one of his very best friends. 

“Cleo!!” he exclaims, throwing his arms around her neck. He steps back, looking over her. It’s late at night (for him, anyway) and she’s dressed in a loose hoodie over joggers with her curly ginger hair tied back in a loose flowery braid. “I didn’t know you were here!” 

They look accusingly at him. “I didn’t know you were here either until you won a gold medal!” they retort, arms crossed. Bdubs rearranges his face into a passably apologetic expression.
“Anyways,” they say, his slight forgiven, “how have you been? Apart from all the winning, I mean.” 

Cleo and him have known each other for a long time, all the way since Bdubs had first started traveling to the UK regularly for horseriding. Both athletes, they’d bonded initially over their love for their sport. (Horseriding and tennis, respectively.) Eventually, it’d turned into more than just a friendship. Bdubs doesn’t really know how long it had all lasted, because the transition from friends to partners was so subtle he’d barely even noticed the change. Either way, they’d both decided after a bit of experimentation that they were better off as friends. And they were right! Bdubs and Cleo are great friends. (The kind that clearly don’t mind starting up a conversation during the (almost) dead of night.) 

“Doing, uh, fine, I think,” Bdubs responds after a moment of deliberation. He doesn’t bother lying to her. Cleo can always tell when he’s lying. Even now, she tilts her head suspiciously. Fine wasn’t necessarily a lie… “...Not great,” he admits when she says nothing. 

“What’s got you down, Bdubs? Winning has got to put a guy in a great mood.” 

Bdubs hesitates. He doesn’t want to rant about Etho to his ex, but at the same time… who else is there to complain to? He’s close enough with Cleo that they wouldn’t mind, anyways. They’ve always liked to make fun of people, so this should be the perfect opportunity for them! He caves and starts his tragic tale of epic proportions, starting from the Airport Incident. 

(“All of your luggage?” 

“Well, almost. Nothing actually fell, but it could’ve!”)

He relays the CN Tower conversation (“Absolute jerk, not a polite Canadian at all!” / “Oh, I know the type.”) and then the subsequent meeting at the Village (“No! Etho?!” / “Yes…”). She pays attention the whole time, gasping when Bdubs cues her and shaking her head disapprovingly at all the right parts. She’s always been a good listener. 

When he finishes regaling her of all his woes, ending on the final conversation after show jumping, she sits back and processes everything. Her face goes through all the stages of grief in record time, blinking in disbelief as she thinks over everything. Honestly, he’s feeling a bit justified now. If that’s enough to stun Cleo, then maybe Bdubs wasn’t just making a big deal out of things. 

“Right,” they say finally, clapping their hands together like they’re about to stage an intervention. “I see what’s happening here.” 

“You do?” 

“You’re in love with my ex.” 

There’s a nonzero chance that Bdubs makes the Windows error noise out loud and in real life. He splutters for several seconds, thirty words trying to make their way out of his mouth at the same time. He waves his hands vaguely to communicate. 

“—Your ex??” he finally makes out, astonishment clear in his voice. “Etho’s your EX?!” 

“Come on, Bdubs, keep up,” she says, waving a hand to motion him to speed up, “yeah, he’s my ex. Let’s just say… it ended much more poorly than we did. It was rough.” 

“Hah! I’ve always known he was a douchebag!” 

Cleo raises an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t argue my point that you’re in love,” they say conversationally, as if to brush over the fact that ETHO IS THEIR EX. Bdubs doesn’t have time to parse all of this information! Cleo is doing this on purpose! They know that if they say enough Things, he can’t process it all fast enough!

“That was implied!” he argues, pointing a finger accusationally at her. “Obviously I’m not in love with your ex!” 

“Are you sure?” Cleo starts to count on her fingers. “You told me you kept seeking him out during pre-week even after trying to get Lulu to bite his fingers off. You claimed you spilled coffee on him on purpose so that he would talk to you. You said he showed up to all of your matches and you got upset when he wouldn't talk to you. And,” she finishes, “you’re here right now moping that he won’t see you anymore.” 

Bdubs huffs in frustration and turns away from them. “It’s called a rivalry, Cleo, you wouldn’t understand it!” 

“No, what Joe and I have is a rivalry. What you and Etho have is called repressed feelings.” They sigh and scoot closer to him. “I know it’s late for you, and it’s been a long day. Just think about what you really want, okay? I’m your friend, Bdubs, I want you to be happy.” 

“I’m fine,” he protests, but Cleo keeps going, taking his shoulders and gently turning him around to face her. She’s being serious now. He stills in her grip, looking up into her eyes.

“Just be careful with Etho,” she says carefully. “Don’t let him break your heart. Promise me that?” 

“…I promise.”

Chapter Text

In order for the audience to fully understand everything, Etho has to dial it all back to about three days ago. There’s some context to everything, he promises. It’s just kind of sort of really complicated. 

First, there has to be an understanding that the first day of the Olympics kicks off with the men's team épée. Additionally, eventing dressage begins on that very same day, qualifiers in the morning and finals in the evening. These two things are entirely unrelated. 

Etho wakes up early on the first day, as he’s wont to do. He hadn’t slept particularly well the night before, but his biological clock still forces him out of bed with no chance of falling back asleep. Once he’s up, that’s it for the morning. Today’s the day. (Well, one of the days.) Team competitions might be today, but individuals are almost a week away. Plenty of time to practise and improve. (That’s what he was thinking, anyway.) 

He wanders for a while, like a fish off the hook just swimming around waiting to be snatched away. After stopping by the dining hall to grab breakfast, Etho starts walking again, swimming like the clever little fish he is. Away, away, away from the fishing rods. Or maybe towards them? (It’s really unclear, and the metaphor is sort of getting away from him now… Like a fish off the hook!)

<Beefers > hey are we doing anything before the comp today
< Pause> not sure where Etho is but we should talk about positions??

Right. Positions. Etho’s been trying to avoid talking about it, even though he’s sure the question lingers in everyone’s minds. He can’t be the anchor. 

<Etho > we can talk with the coach later
< Etho> do you all want to do some light practice for a bit and then take a break until the matches? meet you in building d ^w^

Practise goes slightly less than stellar. It’s not bad, but it’s not great either. They’re maybe bronze material, but that’s being generous. Very generous. 

“What is up with us!” Pause exclaims after the fourth time he trips on his footwork practice. “Someone’s bringing the mood down.” He shoots a glance at Etho. 

“What! Me?!” Etho lowers his sword. “I didn’t do anything!” 

Pause gestures all over at him. “No, I can tell something’s up. You better get it figured out before the matches, otherwise this is gonna be a disaster.” Beef nods in agreement. Etho sighs in anguish. 

“Maybe we call it good for now?” Beef offers. They’ve been going at it for almost an hour with minimal actual work done. It’s all just to keep them bouncy and ready for the evening, which is the reasoning they’d used to justify their fifteen minute ultimate tag session halfway through. (Etho lost terribly.) “Let’s all agree to be at the arena at least two hours early, though.” 

“Two hours?! I got stuff to do, Beef!” 

“Spend all your money faster, then.” Clearly these guys know Etho’s tricks too well.

Contrary to popular belief (including Etho), he doesn’t end up spending exorbitant amounts of money at tourist traps with hiked up prices. He can feel the urge to start stress-shopping creep up on him, but he drives around the malls with razor precision. A fantastic display of self-restraint, if he does say so himself. 

He was trawling through the Olympics’ website after Beef called off their mini-practise session, checking scheduling to see how many different events he could go watch in between and after his own events. (This is where the earlier statement suddenly becomes relevant, by the way.) Dressage is today. Better yet, dressage is in twenty minutes in the BMO Field. From Etho’s current location, that’s a ten minute drive. 

It’s a bad decision. (Don’t worry, Etho is aware.) He’d just said he wouldn’t let anything distract him anymore, but what else is there to do today? If he can’t destress by shopping, he’ll do the next best thing; bother Americans—or rather, a very specific American. 

He sets the navigation for BMO Field. 

The rest, Etho assumes, is history. He freezes up when he sees Bdubs up on Lulu and dressed to the nines in the dressage uniform. He panics when Bdubs finishes his routine and immediately turns to flee. He even has a very brief talk with himself in the mirror! (Admittedly, it had gone about as well as all the rest of his recent conversations had gone. Poorly.)

He can’t stop thinking about him… and therein lies the problem. Any other time! Any other time, Etho would take the opportunity to have some fun! Now? During the most important event of his professional career thus far?? Terrible timing. This is all Bdubs’ fault. 

Etho had shown up to say something? Do something? He’d had a plan, definitely, a great plan. He was going to wait and watch and say something nice and friendly like “great job, buddy!” at the end and then everything would’ve been fine and he could’ve slept easy. But no! No, it’s got to be all complicated and Etho’s got to have emotions about everything. He’s once again stressing the importance of the Olympics and terrible timing. 

He hates Bdubs. (No, he doesn't.) He definitely has some sort of strong emotion about him, but the jury’s out on what exactly it is. Sometimes it’s the kind of strong emotion that makes him want to aggressively beat up the equestrian. Sometimes he wants to do extremely strange things like hold his hand and listen to him talk about horses for an hour. (Usually it’s just the punching, though.) 

It’s somewhere in between the argumentative debate with his bathroom mirror and three missed calls from Beef that Etho realises Bdubs is becoming a way bigger problem than he’d initially thought. It’s such an American thing, inconveniencing him like this. 

<Beefers > Etho pick up right now where the heck are you??
< Pause> dude Beef is pacing like crazy right now

Etho dials as he takes the stairs two at a time. 

“You’re late!!” Beef exclaims as soon as the call connects. “We all agreed two hours early! Jesus, man, all the other teams are already here warming up—where have you been?!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Etho agrees as connects his phone to his rental car’s bluetooth. His gear is already in the trunk, and he’s dressed in his traditional undershirt already. (The one he always wears under his fencing gear that no one ever sees. It’s a secret.) “I’m on my way! I got, uh, caught up in conversation.” ‘With myself’ is what he doesn’t say. 

On the other side, Etho briefly hears Pause complaining about his tardiness. “So whiny!” Etho comments as he turns right. “I’m only, what, like ten minutes late?” 

“THIRTY MINUTES!” he hears Pause shout through Beef’s phone. Yeesh. He is late! Focus up, Slab. 

He’s parking in the sectioned off lot when he realises just how tight he’s gripping the wheel. He unclenches his fists and wiggles his fingers. He needs to lock in; this is it. This is going to set the precedent for the rest of the Games. Etho’s still got individuals in six days, but this will set the tone. If they come in fast and hit hard, that’s the ballgame. If they fold like a house of teetering cards, there’s no coming back from that. 

Team Canada until the end. Pause and Beef are strong fencers, good enough to be at the Olympics. Etho feels like his qualification was a fluke, a stroke of luck, a single missed parry and a tip of Lady Luck’s scales. Today is the day to find out whether his luck runs out here or not. 

Fortune favours the brave. Etho walks in. 

“I’m dropping to setter,” is not exactly how Etho wanted to start the conversation. Ideally he would’ve said something like ‘sorry I’m late, let’s get started’ or ‘good afternoon, let’s crush the competition!’ to get the ball rolling. Instead, he sprints through the gate waving a massive flag and then metaphorically drops a thirty pound weight at Beef’s feet. 

“You’re—wait, I’m setter!” 

Etho waves at Beef, setting his gear bag on the floor. “You were setter.” He unzips his bag checking over his three spare swords and neatly folded gear. “Welcome to anchor position! How does it feel?”

“Terrible! Take it back, I don’t want it!” 

“Life’s tough, Beefers, you're the anchor now.” 

Pause cuts in—literally—waving his épée between Beef and Etho to interject. “Hold on a moment. Why are you dropping to setter? We haven’t finalised yet, but you’re our strongest fencer.”

In team fencing, each team has three fencers that traditionally go in order of skill with the strongest fencer bringing up the rear. Each position has a name; the glue, the setter, and the anchor. It’ll look bad for Etho to drop down, especially with all of the rumours already flying around. He doesn’t need more comments about being washed up, but he does need to put the team first before his quickly evaporating reputation. He can’t be the anchor. 

“I can’t be the anchor,” Etho says out loud. “I know it’s a last minute decision, but we can’t put me on anchor.” He says it with finality, like there’s no going back. And there isn’t. He knows it, the feeling settled into the depths of his gut like a slowly burning ember. He can’t do it. He’s distracted, he’s off-kilter, he’s locked out of the building and the key is gone. 

Beef and Pause look at him for a moment, then exchange their own glance. They’ve all known each other long enough to know when they’re being serious. Pause nods after a brief beat of hesitation and leaves to contact the panel with their finalised positions. Beef looks at Etho like he’s reading the pages of a particularly interesting book, and he’s just gotten to the plot twist. Etho pivots and marches to the bathroom to change into his gear. 

He’s made his decision. It’s time to lay in the bed he’s made. 

Fencing gear goes on over clothing, and each fencer usually has a shirt they wear to competitions for good luck. Etho’s deep dark fencing secret is that his shirt was found in a thrift store east of Alberta and has the massive face of an anime character on the front and back. He wears it to every competition and it hasn’t failed him yet. (The day of the accident he’d been wearing a different shirt, this one in the wash.) He’s looking to squeeze every inch of remaining luck out of Hatake Kakashi. 

The fencing gear is traditional white, though with red stripes composed of tiny little maple leaves running up the pants like a tracksuit. Twin maple leaves adorn his shoulders, and his fencing mask even has the Canadian flag on the front. (He’d taken off his facemask for this, secure enough in the mesh that his face is hidden from view.) 

When he rejoins Beef and Pause, they’re all wearing the identical uniforms. All around, the other teams have similar flags on their masks, each for their own nation they represent. Some look better than others—simple striped flags like Italy carry over better than the complicated ones like Kazakhstan. Although the promotional posters had all been with the plain black masks, the official Games has them in their national flags for easier recognition. 

“You stole my look!” Etho jokes. “One of us is going to have to change.”

“At least I can actually pull it off,” Pause responds, striking a pose. He grips his sword loosely, bouncing it up and down slowly to stretch his wrist as he surveys the competition. Seven grueling hours of bouts. 4:30 to 11:30 in the evening. It’s going to be brutal.  

Let the montage begin. 

They’re against Italy first, the green and red stripes staring down their maple leaf menacingly. Pause is first to bout, the glue for their team. Épée is the most methodical of the three fencing disciplines. Unlike in sabré and foil, there’s no advantage to striking first or being aggressive; it’s about feinting and defence and playing the long game. They might joke about Pause’s fateful first meeting on the strip, but his name really comes into play with how he duels on the piste. 

True to his moniker, Pause moves in bursts of speed, like a video quickly being paused and unpaused. He freezes like a rabbit, tempting the Italian fencer closer, then strikes quickly, scoring a hit on their torso. It’s all staccato, light and separated, a dance of leaps and strikes. 

In team fencing, each bout is only three minutes long—or until they reach five points. Teams play relay style to forty-five points, the score carrying over from each fencer before. 

Pause wins the first bout to five points, just barely within the three minute period. He unhooks from the electronic scoring system, bouncing up and down with adrenaline. 

—

They win their first match against Italy with thirty-eight points, moving forwards to Venezuela. The three arcing stars of the Venezuelan flag are little dots on their masks, easy to focus on as Etho settles into en garde position after Pause finishes his bout. His opponent cocks their head sideways and then does a tiny shrug, pointing their sword forwards after the customary salute. 

As soon as the announcer calls “Allez!” he’s off, dancing up the strip. He goes up, he goes down, he forces his opponent off the piste. It’s a dirty move, pulling that right off of the bat, but it’s the fastest way to destabilize an opponent and get them off beat. Épée is a mind game, and Etho’s leaning in. 

This time, he pulls back, tempting the opponent into following him towards his own endzone to enact revenge for his underhanded point grab. Etho parries their attack, then strikes with a counter-attack, angling under their guard to hit their unprotected legs. Up and down. 

After his second point gained, he starts to slip, his fingers falling from the lungs of his precarious ladder. The Venezuelan realises his tricks and refuses to fall for them anymore, pushing back and taking opportunities. Etho’s guard is wide open, his mind not moving fast enough as his body surges into muscle memory. His lead is lost quickly, the timer calling the bout 2-4 just before Etho scores a point on their shoulder to pull it to 3-4. 

—

It’s almost seven in the evening now, the sun dipping so low the skyline seems to sink along with it. They’re taking a quick breather as Japan and Hungary duke it out on the piste, anxiously watching the scoreboard change. They’d made it through quarterfinals and classifications, though just by the skin of their teeth. Etho was right to drop down. Each of his bouts, he’d quickly gained a lead before falling behind and practically jumping onto his opponents’ blade. In contrast, Beef’s role as anchor has been saving their hides, as well as Pause’s strong openings. For the first time in a long time, Etho feels like the weak link. He knows that both of his friends can tell that something is wrong, but neither ask anything while the tournament is ongoing. (He’s not excited for whatever conversation he’ll be cornered into after all this is over.)

After their brief half an hour break is up, they journey back inside to bounce around for the last five bouts of the current match to warm their muscles back up for semifinals. 

—

As anchor, it’s Beef’s job to hold up the end of the line and keep the ship from sinking. His defence is impenetrable, each parry stalwart against the Kazakh fencer he’s dueling. He doesn’t fall for their feints, far too used to the way Team Canada trains together. (Beef knows feints like it's nobody’s business, considering the amount of times Etho’s gotten him with them before he learned how to spot them. It’s about the way someone moves their feet when they’re feinting; they brace in the wrong direction.) 

He’s clean and methodical, steady and reliable. Like an anchor. It’s the perfect set, Etho thinks as he watches Beef’s bouts. Come in quick and strong with Pause and finish up with Beef’s impenetrable wall. He’ll say little of the middle portion, but Etho’s really not been living up to the position name of ‘setter’ with his bouts. (It’s been a long night.)

Beef finishes before the timer’s up, a steady 5-2. They won. Kazakhstan lost just barely, 41-38, which means—

Team Canada’s going to the final round. 

—

It’s 10:30, the bronze medal finals, Kazakhstan versus Hungary. Etho thinks there’s some sort of poetry in the final match, the parallel of red and white masks facing each other. He glances across the way at the Japanese fencers chatting with each other about gold. Presumably about gold, at least, because that’s what he’s talking about. 

“Did you see the Japanese setter?” Pause is saying, craning his neck to watch their opponents toss a small bouncy ball between each other. “He’s skittish—reacts too early to attacks.” 

Etho reaches inside the mask to scratch his neck. He almost wishes he’d left his facemask on, because it’s getting hot in here and he wants to take off the damn fencing mask. Too much work to go back into the bathroom to put his mask back on, though. He thinks about what Pause says; he had noticed that while watching Japan’s matches. Other than his signature move that earned him his nickname, Etho’s always been quick with feints. 

“I don’t know if I’ll even get that far,” he admits, turning to Pause. “Today’s been terrible for me. They’re beating me up!” 

“Lucky you got us to carry the team,” Beef jokes. Etho smiles underneath the mask. He is lucky. “We got this!”

And then they’re up again, and Pause is saluting his opponent. The Japanese fencer is quick to pick up on Pause’s erratic movements, picking out the pattern to his jarring motions. When Pause leaps to secure a point on their calf, they dodge and counterattack, landing a touch on Pause’s back. 

It goes on like this for the next three minutes, back and forth before they both stall at 4-4 and it’s sudden death. Japan wins, but just barely as the tip of their sword glances off of his shoulder and the electronic sensor calls the bout. 

Pause nods firmly at Etho as he walks off the strip. He’s already taking off his mask and shaking out his thick dark hair, steps springy and light as he goes to wait with Beef. For a moment, the lights become too bright and the buzz of the cameras settle like honeybees thick in his throat. Etho holds his breath. 

He exhales. En garde. 

Too quick to react, Etho thinks as he falls into position, arm pointed straight and legs comfortable. He needs to win this bout, and then the next two after. As soon as the referee calls, he’s pushing forwards and then dropping back, baiting them into following him into his endzone. He knows they’ve watched his earlier matches, so he doesn’t push them. Instead, he lets them wait for the second shoe to drop, their guard up as Etho pokes at their defence. 

For the first minute, Etho’s points go up all the way to four while they stall at two. It’s as he’s starting to force them backwards that the scales tip, their sword whipping around his guard to flick onto his left shoulder. His blindside. Then again, a feint towards Etho’s right before swinging around to his left. Again, this time going for his left as Etho desperately tries to parry, his depth perception throwing his panicked riposte off kilter. Washed up. Etho stumbles back to his side, sword at his side as he extends to tap blades—a distanced handshake. 

He lost. 

It’s blurry as Beef goes up to the piste to defend their points, Pause conspicuously on his left as if to protect Etho’s blindspot. He’s barely moving, watching through the mesh of his mask as Beef scores another touch on his opponent. Through the haze, he finds himself thinking about horses. Dressage finals happened already, he realises. While quarterfinals for fencing were happening, Bdubs was out on the floor finishing his routine. And Etho wasn’t there. It’s a dumb thing to fixate on, but he can’t help but think about Bdubs looking for him in the crowd and not finding him. 

“Etho?” Pause says, his face coming in to focus as he gently taps him on the shoulder. “We’ve got six more bouts left.” He’s standing up now, about to move back to the piste. There’s nine bouts in team matches, each fencer getting the chance to duel every fencer on the opposing team. 

And then he’s back on the strip, untouchable like the wind, dancing like a raven in flight. He wins, easily, before even two minutes are up. Pause is against the Japanese setter this time, taking full advantage of his own advice and feinting left and right. Unlike Etho, of course, Pause doesn’t have a glaringly public blindspot. 

The next five bouts pass quickly, each time Japan losing their lead faster than they can gain. Etho manages to scrape a win by running the clock until their three minutes are up. Beef and Pause pull the dead weight, running alongside their opponents in the race for points. Before too long, they’re at the final bout. Etho’s up again. 

“Prěts! Allez!” 

Fence! Etho launches himself down the piste, pouncing like a fox to score the first hit on their torso. Wide open. He doesn’t let himself think about his eye, not about the blur of light coming from his left, and certainly not about the dozens of cameras pointed directly at him. Instead, as he counterattacks, he hears an annoyingly familiar American voice in his head. ‘Pure skill,’ says Bdubs’ voice. 

He doesn’t falter this time, gritting his teeth as his opponent attempts a hit on his left arm. He parries, then attacks their arm. He’s going to win gold tonight, for Canada and to shove it in the face of a very obnoxious American. He’s going to win. 

Up and down, Etho dances the strip. Another point for his opponent stepping off the piste. He feints right, leaving his left wide open before wheeling around to score a point as they extend to hit him. He won’t look now, he can’t, but he knows he’s almost out of time. 

‘I’m way more likely to win gold than you!’ supplies mind-Bdubs. Etho narrows his eyes. We’ll see. 

Attack, riposte, parry, counterattack—he can almost hear the timer counting down, reaching zero just after he glances the tip of his blade off of their upper arm. That’s it. Etho’s heart is racing as he politely taps blades, skipping the steps down off of the leveled piste without even looking at the scoreboard. Pause and Beef envelop him in a huge team hug, his sword clattering to the ground beside their bags. 43-41. 

They won. 

Etho fingers the gold medal, watching it twist around as he spins the medallion. He did it. He’s back here again, gold in his hands. He’s gone and proved himself, hasn’t he? (Not yet.) 

“We need to talk,” Beef’s voice says from his right. Etho turns to look at his friend, sitting beside him in the late night darkness. “What happened earlier?” 

Etho doesn’t bother asking what he’s talking about. They both know. 

“It was just an off-day,” Etho tries, flicking his medal to watch it spin aimlessly. “Being back here, it’s a lot. I just got… overwhelmed.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the full truth either. Beef doesn’t look like he’s buying it, but he doesn't try to argue. 

After a long moment, he says, “You should sleep soon. It’s getting late.” Beef hesitates before he leaves. “You need to get this figured out before individuals.” And then he’s gone. Etho’s alone again. 

The medal spins, reflecting the stars above. 

If there’s anything Etho can consistently win a gold medal in, it would be in making poor decisions. Point in case; he’s driven to the outskirts of Toronto to spectate the cross country riders—not the ones on bikes, the ones on horseback. He doesn’t know why he’s back here, watching someone who he arguably strongly dislikes. Maybe to gloat about winning gold? Apologise for not being at the dressage finals?

It’s a mystery that Etho’s hellbent on solving. It’s just like a circuit he can’t complete, crossed wires and misdialed comparators. That’s what he’s telling himself, anyway, that Bdubs is a problem to be solved. It’s all he can hope that the whole contraption won’t blow up in his face. 

Bdubs wins, of course. He crosses the finish line just a hair before the rider right behind him, breaking a world record and smiling with a grin that could power the entire city. Etho disappears. It’s too bright for him, and he recoils from the shine and whatever sort of feelings that start stirring. This is getting a little bit ridiculous, he thinks to himself as he slinks back to his car and sits in the parking lot. 

Get a grip on yourself! He can’t just stalk someone for days because he can’t figure out something as meaningless as emotions! Having a crisis over making friends is not exactly what Etho had on his second Olympics’ bingo card. That’s what this is, he decides. He’s just realising that maybe he wants to be friends instead of mortal enemies with Bdubs, even if the enemies bit was a great deal more fun than the catastrophic reaction he’s having to the prospect of friendship. 

He feels terrible for the rest of the day and avoids his friends. (This is where it gets muddy again, as he’s sure everyone’s well aware of.) 

The next morning, as he’s tying his shoelaces in preparation to make it to Bdubs’ final event, he’s intercepted by both Pause and Beef. They want to go and watch the equestrian show jumping and have graciously invited Etho along even though they know he’s been busy recently. He even more graciously accepts, not telling them that he was headed there anyway. 

This was supposed to be the last time he’d showed up uninvited to Bdubs’ events. One last spin of the Rubik’s Cube before the puzzle solved itself. Etho sort of figured that maybe seeing Bdubs one last time would miraculously make it all make sense, because he’s done with feeling constantly on the edge of a very windy canyon. So he lets Beef and Pause come with him. 

Of course, the rest is all said and done now. He’s caught everyone up on his tragic last three days and his subsequent terrible consequences for the aforementioned poor decisions. He’d gone to the event, gotten cornered by the two people he thought he could trust, and then panicked and said pretty much the worst possible thing he could’ve said in any universe. 

It wasn’t supposed to go like that, but naturally things never go the way he wants them to. It’s like flinging pasta at a wall, just trying to see what sticks. Only he’s throwing those little elbow pastas that can’t possibly stick to a wall, and now there’s just marinara sauce everywhere and he has to clean everything up. He’s gone to three of Bdubs’ events and hasn’t gotten any closer to solving this mystery—if anything, he’s made it worse. 

The next three days are spent ignoring the metaphorical pasta sauce on the walls while he spends his time back in the training hall with his swords. Traditionally, blades aren’t very good for cleaning tomato sauce off of walls. They are pretty good at getting rid of problems, though. 

It’s easy to be alone when you’ve got nearly a dozen spare swords and a willingness to use them on other people. 

“This is just embarrassing now,” says a voice from the doorway. For a moment, Etho feels like he’s back at the first day of preweek, Bdubs’ mocking voice enticing him into leaving the training piste. It’s not him, of course. 

Etho turns around to look at Gem. 

“Oh, come on, what do you want from me?” he sighs, leaving his épée on the bench and walking over to her. She’s leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed and thick hair tied back into a barely contained ponytail. 

Gem scoffs, standing up and meeting him halfway. She looks up at him, their height difference barely noticeable with the way she holds herself. He cringes back when she shoves her face towards him; Etho’s always been a little bit scared of her. “This!” she exclaims, pointing a finger aggressively at him. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed!”

He looks down at where she’s pointing. “This shirt? Uh, I think I got it out in Victoria? It doesn’t look that bad, does it?” 

“I mean, it’s not terrible—?” She cuts herself off and glares at him. “That’s not what I’m talking about! I’m talking about your moping! It’s bringing the whole team down. This is an intervention,” she announces. 

“An intervention?” 

“An intervention,” she repeats. “Something’s up, and Detective Gem is going to get to the bottom of this.” She whips out a tiny little notebook and somehow pulls a small pencil out of thin air. “Is this about Cleo? I know she’s here.” 

“Cleo’s here??”

Gem jots something down. “So it’s not about Cleo… Did something happen with your team?” 

Etho tries to grab her pencil. She pulls away from him, scampering over to the other side of the gym, writing down more notes. (He’s half-convinced she’s just scribbling little squiggly lines.) “Everything’s fine, Gem. Stop being so nosy!”

She pockets the notebook, flicking the pencil back into the ether. “You’re such a liar, Etho. I know what this is about. It’s about that one American from pre-week, isn’t it?” He freezes, just for a moment, but Gem catches it. Her eyes widen, as if she hadn’t really expected to be right, then she fist pumps in the air. “Detective Gem strikes again!” 

“What about your Australian?” Etho tries. 

Gem shakes her finger at him. “Stop trying to change the subject!” She sobers up, looking more serious. “Did something happen with him? Did he say something? I’ll fight him if I have to, but you gotta learn how to stand up for yourself.” 

“What? No, he didn’t say anything.” Well. That’s not true. Bdubs did say a whole lot of things. And implied he never wanted to see Etho again, but that’s besides the point. “I’m just confused.” 

She frowns at him, lips pursed in thought. “He’s confusing you? What, is he sending you mixed messages or something?”  

That’s one way to put it. “I don’t know,” Etho sighs, slumping down to sit cross legged on the floor. Gem follows him down. “He just makes me confused. I went to all of his events, but I think that just made it worse.”

“That doesn’t explain anything at all, Etho.”

So then he has to go back and tell her about the confusing pre-week, fill her in on what he didn’t say about how Bdubs makes him feel, and then elaborate on the deep frustration the man evokes within him. 

Finally, she says, “I can’t solve every problem for you. I love you, but this one is… you have to actually talk to him, you know?” 

“He doesn’t want to talk to me!” Etho whines, falling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. He feels like a character from one of those romantic dramas, the titular character debating her love interests. Of course, in this case there are no love interests, just complicated rivals. 

“How exactly does he make you feel, again?” 

Etho flaps a hand at her noncommittally. “The same way Pearl makes you feel? Confused, annoyed, yet you can’t stop thinking of her.” A thought strikes him, and he sits up suddenly. “Are you in love with Pearl?”

“What?!?” Gem coughs violently, then clears her throat to stare incredulously at him. “What??” she repeats. 

He thinks for a moment. He’s certainly not in love with his sports rival, but when he describes how both him and Gem feel about their respective archenemies it does feel like something from a romantic drama, on her side at least. He says as much to Gem. 

“Doesn’t that mean you’re in love with Bdubs, then?” 

Etho waves her off. “Of course not, that’s different. We have a clearly unresolved plot that will wrap itself up when we agree that we were both wrong and then part ways never to meet again.” 

“That sounds like a terrible story! I wouldn't watch that.” Gem taps her chin. “I think you should embrace in the rain and apologise to each other and then kiss while dramatic orchestral music plays. I ship it.” 

“Compromise,” Etho says. “We’ll both apologise to each other in the rain while music plays and then part ways never to meet again.” 

“You’re terrible at this—no one should ever let you write a romantic drama.” 

“It’s not supposed to be a romantic drama! It’s a sports drama!” 

Gem shakes her head in disappointment. “Those are not mutually exclusive. It can be a romantic sports drama!” She looks at him, a glint of seriousness in her eyes. “You’re going to talk to him and apologise for saying all of those dumb things.” 

Etho hesitates. “After my event,” he promises. “I’ll talk to him after that.”

The next day arrives too soon, like a speeding semi truck barrelling through a schoolzone. To complete the metaphor, Etho feels like a small child getting run over. 

He wakes up just before his alarm starts screaming at him, rolling out of bed to start the day. Whatever his conversation with Gem was yesterday, it actually seems to have helped. He doesn’t wake up feeling like he’s wearing concrete shoes and he’s got to swim across the Atlantic Ocean. It’s more like someone’s put him in diving gear and told him to explore the Mariana Trench alone—well equipped, but altogether still impossible. It’s better than before. 

His event is twelve hours long, ten in the morning to ten in the evening. He’s in the building by eight, breakfast well on its way to being digested as he paces the length of the arena. Etho feels like he’s got a hundred bumblebees in his bones, quaking and quivering with every step. He’s not in his fencing gear yet, because he’s almost certain that if he was he’d overheat and then have another crisis about his mask. 

Instead, he’s wearing his traditional undershirt, comfortable pants, and ever familiar black facemask. His gear stays folded and tucked under his designated seat. Across the way, dozens of other fencers mill around, most of them dressed similarly to Etho in casual clothing. 

Etho takes out his little bag of snacks and waits for round of sixty-four to begin, popping little crackers underneath his mask. It starts there, then to round of thirty-two, then sixteen, then to quarterfinals. After that it’s just semifinals and then the bronze and gold bouts. 

Easy. Like a piece of pie, or however the saying goes. 

He faces Egypt first, their red and black mask expressionless as they lower their sword to salute. Etho nods politely and salutes back before sliding down into en garde position, taking a deep breath and centering himself. This is like any other competition. Nothing has changed. 

Their blades collide, parries and ripostes and close calls. They both stall at two points in the first period, shaking out their limbs and catching their breaths. Second period, Egypt gets the upper hand by one touch, landing them ahead at 4-5 total points. Etho taps his foot, mind racing as he glances sideways at his opponent as they take a long drink of water. Back in position for the third period, he leaps forwards, sword pointed towards their shoulder as he dances up the piste. Just like a ladder. When they’re in the endzone and desperate, Etho parries their attack easily and lands a direct hit on their torso. Tied. Up and down, rungs disappearing beneath him, Etho scores another hit, then another, carefully guarding his left side. The timer rings. 11-7. 

They shake hands this time, the Egyptian fencer taking off their helmet to nod in respect. Etho awkwardly nods back as they shake hands, his sword to his side and mask still definitively on. He won. One down, three more to go. 

There’s a long break where he disappears to go put his fencing mask away and facemask back on, opening another little packet of crackers to slip sneakily into his mouth while he watches the rest of the bouts. 

Individual fencing is done in three rounds for each bout, sort of like if teams got squished into one bout. Each round is three minutes or until five points are reached, meaning each bout is played to fifteen points (or nine minutes). It's more common in épée for the clock to hit zero than for the points to get up to fifteen. 

Round of sixteen. Etho’s fencing mask is back on, and his supply of snacks are firmly stashed away. The yellow, blue, and red stripes of Colombia nod at him as the fencer takes position. Game on. 

The first period ends with Colombia ahead by a point, but Etho quickly chases them back with three consecutive points in the second round before running out the clock. By the third round, they’re both stalling, trying to provoke the other into making bad moves. They land a hit, then Etho gets a point. They get his shoulder, he gets their leg. For two minutes, they go nowhere, spending more time in en garde position than actually in combat. Then, suddenly Colombia swings for Etho like they’re dueling sabrés, the side of their blade sweeping toward the left side of his face. He can’t help instinct. Etho flinches. 

He almost steps off the piste entirely, ducking back and stumbling to the right as he thrusts his blade towards them. In some stroke of wild luck, he lands a hit on the bottom of their torso, ending the phrase. The timer rings. 13-9. 

Etho’s made it to quarterfinals. 

The break is shorter this time, with less fencers on the strip after the eliminations. Olympic fencing is direct elimination with the exception of bronze finals, meaning gold is undefeated. There’s no comeback round. He’s all in. 

His quarterfinal bout passes in a blur, the swirling red and white mask of Hong Kong weaving in and out of his line of sight. They’re consistently on his left side, always angling towards his blindspot. That makes it easy for Etho to bait them with feints, and before long the bout is over. 15-6. 

He doesn’t bother with snacks this break, just leaves to take a drink of water and returns to look for Pause and Beef in the crowd. He knows they’re here after checking his phone to see the obnoxiously blurry photos of him taken from the audience stands sent in the group chat. Etho spots them after a moment, his eye catching on the massive cardboard cutout of Hatake Kakashi with a photoshopped épée. He stifles a groan. Of course they brought that. 

He’s never escaped the obvious visual connection to the character, and it certainly doesn’t help that he wears a shirt with the guy’s face on it. Across the top and bottom of the cutout is his name in massive block letters with glittery hearts overlaid. It’s terrible. Etho loves it. 

Etho keeps his eye on it as he walks up to the piste to face Japan again. It’s not the same fencer from last time, though he’s certain that their teammate has told them all about the travesty from six days ago. He’s ready. 

They clash quickly, both lunging at the same time. The Japanese fencer is reserved, striking for Etho’s left without falling to the same pitfalls as the Hong Kong fencer before them. It’s a tight match, each of them chasing each other’s points. Japan reaches five just before the timer rings for the first period. Etho towels off the back of his neck as his opponent takes off their mask to chug half a bottle of water. In the second period, Etho leads aggressively, attacking and redoubling without room for Japan to counterattack. He levels out their points, leaving the third period up to decide who’s making it to finals. 

The stadium is a sea of red and white, scarlet suns and crimson leaves adorning the cheering masses. Etho finds the bobbing head of Kakashi and waves up at Pause and Beef. 

The third period is brutal, Japan taking a page from Etho’s own book and pushing him nearly off of his own endzone. Every metre gained is a metre lost. He pushes back, Japan slipping from the teetering slope they’ve built up for themself. Etho strikes. The timer rings. 14-12. 

They tap blades. Etho walks off. His vision starts to blur as he collapses into his seat, staring up at the shining lights of the arena. He’s on the podium. Whatever happens now, he’s on the podium. Silver, gold, it doesn’t matter because he’s proved his point, hasn’t he? 

He looks up towards his friends, spotting Beef and Pause jumping up and down with the sign. Etho waves both hands, then points at himself, then at the bracket. France and Hungary are getting ready to duel. 

Etho turns around, sitting back down— 

—His gaze locks onto dark brown eyes staring wide at him. Etho stares back. 

It’s Bdubs. He’s here. 

Suddenly, everything Etho wanted to say is gone, evaporated into thin air. Bdubs is hundreds of metres away, but he’s all Etho can see right now. He’s in a thick sweatshirt, fluffy and green with the hood down and sitting next to someone with a shock of cascading orange curls. Gem? No. It’s Cleo. 

Time stops. He hasn’t seen Cleo in years. She’d messaged him after the accident, but nothing more than that. The way things had ended between them… it wasn’t pretty. Etho sort of hoped he’d never have to face her again. And here she is. Sitting right next to Etho’s… it’s-complicated-but-hopefully-friend-but-also-maybe-enemy. He needs to shorten that. Or maybe just talk to Bdubs and figure out what exactly they are. 

Probably the latter. 

He promised Gem he’d talk to Bdubs after his event, and the way things are looking it’s about to be over. Etho’s heart feels like it’s going a thousand kilometres an hour, like an overflowing washing machine set on high, it feels like it’s shaking out of his ribcage and out to where everyone can see. He resolutely picks it up and shoves it back where it belongs. Compartmentalisation. Later is good. 

He picks up his sword again, the pistol grip fitting perfectly in his grasp. Ahead, he spots the winner from the last bout shake out his dark hair and shove it into the fencing mask. Time for a rematch. 

Four years ago, during Etho’s first Olympics, he’d cut through the competition like a hot knife through butter. Briefly, he was famous. Canada only had one medal in fencing before him, bronze, yet there he was in gold having unseated the historical French champions. 

Now, back in the present, he faces his same opponent from all those years ago. French, ambitious, and more than ready for revenge. 

They roll their shoulders, tilting their head at him. Etho just cracks his neck and salutes them, sword at his side as he turns to then salute the judge. They follow, saluting the audience as well. Neither take their mask off. 

“En garde!” On guard!

They both slide into position, blades readied. 

“ Prêts ?” Ready?

Etho nods in answer, France doing the same. 

“Allez!” Fence!

They spring forwards first, landing a hit on Etho’s shoulder before he can react. The phrase ends, and they’re back to ready position. This time, they both hesitate before lunging together, parrying each other’s hits. Etho attacks, then remises with the same pattern when France parries him. He lands a hit, then another when he reprises as soon as the phrase begins. They counter. They trade back and forth, ending each phrase almost as soon as it begins. Five is an odd number. Etho ends the bout, glancing a touch off of France’s right leg. 

They break, one minute between periods. The French fencer bounces off to go talk to their coach. Etho looks for Bdubs in the crowd. Up in the stands, Bdubs says something to Cleo. They say something back. Etho cranes his neck up at them, trying not to make it look like he’s staring. What is Bdubs doing here?  

“En garde! Prêts ? Allez!” 

They launch into action. Again, it’s another bitter tug-of-war with the points. They feint right, then duck low to score a point on Etho’s torso. Etho forces France off the piste in retaliation, arm extended until they have nowhere to go. They’re a good fencer. Etho remembers their last bout, the relentless battle for points. They’re both too stubborn to give up any ground. The second period ends in a tie, stalled at four points each for the round as the timer goes off. 9-8. 

He’s overheating in the gear. Etho presses his cold water bottle to the back of his exposed neck, pacing slowly and fanning himself with a sheaf of loose paper with the bracket printed out. Bdubs is looking now, staring down at Etho as he gets ready for the final period. It’s the mortifying idea of being known, piercing him worse than a hundred blades. He feels unmasked. 

Etho firmly tells his heart to stay safe inside of his ribcage. He gets back on the piste. 

As soon as the referee calls “Allez!” he’s lunging at France, arm extended for a point-in-line. It’s a lucky hit, just barely bouncing off of the inner forearm of his opponent. They return to the ready position. France makes a small gesture, as if to scratch at an itch behind his mask, finger tracing over where their left eye would be under the mask. Etho grits his teeth. 

Again, again, again. Etho can tell he’s on the precipice, hanging on to the edge of the cliff with just his fingertips. France dodges his attack, then parries his remise. They lunge, blade pointed directly at Etho’s face. His left eye. He stutters, freezing just for a brief moment, before he slides underneath their hit and glances a point off of their twisting torso. 

Despite his miraculous dodge, he can’t still his buzzing bones and sprinting heart rate. France lands a hit as Etho lunges for an obvious feint. He chases them back, lagging just one point behind. The phrase ends. Etho levels his blade. He takes a breath. France loosens, front foot tapping in appel— a distraction . He doesn’t spare them a glance. 

He draws back his blade, then whips it forward like a silvery snake through the air. It bends, twisting in on itself as France raises their sword to parry, curving around the handguard to touch their arm. A wave of noise goes through the crowd. It’s one thing to attempt the flick at the Olympics, it’s another to land the move. A last ditch effort, a Hail Mary. A success. 

The timer counts down as France approaches, ringing just before either can land a hit. 

The crowd erupts into sound, an explosion of cheers across the stadium. It’s thunderous, feet stomping in a rumble and cameras flashing like lightning strikes across the arena. 

Etho looks up into the lights, sword lowered, and laughs. Loud and clear, ringing with the cacophony of sound, he holds his sword and he grins. Across the strip, France rips off their mask and cheers into the audience, waves of red and blue flags undulating in the crowd. He lost. He’s still smiling. 

Etho bows to his celebrating opponent, then salutes the audience on both sides. It doesn’t feel like a loss. 

Above, in the crowd, Bdubs looks down and salutes back.

Chapter Text

Being a supportive rival means showing up to important events. 

Bdubs had explained this concept to Cleo as they’d gotten seated halfway through the event’s round of sixty-four. She’d raised an eyebrow in response and said nothing in return, though her silence was answer enough. Bdubs crossed his arms and sunk deeper into the seat. 

He’s only here to get closure, Bdubs argues with himself as Etho runs up and down the strip below. Just see Etho one more time to doubly make sure he knows what he’s getting himself into. Besides, Bdubs figures he should at least return the favor of showing up to his rival’s events. It’s only fair. 

Etho scores a point. Bdubs cheers along with the crowd. 

And, he continues, he needs to prove a point to Cleo. This is a healthy rivalry. Or, it will be once Bdubs sews it back together with his own bare hands. Etho clearly doesn’t know what’s best for him. ‘ Distracting’ him… Bdubs is gonna show him what a distraction really is. 

So he sits and he watches and he cheers at all the right parts. (He does, admittedly, forget that this is supposed to be revenge for Etho’s terrible decision making.) Cleo lets him manhandle her when Bdubs gets excited and starts bouncing around, gripping her arms and cheering loudly. (That had been right after Etho had done a really cool looking thing with his sword.)

Etho wins silver. Bdubs forgets everything he was supposed to say. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Bdubs blinks up at Etho. It’s late into the night now, the stars bright against the evening’s sky after sunset. The lights from the inside of the building light up the left side of Etho’s face, casting the other into darkness. For the briefest moment, Bdubs almost starts laughing. It’s so absurd. They’re standing out in the darkness, illuminated like they’re onstage, surrounded by the sound of people’s chatter—and Etho’s apologizing. 

“There’s a long list,” Bdubs says to him, “so you’re going to have to say that a couple more times.” 

On cue, Etho groans, looking up into the night sky. “Come on, really? That was really hard to say, I don’t think I can do it again!” He tilts his head back down to look at Bdubs. “Maybe if you say it with me, I’ll have the strength?” 

“Hah! Nice try.” 

It’s silent, just the sound of wheels against pavement and background voices drifting by. Etho puts his hands in his pockets and thinks for a moment, eyes closed. “I’m sorry for… everything. I was terrible and it wasn’t fair to you.” He cracks an eye open and looks at Bdubs for validation. (It could be better. Not the best apology he’s heard over the years, but… it’s good enough.) 

Bdubs shoves his face into the collar of his thick jacket. He rolls his eyes and taps his foot, staring off sideways. “Well,” he says slowly, “I’m sorry too. For saying all that stuff to you at show jumping.” Even if it was mostly Etho’s fault. “Even if it was mostly your fault.” 

There’s another awkward pause. “So,” Etho says conversationally when Bdubs lets his words hang, “call it even?” 

This is terrible. It’s starting to get cold despite the summer’s warmth, and Bdubs wishes he was in bed right now. There’s absolutely no ambience. They stand for another awkward minute of silence in the night. Then, finally—

“—Do you still hate me?”

Bdubs thinks for a moment. “Yes,” he says simply, like it’s an obvious fact. “Because we’re rivals.”

“And rivals hate each other?” Etho asks. 

“Obviously!” This is Rivals 101, the basics! “Otherwise they wouldn’t be rivals. Just–” Bdubs fishes for whatever Cleo had said before “–people with unresolved feelings.” 

Etho mulls over that for a moment. “Huh. Well, I like being rivals with you,” he says, nodding in agreement to Bdubs’ logic. “So we agree to hate each other?” 

Yes! Perfect! This is exactly how it should go. “I think we’re already there,” Bdubs says with finality. “Mutual hate.” 

“What if we were only mutually haters for a little bit?” Etho ventures. “And then friends for the other bit?” 

“So,” Bdubs says as they walk to the Olympic tennis courts, “Cleo?” 

Etho’s face drops into his palms. “It’s complicated,” comes his muffled voice. 

“She said you would break my heart.” Bdubs regrets it the moment the words come out of his mouth. He looks over at Etho, trying to gauge the reaction. He hadn’t divulged the Conversation he’d had with Cleo, just that he knew that they had history with each other. 

“That’s me,” Etho comments, “a real heartbreaker.” 

“Tall, dark, and handsome,” Bdubs chimes in. “Mysterious, too.” 

Etho doesn’t say anything for a while. 

“Is that him?” Bdubs asks, pointing to the figure with beacon-blond hair on the track. Etho follows his finger. Down there, a sprinter dressed in American red waves to the crowd, bouncing from foot to foot on the sidelines. 

Etho squints, then nods. “That’s Tango!” He’d dragged Bdubs out here early in the morning to come see his friend race the sprints. He’s starting to regret this ‘being friends’ thing if it means having to sacrifice sleep.  

Tango, according to Etho, is one of the fastest people left of the Atlantic. Flee with extra flee. He’d gotten so good just by running away from people, apparently. (Bdubs thinks that Etho’s just making stuff up.) Still, though, even by early morning standards, it’s not too terrible to be out here. It’s nice not to be alone. 

Below, the starting gun fires, and Tango shoots off like the bullet itself. Etho cheers loudly, pulling Bdubs with him. He tumbles, leaning on his friend/rival/it’s complicated as they both jump with glee when Tango crosses the finish line first. 

“Oh, no no no.” 

“Why? What’s wrong with water polo?” 

Etho shakes his head, heels digging into the sidewalk just outside of the aquatics center. “We can't go in there!” he exclaims. “One of the swimmers, he’s obsessed with me!” 

Bdubs drags him in, holding his hand to tug him through the doors. 

As soon as they enter the main swimming area, a swimmer treads towards them, a streak of verdant green in his brown hair. 

“God, you’re so obsessed with me,” he says, “I can’t believe you showed up here. What, couldn’t bear to be away from me for so long?” 

Bdubs narrows his eyes at him. “Etho?” he says, “do you have another rival?”  

“What? No! This guy, he’s so obsessed with me! We’re not rivals, he’s just a weirdo.” 

The swimmer scoffs. “Don’t listen to him. Eefo’s so obsessed with me, he’s always showing up where I am.” 

“You’re the one who showed up in a shirt with my face on it!” 

“It was Kakashi!!” He splashes water out of the pool, spraying both of them in little droplets of chlorinated water. “You’re the one who kept commenting about me in BBC’s swimmer highlights!”

“Joel, stop it!” comes a voice. A woman walks down in flip flops, pink hair tied up in a wet ponytail as if she’d just come out of the pool. “This is embarrassing for you.” She levels a disappointed Look at him, and he sinks lower into the pool. 

“Oh, come on,” Joel(?) complains, waving a hand at Etho. “He’s the one who showed up here!” 

Bdubs miraculously remembers that relay swimming is in the other building and pulls Etho out, still holding his hand. 

“I have a great idea,” Etho says as they carpool together to the canoe slalom event. Bdubs highly doubts that, but waves at him to continue. “Pearl and Gem are obviously in love,” he says as if Bdubs knows who those people are, “and as Gem’s very good friend, I need to help her with this.” 

Oh, wait, he does know who that is. Mostly from Chirp posts about Olympic rivalries, but he also remembers Gemini Tay from the fateful elevator back in his first day in Toronto. There’s some sort of intense competition between them on the water, as well as on dry land. He should’ve learned from those two, because they’re all rivals and no friends—it’s very admirable. 

“Matchmakers?” Bdubs asks. “This sounds like a terrible idea. I’m in.”

Etho turns left. “I have the perfect plan. It needs to rain, though. And then they’re going to apologize to each other and then kiss while dramatic music plays.” He pulls into the back parking lot. “It was Gem’s plan,” he says conspiratorially.  

Bdubs frowns in confusion. “I thought they hate each other?” Like real rivals, not Etho-and-Bdubs rivals. 

The car jerks in reverse, Etho’s foot stuttering on the pedal. “Oh,” he says awkwardly. “It was, uh, her plan for me. Us.” He looks over his shoulder, ignoring the backup camera, steering the car into the parking spot. “She was totally projecting, though.”

Bdubs thinks about kissing in the rain. It’s not something friends would do, he decides. But maybe rivals? (Hypothetically, anyways.) 

“Bdubs,” says Grian, sliding into the backseat right behind him, “who’s your tall friend over here?” 

“Rival,” Bdubs corrects primly. Today is a rivals day, he’s decided. Friends days were getting a little confusing. Etho waves with one hand as he pulls out into the main road. “That’s Etho. He’s a fencer.” 

“Oh! The one Cleo was—?” Bdubs whips around to glare at Grian. His friend leans back in his seat, hands up in surrender. “I mean, nevermind! Um, so. Biking.” 

“Biking,” Etho chimes in. “That’s where we’re going!” 

“Do you know Mumbo?” Grian asks as the car starts to speed up along the highway. 

Etho flicks the turn signal on. “I follow his work,” he says noncommittally. “Not so much the biking stuff, though.” He cracks a smile that only Bdubs can see, eyes crinkling above his mask. 

Guiltily, Bdubs wonders what Etho’s smile looks like underneath the mask. 

“What happens after this?” Bdubs says suddenly one evening. 

They’re out in the city, taking a break to compare Chirp dashboards after walking the streets for a bit. They’d stopped at some artisan bakery for a snack, though Etho’s is wrapped up in a to-go bag. It’s summer, so the sun sets late. It’s not dark yet, and the city looks like a wavering candle in comparison to the sinking sun outside. 

“After what?” Etho says, scrolling past a post comparing sword grips. “The Olympics?” 

“I mean, it’s hard to be rivals a country apart,” Bdubs says quickly. 

Etho puts his phone down. “Then we’ll just be friends.” He shrugs easily and sneaks a crumble of Bdubs’ chocolate chip cookie underneath the lip of his mask. 

His stomach sinks, just a little bit. Bdubs wonders why he’s having such a fuss about losing a rival. He’d be gaining a friend, wouldn’t he? Just a friend.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Etho says abruptly. Bdubs turns to look at him, then promptly spins in the other direction. “This coffee sucks.” 

They’re in the small cafe on the bottom floor of Etho’s building, behind the corner of the front counter and away from any of the morning rush (not that there is any). Bdubs has a small espresso. Etho has a large triple-shot (no sugar, whipped cream), and also his mask. In his hand. A mask that is not on his face. 

He takes another sip of his coffee. 

Bdubs continues to look in the direction of the counter. Etho hums absentmindedly and sets the cup down on the table. “Let’s get real coffee,” he says to Bdubs who still isn’t looking. 

“Uh,” Bdubs says eloquently. He turns around, trying to look extremely casual. Nonchalant. Unconcerned. Cool, calm, collected. There’s a lot of words for that. Etho grins at him, lopsided. For a brief moment, Bdubs forget to breathe. Etho’s always been expressive; with just the upper half of his face to convey emotion, he gets a lot across. With the mask off, his smile is slanted and imperfect, the left side pulled slightly sideways by scar tissue and his cupid’s bow off-center. Bdubs thinks it’s the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. 

“What?” Etho says lightly. “Is there something on my face?” He makes a brief show of wiping off his mouth with a napkin and checking for coffee stains. Bdubs wants to punch him square in the face—anything to get rid of the sudden feeling of vertigo, falling backwards with no end. Gravity is inescapable. Etho is the center of the world. 

“I think you got it,” Bdubs replies after a brief delay. He rolls back onto his metaphorical feet—Etho wouldn’t want him to make a big deal out of this. “So… real coffee? Does that mean Tim Horton’s?” 

“You know, Bdubs, you just read my mind.”

“Cleo,” Bdubs asks, “what does falling in love feel like?” 

His friend turns to look at him, furrowing their brows in confusion. On the court, two table tennis players shake hands to end their match. Cleo thinks for a moment. 

“I don’t think I’m the right person to ask,” they reply back, leaning back to look up into the sky. “I don’t know if love is real.” They hesitate. “Not like I haven’t tried, anyway. I don’t love in the normal ways.” 

She turns her head to meet his gaze. “Love is kind of a scam, Bdubs,” she says flippantly. “Call me a cynic, but it’s easier being friends. Not messy that way.” 

“Well, I guess that’s true…” It is a lot easier to be friends with Cleo than whatever they were during their short fling. Bdubs likes being friends with her! He likes being friends with plenty of people. Most people. Almost all people. He’s just finding it hard these days to believe that rivals and friends aren't mutually exclusive. 

Cleo pauses, watching as a Malaysian player walks onto the court to a wave of applause. After the noise dies down, she says, “Does he make you happy?”

Does he? Bdubs thinks quietly for a long moment. He likes spending time with Etho. He likes making him laugh and he likes arguing with him. But he also feels terrible when he thinks too long about Etho, like there’s a little creature in his gut that’s pulling on his intestines when Bdubs so much as has a single thought about Etho. He doesn’t have butterflies in his stomach, he’s got a demonic presence. That’s just Etho’s Canadian charm, Bdubs assumes. Lovely. 

“I’ll miss him,” Bdubs finally says as a non-answer. “After this is all over.” 

Cleo doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stares at him like he’s gone and slammed a mallet into his face. “Bdubs,” she says slowly, “have you heard of long distance communication? This isn’t a one night stand—you can talk to him after the Olympics are over.” 

Oh.

And then Joe Hills walks onto the court and Cleo starts cheering and there’s no time to think about silly things like maybe-possibly-romantic-feelings when there’s sports about to commence!

Right. So, here’s the thing. 

Bdubs might be just a tiny little bit in love with his sometimes-rival and sometimes-friend. His flight back home leaves tomorrow; Lulu left already, her own plane leaving earlier than his. Etho said he wants to be just friends after the Olympics are over. Bdubs wants to be rivals+. (Sort of like normal rivals but with the added benefits of little things like holding hands and kissing. Average rival things.)

For the last day and a half, Bdubs has been stalwartly ignoring the little devilish creature in his gut that goes joyriding on a jackhammer whenever he sees Etho. They’ve gone and helped friends unpack for the Paralympics, they’ve gone to various different Tim Horton’s around the city—they've even done several shopping sprees! Etho, Bdubs learns, really enjoys shopping. 

Time keeps on marching towards the finish line, towards the end of the Olympics. Towards goodbye. Though… not if Bdubs can help it! See, he’s designed a sort of temporal device that will allow him to rewind the past several days— Just kidding!

It’s just him. 

Just Bdoubleo One-Hundred and his very good strictly platonic friend. They do strictly platonic things like watch terrible film reruns and get takeout from four star restaurants. Bdubs imagines it’s like if Hallmark was about friends instead of magical meetings in small towns—mostly because his meeting was the opposite of magical and Toronto is far from a small town in the middle of nowhere. And it’s also nowhere near winter, let alone Christmas.  

So maybe not Hallmark then. Besides, he’s pretty sure real life has significantly less kissing in it than Hallmark does. Disappointing. 

His last day is spent in the city with Etho, most of the events over already and some of their friends having left for their home countries by now. Etho, apparently, has a very detailed list of things he wants to do downtown. Why he waited until the very last day to do all this escapes Bdubs, but he follows his rival through the busy streets nevertheless. 

First, Etho had dragged Bdubs out of bed at an absurd hour of the morning (7 A.M.) by spam-calling his phone until Bdubs couldn’t go back to sleep. Once he was done yelling at Etho, they’d gone out into the city for some Tim Horton’s—the top one of the many they’d visited earlier in the week. Toronto has (allegedly) over 200 locations, though they’d only gone to taste at about ten.  

(They’d drunk their coffee in the car, tinted windows rolled all the way up and shaders hooked onto the roof. Etho didn’t hesitate before tucking his mask under his chin to take a long sip from his recent purchase.)

Then, they’d gone out to the Art Gallery of Ontario. Bdubs would’ve never pegged Etho as an art guy, but he already had the tickets bought and surprised Bdubs with the whole thing. They spend the entire morning there, Bdubs valiantly and bravely leading the way through the entire museum while Etho trailed behind him. Etho, just as Bdubs had suspected, was in desperate need of art assistance. He barely even knew the difference between impressionism and expressionism! 

When Etho starts to complain about his feet hurting from all the walking, Bdubs graciously concedes that it may be time for lunch. Naturally, Etho whips open his handwritten itinerary and makes several obnoxious thinking noises while tapping his chin in deep thought. Jerk, Bdubs thinks affectionately. Affectionately?

Kensington Market, Bdubs decides, may have the best Vietnamese food ever. They walk through the streets of the district, heading back towards the parking lot as Etho carefully balances his takeout pho in one hand and his stupid paper schedule with his other. Bdubs tries to peek at it, but Etho snatches it away before he can peek. 

“So touchy! Why’s it so special, anyway?” 

“It’s a secret!” Etho says without further explanation. 

It’s a half an hour drive to Etho’s super secret super special next location, and Bdubs suddenly has the thought that this is sort of like going on a date. In a roundabout way? Not really, but sort of at least a little bit. Bdubs feels like he’s in one of those movies where the girlfriend gets blindfolded and led around to all of her favorite places. That’s obviously not how this is, but it’s funny how so many of his interests line up with Etho’s!

They pull into the parking lot of the Toronto Botanical Gardens. Huh. Etho, a plant guy? It sort of makes sense, though, now that he’s thinking about it. 

“I actually used to work in a greenhouse,” Etho offers as they walk under the shadowy canopies of nonnative trees. “We didn’t grow stuff like this, though.”

Bdubs is too distracted reading about the migration history of Canadian pollinators to respond back. There’s a lot of beetles here!

“Cleo told me you like plants, so I figured this would be nice to go visit together,” he adds awkwardly. Bdubs stands up, turning around to look at him. 

“You talk to Cleo?” 

Etho wiggles his hand in the air, so-so. “She talked to me, more like. It was intense. Anyway, the garden was her idea… Do you like it?”

“Oh, yeah!” Bdubs says, leading the way to the observation courtyard. “This is really cool.” 

Cleo talked to him? This better not be about their conversation… That was a private talk! He can’t handle his friend trying to matchmake him! She needs to mind her own business. (Bdubs resolutely ignores the fact that he was the one to keep complaining to her about relationship woes.)

They finish up the whole garden and start heading back towards the Olympic Village. Etho has one more item on his list for dinner to bring back and eat in their rooms. The whole thing is, once again, a big secret. He makes Bdubs wait in the car while he walks two blocks down to a restaurant to go pick up the food and walk back, only for the smell to instantly fill the car as they start driving. Bdubs pretends not to know that Etho ordered Italian takeout. 

“Your room is so nice!” Bdubs says immediately upon being let into Etho’s room. 

Crisp and clean, Etho’s luggage is half-packed on the strip of floor between the wall and the bed, and there’s a small table with two chairs next to the window overlooking one of the Village’s courtyards. Compared to Bdubs’ artfully lived in room, it feels like someone carefully went through Etho’s room to make it look presentable. His bedsheets are even tucked in!

“I did a little bit of tidying,” Etho admits as he sets the food down on the table. “It’s usually way messier than this.” 

There’s no plates, so they’re stuck eating pasta straight from the paper boxes they came in, but Bdubs thinks this is the best meal he’s had since arriving in Canada. Etho even makes a bottle of champagne appear out of thin air before remembering he doesn’t have glasses and then pouring it into the paper cups that are provided in every room. (It sort of sucks, but in a way that makes the fizzy drink bubble up and pop like little cartoon hearts.) 

By the time dinner is finished and the bottle is gone, Bdubs has gone from deciding that everything is going to be fine to thinking that if he has to go another moment like this he might actually explode and take out all of the world’s best athletes with him in the blast radius. 

“So, I wanted to—”  Etho begins. 

“—I don’t want to be friends anymore.”

Etho freezes. Bdubs’ mouth falls open, and he scrambles to find coherent words. 

“Um,” says Etho gracefully. “Okay.” 

“Rivals!” Bdubs bursts out before Etho can say something that will irrevocably mess up the timeline and also Bdubs’ fantastically nonexistent time-travel device. “I meant, the rivals thing is nice and we should keep doing that! But also, maybe, consider that it’s very hard to be friends and rivals?”

Etho looks at him in bafflement. “I’m… sorry?”

Dangit! He can’t get his words out right. This is all Etho’s fault!

“I don’t want to be just friends after this is over,” Bdubs says at last. Etho still looks confused. “I want to be more than friends.”

“Oh.” Etho looks like he’s trying to process too many things at once, but his cooling fans can’t work fast enough. “Oh.”

And then he starts laughing. Bdubs shrinks in on himself a little bit, feeling like he’s just gone and stepped outside only to be slammed in the face with a massive tree trunk flying at 60 miles per hour in a windstorm. Etho’s chuckle fades out, but he still has a massive grin on his face, lopsided and perfect. 

“Bdubs,” Etho says, smile audible in his voice, “this was supposed to be a date.” 

And, oh. Oh, that makes a lot of sense. 

“Oh,” he says out loud, “that makes a lot of sense.” Etho’s lips are curved up, fondness scrawled on his face. Bdubs has a lot of thinking to do. 

“The, uh, the feeling is mutual, then?” Etho asks. “Unless by ‘more than friends’, you mean ‘rivals’… In which case, I have a lot of questions for you about where rivals go on your scale of interpersonal relationships.” 

“Hey! I’ll have you know that rivals are very important to me!”

Bdubs hauls his luggage out from the taxi, waving another goodbye to the driver. They don’t wave back, but Bdubs doesn’t take it personally. It’s raining a bit, just a drizzle, but he’s starting to regret not packing any waterproof jackets. Foolishly, Bdubs had assumed that the weather reports he’d checked three weeks ago while packing were accurate. Obviously not. 

He's got everything packed up, including his spoils of war (gold medal and various other trinkets he got from winning) and shopping items (whatever he caved and bought during his days out in town). It’s a little heavier than when he was flying in, but hopefully there’s no issues with weighing his luggage. 

The flight is in the afternoon, which means Bdubs needs to show up at least two hours early to get through security. He’s lucky to not have to bring anything sketchy through the border (unlike some athletes, like sharpshooters) but it’s still a long process to fly internationally, even just from Canada back to the United States. 

Bdubs, playing it safe, arrives three and a half hours early. Just in case. (Truth be told, he had little to do after Etho had left early in the morning for his own flight back home.) He’s got everything packed and ready to go, except the airport is crazy busy. Must be all of the Olympic spectators also going home…

He can barely get into the building with the sheer amount of people here. Bdubs finds himself wishing he’d told the cab to drop him off on the other side—maybe he’d have better luck there. After about three more unsuccessful tries to shove his way inside without losing any luggage, Bdubs gives up and heads back out into the rain to go find a different entrance. 

His hood is pulled up over his head despite the fact that it isn’t waterproof, but a little bit of rain protection is better than none. Bdubs keeps his eyes on the pavement to watch for little cracks; his broken tire is not stopping him this time! 

He’s sort of off by the parking lot area, no one in sight as he trudges alongside the airport building, but he can still hear the ridiculously loud music from the dropoff loop—some dramatic orchestral piece that someone had put on a boombox. The rain has started to pick up a bit, wind blowing the water around as it falls. It’s wet and cold and this sucks. Worst of all, there’s not even—

Bdubs slams into someone, nearly falling over and bringing his luggage down with him. 

“Excuse me—!?”

“—Sorry!” 

Wait…

“ETHO?!?” 

Bdubs releases his death grip on his yellow wheeler and points a finger accusationally at the man in front of him. “You’re supposed to be on a plane right now!” 

“It got delayed.” Etho’s holding a black umbrella over his shoulder, fencing case strapped to the top of his roller bag and his backpack over a greyish-green raincoat. “I was looking for the main entrance, but I locked myself outside, I think?” 

“How do you even do that?” Bdubs asks incredulously. “This is an airport!” 

Etho spins the umbrella on his shoulder, flicking raindrops everywhere. “Alright, that was a bad lie. I was looking for you. I thought I was too early, though, isn’t your flight way later?”

“I show up early, because I’m very responsible.” 

“Mhm,” Etho agrees with a very serious nod. “Sorry for bumping into you. Again.” 

It’s an absurd echo of their first meeting, a chance meeting and some very bad first impressions. A strain of music drifts by, a trumpet fanfare accompanied by violin arpeggios. 

After a long moment of deliberation, Bdubs says, “Apology accepted.” 

Raindrops slide off of Etho’s umbrella, falling to the pavement in a gentle syncopated rhythm. Etho’s supposed to be halfway home by now. Bdubs is supposed to be inside the airport. Neither of them move. 

“When does your flight leave?” 

Not for a couple of hours. “I’ve got time.” 

Etho steps closer, his umbrella covering the two of them. He’s smiling that stupidly smug grin, sideways and cheshire wide as he hooks a finger to pull his mask down and look barefaced at Bdubs. 

“Hi,” he says softly, breath brushing against Bdubs’ cheek. This is evil. Terrible. Vile. Etho is a horrible, horrible person. Bdubs doesn’t breathe as he lets go of his roller bags to cup Etho’s face. Etho leans in a little closer. “Your hands are very cold,” he says casually. 

“Just shut up and kiss me already, you jerk!” 

There’s no fireworks or world-shattering revelation. It’s sort of messy, them standing in the rain to the side of an airport parking lot, Bdubs pulling Etho down to his mouth and moving his fingers up to tangle in his hair. It’s perfect. It tastes like gold and winning and satisfaction. 

After they break apart, Etho’s got a dazed look in his eyes and his cheeks are flushed pink. Bdubs inspects his handiwork with pride. 

“Hey,” Bdubs says as Etho leans back in, “I win.”

Chapter Text

sports-rpf-shipper
so i’ve been watching the olympics (ofc) and let me just say. u cannot tell me that the australian and canadian kayakers are not deeply gay for each other??? every single documented interaction they’ve had is just FILLED with unresolved tension??? someone take one look at them and tell me i’m wrong.

circular-design
have you considered that shipping real people from real life is bad?

sports-rpf-shipper (OP)
good morning. my name is sports rpf shipper. gemini tay and pearl moon are having crazy lesbian sex every night. 

I LOVE SCAR GOODTIME @letters2youfrommunich
when will my pookie show up he said he was going to come early to watch his friendsssss i miss him :(
#TorontoOlympics #ScarGoodtime
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something in the water @alexanderthemediocre
last i heard he got held up at security bc of his bow + wheelchair stuff! tsa gets weird about weapons iirc. paralympics don’t start for a while, but hopefully he’s here soon!!!

im-running-out-of-ideas
can someone explain to me what the beef is between the british tennis player and our beloved mr. hills? 

i-will-die-on-any-hill
assuming you mean cleo zombie and joe hills, they actually met at a messed up tennis meet several years ago! the organizers fucked up big time and accidentally put the two against each other in the bracket despite the fact that joe hills is a table tennis player and cleo zombie is. not. they’ve been playing up the beef from that messed up competition for years now, so whatever you see them saying about each other is all in good nature since they’re good friends! 

currentcatchyoudanceandtwirl
who wins in a match between those two if they actually played… they both have the rackets for their respective sports and the court is half table and half Actual Court… two balls are in play at all times…

pure-of-heart-sure-of-aim

Who Wins?
[Cleo Zombie —————— 66.3%]
[Joe Hills ———— 33.7%]
[out of 2,347 votes]

mmm-bbaq
1,556 of you guys are dead wrong. joe hills does not obey the laws of physics. 

Maybe In Another World @timeloopshenanigans
sorry for breaking up the flow of boat-posting but this fencing drama has intrigued me… what is going on over there? hearing some crazy stuff from my fencing moot abt the olympics
#TorontoOlympics #OlympicFencing
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free my man </3 @AsILiveAndBreathe
[1/?] oh god theres so much going on its hard to explain. so on the american side of things its been a crazy event bc team usa has insanely good fencers this year (techno blade, ivory cello, wels/hels knight, etc.) and theyve all been DEMOLISHING the
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free my man </3 @AsILiveAndBreathe
[2/?] competition because theyre absolutely beasts. EXCEPT one of the team usa fencers has a twin brother whos also competing and theyve been given so many penalties for corps-a-corps (bodies touching during bouts) bc they just cannot stop beefing with each other
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free my man </3 @AsILiveAndBreathe
[3/?] siblings rivalries WISH they had what the knight brothers have. rhyming names, weird evil/good twin outfits, personalized and frankly terrible nicknames… me and my sister could never. and then theres the canadian fencing drama which imo is not even drama
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free my man </3 @AsILiveAndBreathe
[4/?] at all like everyones ‘hot takes’ are so lukewarm they might even be room temperature. basically theres this guy who had a training accident two years ago (iirc) after the last olympics and has since fallen behind (understandable; it was an EYE injury) but the media
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free my man </3 @AsILiveAndBreathe
[5/6] went vicious on him ever since he requalified for the olympics so now theres people comparing his past stats to current stats and looking at his personal life to find his daily routines and frankly its an invasion of privacy because hes literally just a guy. but what do i know.
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free my man </3 @AsILiveAndBreathe
[6/6] so the fencing drama u heard about is either sabre finals between techno blade and clown pierce, knight sibling rivalry, or the etho slab comeback drama. or maybe its some new even worse drama i dont even know about yet
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free my man </3 @AsILiveAndBreathe
[7/6] jk apparently someone named ebony violin just showed up in the fencing bracket (team gb) and no one knows who she is?? so that might be whatever you’re hearing about ig. but let me just say EBONY VIOLIN is a Startling resemblance to ms. ivory cello’s name… suspicious… (/what)

horse-sleep
has anyone been following gemini tay’s chirp ? because i need to know if i’m imagining the fact that she’s currently liveblogging her friend/follow olympian’s gay rivalry 

thethingsthativedone
holy shit it’s real??!?! i don’t even care about the olympics this is just plain hilarious LMAO she’s posting blurry photos of the two of them together like she’s the paparazzi following them around

im-in-your-basement
can someone explain this to me like i’m seven i don’t have chirp i can’t check 😭

horse-sleep (OP)
world famous canadian canoe slalom athlete (gemini tay) is liveblogging her friend, world famous canadian fencing athlete (etho slab), and his situationship with world famous american equestrian athlete (bdoubleo one-hundred). and she has said she ships them. 

dawnslayer
is she aware of RPF

hot diggity dog! @singmepromises
WHO’S READY FOR THE YEAR OF CYBERDOG YEAHHHHHHHH MANIFESTING GOLD !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
#TorontoParalympics #RenDog
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factually speaking @CourseCorrection99
isn’t that ableist?? like. why would you call him that. he’s a guy with a prosthetic leg, not a real cyborg. jfc treat him like a real person
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hot diggity dog! @singmepromises
that’s literally what he calls himself. he brands himself as “cyberdog”. there are multiple on-air adverts of him calling himself that. 

no1-symmetry-fan
my favorite part of watching the olympics is seeing all of these random pictures of false symmetry pop up on fumblr because she always has the sickest looking poses when she’s competing. like. YES!!! that’s the queen of hearts and heads!!!
[IMAGE ID: a tall blonde woman holding a rifle while posed like widowmaker from overwatch origins.]
[IMAGE ID: a tall blonde woman holds a pistol to fire, standing like tracer from overwatch origins.]

guywholikesfish
hey op what’s your opinion on overwatch?

anna michigan @NotHannahMontana
why is no one talking about the single post that etho slab has up on his chirp?? he just posted it like 40mins ago and i have heard CRICKETS i thought yall were active rpf shippers where is everyone
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since 1939!! @thelotushotel
ANNA I JUST WOKE UP GIVE ME A MOMENT PLEASE 😭 I’M LOOKING RN 
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since 1939!! @thelotushotel
HOLY SHIT THATS INSANE??? no one tell me they ARENT a thing bc that’s a crazy thing to post online ???? that is a GRADE A post-kiss selfie??? hold on let me send this to sam to analyse
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spanner sammer @samkitsam
youre joking your joking youre jokying THIS ISNT REAL. okay hold on i’m locked in that is definitely a post-kiss selfie look at that hair. look at HIS SMILE? slab has his mask on but i absolutely bet that he made out sloppy style with one-hundred i mean LOOKATTHEM

maidmariamswife
why did no one tell me that my favoriet ASMR youtuber was an olympic basketball player???? paralympic i mean

blind-motherfucker
lily. do not tell me you use doc monster’s videos as asmr. please. 

maidmariamswife (OP)
idk i find it calming? does no one else think his german accent is calming?? this cannot be a hot take come on guys

trial-of-song
i’m with the oedipus guy on this one sorry op but docm is NOT asmr??? he plays german heavy metal while explaining how to break the laws of physics????
(also yeaj he’s in toronto atm competing in the paralympics for germany!)

♥️ big chipper ♥️ @falsecemetery  
gemini tay this pearl moon that WHO CARES ABOUT THEM is NO ONE else seeing the things that tango tek and jimmy solidarity have said about each other in interviews??????
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oubbababou @timeshifter
omg i was just watching the pix interview where tek said that he thinks solidarity is super handsome. did he forget he’s being filmed for a worldwide audience. 

eb-garamond-semi-bold
did everyone forget about the fish guy. the guy who everyone called a fish. the fish guy. the olympic fish guy. 

staychalant
the what guy

eb-garamond-semi-bold (OP)
you know. the fish guy. the american swimmer who’s so freakishly good at swimming everyone calls him the fish guy. he’s the fish guy. xb crafted. fish guy. he’s a fish. 

staychalant
u know what. i think i’m gonna leave the sports rpf fandom to do their own thing. i hope u have fun with ur fish guy. 

shadowbeans fan no.1 @iwasmade4lovingu
lizzie shadowlady and joel smallishbeans literally power couple of all time??? team gb’s secret weapon THESE TWO. absolute powerhouses in the swim department i have never seen cleaner dives than shadowlady’s
#TorontoOlympics #LizzieShadowlady #JoelSmallishbeans #OlympicDiving
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made u look @gullibletraveler
i don’t know a single thing abt water polo but when mr beans is on screen i am LOCKED IN !!!
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🦜pesky birdddd @StealingDoors101
team GB’s secret weapon is the combined diving score of lizzie shadowlady and jimmy soldiarity + joel smallishbeans, and grian mc actually. absolute dominance over diving, relay, and water polo (even if team usa still tops the non-relay swims)

skofnung1
sorry if this is a stupid question but what happened between cleo zombie and etho slab? i keep hearing stuff about them in relation to bdoubleo one-hundred and i am So Confused

joyeuese-revelry-deactivated202θ08
oh god um. okay so a while back (before the last summer olympics) zombie and slab were in a relationship (it wasn’t ever confirmed but like. We Knew) but they apparently had some sort of falling out and both of them stopped showing up in public other than for meets/competitions
AND in addition zombie and 100 have been very close ever since about three years ago so there’s a lot of Speculation on what exactly is going on considering the uh. Rumours about slab and 100

tinyzona
RUMORS? girl they’ve basically confirmed they’re together have u SEEN the picture??

joyeuese-revelry-deactivated202θ08
i think you and i have very different opinions on what a confirmation is but. yeagh. i’ve seen the picture. (rpf shippers dni, i am NOT shipping just speculating)

skofnung1 (OP)
why are you on my post if you are not rpf shipper? i think mumbo jumbo and grian mc should kiss passionately on camera. begone!

how-many-hands
BYE shitting myself laughing with op’s banishing spell LMFAOO

skofnung1 (OP)
[IMAGE ID: low quality screenshot of the team gb interview where grian mc holds mumbo jumbo’s face in his hands while he talks to the interviewer, overlaid with fumblr tags reading: “#YOU KILLED THEM???”, “#THEY DEACTIVATED NOT EVEN 24 HOURS LATER LMAO”, and “#mumbo jumbo KILLED them !!!”]
i win. 

alex (now on fumblr!!) @ItsAlexAgain
god i wish i had whatever the hell etho slab and joel smallishbeans have. icons. no one has irrelevant beef like they do. they;re obsessed with each other. neck kisses forever xoxo
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katya goncharov saved me @sofiathesecond
this year’s games are the year of rivalries fr fr we got the knight twins siblings rivalry, the moon/tay lesbian rivalry, hills+zombie tennis rivalry, whatever the hell slab and smallishbeans have going on…
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Bdubs “Winner” One-Hundred ☑️ @RealBdoubleo100
You’re forgetting one! :)
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katya goncharov saved me @sofiathesecond
BDOUBLEO ONE-HUNDRED?????????

accidentallyeloquent
sorry i accidentally trapped you in my lab. and now i;m going to put you on a hamster wheel to power my evil devices. youre mine forever now you cant leave. also there’s this guy here too but don’t worry about him he’s chill

accidentallyeloquent (OP)
people are tagging this post with Real Life Olympic Athletes what the fuck is going on in toronto and who are these men
[IMAGE ID: screenshot of fumblr tags reading “#literally zedaph plays abt tango tek and impulse sv LMAO”, “#tango tek on a hamster wheel… someone draw that….”, “#i;m 80% sure this was supposed to be a fandom post sorry op for flooding the tags with rpf”]

I HAVE A VERY LARGE SWORD @strikehardstrikefast
this entire olympics has felt like a fever dream does anyone else feel like that too
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this ain’t about him @GoRescueADog
it’s not officially a fever dream until someone makes an amv compilation
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6 schools in 6 yrs @thethunderstealer
🔗[https://www.metube.com/all-star-toronto-olympics-pmv/]
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this ain’t about him @GoRescueADog
HOLY SHIT???