Chapter Text
APRIL 2023
French National Junior Championships, Paris (Piscine Georges Vallerey)
Gustave had a routine, and routines were important. Six hundred meters warm-up, technique drills, fifty meters cool-down. Always in that order. Always. The predictability kept his heart rate where it needed to be—elevated but controlled, ready but not panicking. Deviation meant variables, and variables meant things he couldn’t account for, couldn’t fix.
The warm-up pool at Piscine Georges Vallerey smelled like every pool he’d ever trained in: chlorine sharp enough to sting his sinuses, that underlying tang of too many bodies in too-warm water. The acoustics were different, though. Louder. The splash and echo of two dozen junior national qualifiers bounced off tile and glass in a way that made his shoulders creep toward his ears. Lyon’s facility was smaller. Quieter. This was Paris—all glass walls and expensive signage and Racing Club de France jackets everywhere he looked.
Emma sat in the bleachers above the warm-up pool, wearing his club jacket because she’d forgotten hers, scrolling her phone with one hand while eating what looked like a pain au chocolat with the other. She caught his eye and gave him an encouraging thumbs-up, chocolate flaking onto his jacket. He tried to smile back. It probably looked more like a grimace.
“You’re going to be fine,” she’d said earlier, in the locker room, when his hands wouldn’t stop shaking while he pulled on his cap. “You know that, right?”
He didn’t know that. This was French Nationals—his one shot at making the Junior National Team for Europeans. He was a scholarship kid from Lyon Swimming Club, which meant something here in a way it didn’t back home. Here, it meant he’d had to prove himself just to get invited. Here, it meant the officials checking credentials had looked at his club affiliation and then at him, like they were double-checking he belonged.
He dove in for his first fifty. The water was perfect—cool enough to wake him up, warm enough not to shock. He fell into the rhythm immediately: pull, breathe, kick, rotate. His technique was clean. That’s what his coach always said. You swim clean, Gustave. Textbook form. It was supposed to be a compliment, but it always felt like clean meant not powerful enough or not fast enough or technically perfect but still somehow not quite good enough.
He surfaced at the wall, shook water from his ears, and that’s when he saw him.
Lane three, fifty meters down. A swimmer doing what looked like all-out sprint intervals in a warm-up pool, which was—Gustave’s brain supplied helpfully—not how you were supposed to warm up. You were supposed to ease into it, get the blood flowing, wake up the muscles gently. This guy was attacking the water like it had personally offended him.
There was a Racing Club de France jacket on the deck, which explained everything.
Gustave told himself he was watching because the technique was wrong, because someone swimming that aggressively this early was going to burn out before finals. That's why he couldn't look away.
His chest felt tight. Probably the chlorine. The acoustics in here were terrible, made everything feel compressed and strange. He ducked under the water, held his breath until his lungs burned, surfaced and shook his head hard.
There was something about the way those shoulders cut through the water, the brutal efficiency of each stroke, the raw power evident in every movement. Gustave was analyzing it from a strategic perspective. Obviously. That's what you did with competitors.
Emma’s voice drifted down from the bleachers, somehow audible even over the echo: “Maybe he’s got a different routine than you, Gus.”
Gustave hadn’t realized he’d stopped swimming. He was just—treading water at the wall, staring. He ducked under quickly, like that would somehow erase the last thirty seconds, and pushed off for another fifty.
But he could still see him in his peripheral vision. Broad back, dark hair, that expensive Racing Club swim skin that probably cost more than Gustave’s entire meet kit. The guy finished his set with a flip turn that sent water splashing over the lane lines, then surfaced and floated there for a second, chest heaving, eyes closed against the overhead lights.
Then he started swimming toward Gustave’s end of the pool.
Gustave’s brain went blank. His rhythm faltered—he actually had to think about his next stroke, which never happened, swimming was supposed to be automatic—and he reached the wall at the same time the Racing Club guy did. They both grabbed for the same ladder.
Their hands didn’t touch, but it was close. Close enough that Gustave jerked back like the metal had burned him.
“Pardon.” The guy’s voice had that polished Parisian accent that made everything sound like he was doing you a favor by acknowledging your existence. He didn’t quite look at Gustave, just moved past him up the ladder, water streaming down his back in rivulets that followed the cut of muscle down his spine, disappearing into his suit.
Gustave’s mouth was dry despite being chin-deep in pool water.
The guy walked away—confident, unhurried, like he owned the pool deck. Probably did, in a way. Racing Club kids always moved like that. Like the world would wait for them to be ready.
Those swim trunks should be illegal, Gustave thought, then his face went hot.
He looked away quickly, focused on the lane rope, counted the floats because numbers were safe and didn't make his stomach do weird things.
Something was off today. Nerves, probably. Just nerves.
“You okay?” Emma called down. “You look weird.”
Gustave realized he was still gripping the ladder, knuckles white. He forced himself to let go, to breathe. “I’m fine.”
He wasn’t fine. His heart was doing something arrhythmic and probably medically concerning, and it had nothing to do with his warm-up intervals.
Who swims angry like that? he thought, pushing off the wall to finish his set. Racing Club kids are always so fucking confident.
Fifty meters. Technique drills. Cool-down. He had a routine, and he was going to stick to it, and he was absolutely not going to think about why his brain kept helpfully replaying the image of water dripping down that guy’s shoulders.
He had the 200-meter freestyle heats this afternoon. He needed to focus. Top eight made finals. Top two at finals made the Junior Euros team. That’s what mattered. That’s all that mattered.
Gustave's hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He'd eaten lunch—half a sandwich that Emma had forced on him, some fruit that sat in his stomach like stones. He'd stretched. He'd visualized the race like Coach had taught him, imagining every stroke, every turn, every breath. He'd checked his heat assignment three times on his phone, even though he'd memorized it hours ago.
Heat 4, Lane 5. 200-meter freestyle. Top eight times across all heats would make tonight's finals. Top two finishers at finals would make the Junior Euros team.
Everything he'd worked for came down to eight lengths of the pool.
The competition pool was bigger than the warm-up pool, the stands packed with parents and coaches and scouts. The afternoon sun cut through the glass ceiling in sharp geometric patterns that turned the water silver-bright. Gustave stood behind his assigned lane, rolling his shoulders, shaking out his arms, trying to convince his body that this was just another race.
It wasn't just another race.
He pulled up the heat sheet on his phone one more time, even though he didn't need to. Lane assignments, seed times, club affiliations. His eyes caught on Lane 4, right next to him.
Verso Dessendre, Racing Club de France, 1:48.1
Gustave's seed time was 1:49.3. Over a second slower. In swimming, a second was an eternity.
"Of course," he muttered.
"Of course what?" Emma appeared at his elbow, holding his towel and his water bottle like she was his personal assistant. She'd been doing that all day—hovering, trying to be helpful, which would have been annoying except he knew she was worried about him.
"Nothing." He took the water bottle, didn't drink. His stomach was too tight.
"That's the guy from this morning, isn't it?" Emma nodded toward Lane 4, where Verso was doing arm circles, stretching his shoulders in a way that should not have been so distracting. "The angry swimmer."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Gustave." She said his name like she was his mother instead of his twin. "You've looked at the heat sheet seventeen times. I counted."
"I'm being thorough."
"You're spiraling." She handed him his towel. "He's fast, yeah. But so are you. You've been swimming out of your mind this season. Coach said—"
"Coach says a lot of things."
"—that if you swim your race, stay in your rhythm, you'll qualify easy." She grabbed his shoulders, made him look at her. "Top eight make finals. There are only six swimmers in this heat who have a shot at that. You're one of them. So stop looking at his time and start thinking about yours."
She was right. She was always right, which was infuriating.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." He rolled his neck, heard something crack. The shaking in his hands had settled into something manageable. He could work with manageable.
Emma squeezed his shoulder once, then stepped back. "Go be terrifying."
The official called them to the blocks. Gustave walked to Lane 5, set his towel down on the chair behind him. The concrete was rough under his bare feet, warm from the afternoon sun. He could hear the pool filter humming, the low murmur of conversation from the stands, someone's coach shouting instructions three lanes over.
And he could hear Verso breathing, two meters to his left.
Gustave didn't look. He stepped up onto the block, gripped the front edge with his toes, shook out his arms one more time. The water below was perfectly still, crystalline. In thirty seconds it would be churning.
"Heat four of the men's 200-meter freestyle," the announcer's voice echoed through the natatorium. "Swimmers, take your marks."
Gustave bent forward, fingers wrapped around the edge of the block, every muscle coiled. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. The world narrowed to the water below him, the starting beep that was coming, the race that would decide everything.
He didn't think about the swimmer in Lane 4. He didn't think about Racing Club de France or seed times or the way water had dripped down that perfectly sculpted back this morning.
He thought about the first wall, fifty meters away. That's all. Just the first wall.
Beep.
The starting beep shattered the silence and Gustave launched himself forward, the dive automatic, muscle memory taking over. He cut through the water clean, streamline perfect, dolphin kicked until his lungs started to burn, then surfaced and pulled.
The first fifty was always his best. Technique over power, efficiency over brute force. His coach's voice in his head: Long strokes, high elbow, rotate from the hips. He could see the other lanes in his peripheral vision—Lane 6 was already behind, Lane 3 was keeping pace, and Lane 4—
Lane 4 was right there. Stroke for stroke, breath for breath.
Gustave hit the first wall and executed his turn, pushing off hard. Fifty meters down. One hundred and fifty to go. His lungs were starting to burn but his rhythm was good, steady. He could do this. He was doing this.
The second fifty was where it got hard. Lactic acid building in his shoulders, his technique wanting to fall apart, his brain screaming at him to slow down. But Lane 4 was still there, just barely ahead, maybe half a body length. Gustave could see him clearly now—could see the brutal efficiency of each stroke, the raw power that made it look easy.
It wasn't easy. Gustave knew that. Nobody made swimming look that effortless without suffering for it.
He hit the hundred-meter wall and his split time flashed above his lane: 54.2 seconds. Fast. Faster than he'd ever gone in a heat. His coach was probably losing his mind poolside.
One hundred meters to go. Two lengths. He could hold this pace. He had to hold this pace.
The third fifty was the pain cave. Every competitive swimmer knew it—the point where your mind started negotiating, started offering deals. Slow down just a little. You'll still qualify. You don't have to push this hard. Gustave told his mind to shut up and pulled harder.
Lane 4 was pulling ahead. Not much—maybe a full body length now—but enough that Gustave could feel the gap opening. He refused to let it get bigger. Refused to let that Parisian asshole just leave him behind like he was nothing.
His arms felt like lead. His lungs were screaming. The crowd was roaring but it sounded like white noise, like static. Just the water, just his breathing, just the wall coming up fast.
Last turn. Flip, push, streamline. Fifty meters left. Everything he had left in the tank.
Gustave emptied it.
He didn't think about technique anymore, didn't think about efficiency or form or what his coach would say about his stroke falling apart. He just pulled, dragged himself through the water with everything he had, counting strokes because numbers were safe and predictable when nothing else was.
Ten strokes. Eight strokes. Five strokes.
He could see Lane 4 ahead of him, could see that broad back and those powerful shoulders, could see the wall coming up and he lunged for it, stretched his fingertips out as far as they would go—
Touch.
The timing pad lit up. Gustave grabbed the wall, gasping, and stared up at the scoreboard through the water streaming down his face.
Lane 4: 1:48.32
Lane 5: 1:48.89
0.57 seconds. Verso had beaten him by just over half a second.
But they'd both qualified for finals. Easily. The third-place finisher in Lane 6 was at 1:50.21—over a second behind Gustave.
Gustave hung on the lane rope, his whole body shaking, lungs heaving. He'd just swam the fastest 200 freestyle of his life. Nearly a full second faster than his seed time. And he'd still lost.
"Good swim."
Verso's voice was rough, breathless but controlled. Confident. Almost dismissive, like beating Gustave by half a second was exactly what he'd expected to do.
Gustave looked up. Verso was watching him, pale blue eyes sharp even through the water and exhaustion, dark hair plastered to his head. His expression was unreadable—not smug, not cruel, just... assessing. Like Gustave was a problem he was still trying to solve.
Gustave took the offered hand. Their palms met, grip firm, and Gustave's stomach dropped like he'd missed a step going downstairs. He jerked his hand back.
"You too," he managed. It came out mumbly, barely intelligible.
Verso was already pulling himself up the ladder, water streaming off him as he stood on the deck and grabbed his towel. He walked away without looking back—toward his coaches, toward his expensive Racing Club future, like Gustave had already been filed away and forgotten.
Gustave watched him go, then realized what he was doing and looked away quickly. His hands were shaking where they gripped the wall.
He didn't understand why his heart was still racing.
"GUS!" Emma's shriek cut through the post-race haze. She was leaning over the barrier, waving like a maniac. "YOU QUALIFIED! That was AMAZING!"
Gustave pulled himself out of the pool, legs shaky. His coach was there immediately, gripping his shoulder, saying something about splits and pacing and finals strategy. Gustave nodded along, trying to focus, but his eyes kept tracking across the deck to where Verso was talking to his coaches—two of them, both in expensive Racing Club track suits, gesturing animatedly.
"Gustave." His coach snapped his fingers in front of Gustave's face. "Are you listening?"
"Yeah. Sorry. Yes." He dragged his attention back. "Finals. Tonight. I'm listening."
His coach looked skeptical but continued the debrief. Gustave tried to focus. He really did.
But something was definitely wrong with his ability to concentrate today, and he didn't know how to fix it.
The 200-meter breaststroke final wasn't until tomorrow, but Gustave had qualified third in this morning's heats with a time that made his coach pull him aside afterward and say, with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, "That was excellent, Gustave. Keep that up and you might medal."
Might medal. In his backup event. Which should have felt good—it did feel good—except all Gustave could think about was tonight's 200 freestyle semi-final, and the fact that somewhere in this facility, Verso Dessendre was probably doing his cool-down swim, or getting a massage, or doing whatever it was that Racing Club kids did between races.
Gustave was sitting on a bench outside the athlete's entrance, trying to eat a protein bar that tasted like cardboard and guilt. His phone buzzed. Sophie's name lit up the screen with a video call.
He answered, angling the phone so she wouldn't see how exhausted he looked.
"Hey!" Her face filled the screen, bright and smiling. She was in her bedroom back in Lyon, her university acceptance letter framed on the wall behind her. "I saw the results! Third place in Breast, that's amazing!"
"Yeah, it was good." He took another bite of the protein bar. It didn't get better with subsequent bites.
"Are you excited for tonight? The semi?" She leaned closer to the camera, like proximity would somehow help. "Emma texted me your heat time from yesterday. You were so fast, Gus. Under 1:49! That's insane."
"It was okay." He should say more. He should match her enthusiasm. "I need to be faster tonight."
"You will be." She had that look on her face, the one that said she believed in him unconditionally, which made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. "I wish I could be there. I tried to get someone to cover my shift, but—"
"It's fine. Really." It was fine. It was more than fine. Having Sophie here would mean... he didn't know what it would mean, but his brain was already too crowded with thoughts he didn't want to examine. "It's just semis. Finals are tomorrow."
"Just semis," she repeated, like she didn't quite believe he'd said that. "Gustave, if you make finals tonight, you're one race away from Junior Euros. That's huge."
"I know." He did know. He just couldn't make himself feel the appropriate amount of excitement about it. "Sorry, I'm just—tired. From this morning."
"You should rest." Her expression softened. "I'll let you go. But call me after tonight? I want to hear everything."
"Yeah. I will."
"Love you," she said, and waited.
The pause stretched too long. Gustave's throat felt tight. "You too," he managed finally.
She smiled, blew him a kiss through the screen, and hung up.
Gustave stared at his phone for a long moment, at the photo of them that was his lock screen—her laughing, him smiling next to her at some party he barely remembered. They looked happy. They were happy.
Weren't they?
Emma appeared from around the corner, holding two bottles of electrolyte drink. "Was that Sophie?"
"Yeah."
"You look like you just got dumped instead of told your girlfriend loves you." She handed him one of the bottles. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"Gustave." She sat down next to him, close enough that their shoulders touched. "You qualified for breaststroke finals this morning. You're about to swim the most important semi of your life tonight. Sophie called to be supportive. And you look like someone killed your dog."
"I don't have a dog."
"You know what I mean." She bumped his shoulder. "Talk to me."
He didn't know how to explain it. Didn't know how to put into words the restless, uncomfortable feeling that had been sitting in his chest since yesterday. Since the warm-up pool. Since a Parisian asshole with perfect shoulders had said pardon and walked away like Gustave didn't exist.
"I'm fine," he said finally. "Just nervous about tonight."
Emma looked at him for a long moment, like she was trying to decide whether to push. Then she sighed and stood up. "Okay. But for the record, you're a terrible liar." She checked her watch. "Come on. You need to eat actual food before tonight, not just protein bars that taste like depression."
The locker room before semi-finals was quieter than it had been yesterday. Fewer swimmers, higher stakes. Gustave arrived early because he always arrived early, because routines were important and sitting in an empty locker room doing his breathing exercises was part of the routine.
Except the locker room wasn't empty.
Verso was already there, sitting on the bench in front of his locker, headphones in, staring at nothing. He'd changed into his tech suit already—the expensive kind that compressed everything and probably cost more than Gustave's monthly training fees. His club jacket was folded neatly next to him.
Gustave's locker was two down from Verso's. Alphabetical order. Augustin, Dessendre.
For a moment, Gustave resented the alphabet.
He tried to be quiet, tried not to draw attention to himself as he set his bag down and started pulling out his own tech suit. It wasn't as nice as Verso's—last season's model, bought on sale—but it fit well enough and that's what mattered.
"You're the Lyon kid."
Gustave's hands stilled on his bag zipper. He looked up. Verso had pulled out one earbud and was watching him with those pale blue eyes that seemed to see too much.
The Lyon kid. Like he was some provincial scholarship case instead of a national finalist.
"Uh. Yeah." Brilliant response. Emma would be so proud.
"Heat four yesterday." Verso's expression was unreadable. "You swim clean. Good technique."
It sounded like a compliment. It also sounded like analysis, like Verso had been watching him the same way Gustave had been watching Verso, cataloging weaknesses and strengths. Gustave didn't know which interpretation made his heart rate spike more.
"You're... fast," he said, and immediately wanted to die. You're fast. That's what he came up with. That's the best his brain could do.
But Verso grinned—a quick flash of teeth that transformed his whole face from intimidating to something warmer, almost playful. "I know."
The confidence should have been annoying. It was annoying.
Gustave looked away, busied himself with pulling his tech suit out of his bag. The silence stretched. He could feel Verso still watching him.
"Gustave Augustin, right?" Verso said finally. "I saw your name on the heat sheet."
He'd looked at the heat sheet. He'd noticed Gustave's name. That information did something strange to Gustave's chest.
"Yeah." He forced himself to look up, to meet those eyes. "You’re—"
"Verso Dessendre." He said it like Gustave might not have known, like the Dessendre name might not be on half the real estate in Paris. Then he stood, rolled his shoulders. He was taller than Gustave had realized yesterday. Broader. "We're in the same semi tonight. Lanes four and five."
"I know." Gustave had looked at the heat sheet approximately thirty times since it was posted.
"Good." Verso put his earbud back in, but paused before turning away. "Try to keep up out there."
It could have been friendly, but in Gustave’s ears it sounded like a challenge instead.
He pulled his tech suit on with hands that weren't quite steady. His heart was doing that thing again, that arrhythmic hammering that had nothing to do with pre-race nerves.
He had a semi-final to swim in twenty minutes. He needed to focus.
He did not need to be thinking about the way Verso had said his name, or his casual dismissiveness, or the fact that they'd be in lanes right next to each other, stroke for stroke for two hundred meters.
Focus, he told himself. Routine. Breathing exercises. Visualization.
But when he closed his eyes to visualize the race, all he could see was Verso's face, pale eyes sharp and assessing, saying try to keep up like it was already decided who would win.
〜〜〜
The semi-final was everything and nothing like yesterday's heat.
Everything because the format was the same—eight swimmers, two would advance automatically, next six times would be compared across both semis to fill out the finals. Nothing because Gustave had never felt this kind of pressure before, this weight of expectation and possibility.
He stood behind Lane 5, shaking out his arms, trying to find that quiet space in his head where the noise fell away and there was just the water and the race ahead. Emma was in the stands somewhere, probably losing her mind. Sophie was back in Lyon, probably refreshing the live results page every thirty seconds. His coach was poolside with the other coaches, calm and professional, like this wasn't the most important competition of Gustave's life so far.
The race was a blur of chlorine and adrenaline and the constant, electric awareness of Verso in the lane next to him.
Gustave's dive was clean, his technique sharp, but from the first stroke he could feel Verso there—matching him, pushing him, refusing to let him settle into his rhythm. The first hundred meters were neck and neck, and Gustave's split flashed faster than yesterday even as his lungs started to burn.
Then Verso pulled ahead.
Not by much—a quarter body length, maybe less—but enough that Gustave could see him in his peripheral vision, could see those powerful shoulders cutting through the water with brutal efficiency. Something hot and desperate flared in Gustave's chest. He dug deeper, pulled harder, chased that gap like his life depended on closing it.
The third fifty was agony. The fourth fifty was worse. But Gustave refused to let Verso disappear ahead of him, refused to let this race be anything but a fight.
The wall came up fast. Gustave lunged for it, fingertips stretching, and touched.
The timing pad lit up. He grabbed the wall, gasping, vision blurred with water and exertion, and stared up at the scoreboard.
Lane 4: 1:47.91
Lane 5: 1:48.03
0.12 seconds.
Twelve hundredths of a second. The width of a fingernail. The difference between matching stroke for stroke and being just slightly behind.
Gustave stared at the numbers, breathing hard. He'd just swum another personal best—nearly a full second faster than yesterday's heat. He'd qualified for finals automatically, top two in the semi. He'd done everything right.
And he'd still lost to Verso Dessendre.
A hand reached across the lane rope between them. Gustave looked over. Verso was watching him, chest heaving, water dripping from his hair. His expression was different from yesterday—sharper, more focused.
"Better," Verso said. Not nice race or good swim. Just better. Like Gustave was a project he was monitoring, showing marginal improvement.
Gustave didn't take the offered hand right away. He stared at it, at Verso's confident expression, at the 0.12 seconds on the board that said who was actually better.
Then he shook. Grip firm enough to border on aggressive. "Final tomorrow."
"Looking forward to it." Verso's smile had an edge to it. "Don't choke."
It could have been encouragement. It sounded like a warning.
Then he pulled himself out of the pool in one smooth motion, water streaming off him as he grabbed his towel and walked toward his coaches without looking back.
Gustave stayed in the water for another few seconds, letting his heartbeat slow, letting the cold seep into his overheated muscles. Around him, the other swimmers were climbing out, coaches were shouting splits and strategy, and somewhere in the stands Emma was probably screaming his name.
But all Gustave could think about was that single word—better—and the way Verso had said it.
He pulled himself out finally, legs shaky. His coach was there immediately, going over splits and pacing and what they'd adjust for finals tomorrow. Gustave nodded along, trying to focus.
But across the pool deck, Verso was standing with his two Racing Club coaches, and no one else. No parents congratulating him. No family celebrating his sub-1:48 semi-final. Just the coaches, professional and analytical, pointing at a tablet with his splits pulled up.
Verso's posture was perfect—shoulders back, head up, attentive. But there was something about the way he stood there, alone in the middle of all that chaos, that made Gustave's chest feel tight.
Emma appeared at his elbow. "0.12 seconds!" She was vibrating with excitement. "Gus, you almost had him! That was INSANE!"
"Almost isn't good enough," Gustave said, but he was smiling despite himself.
"It's a semi. Nobody cares about semis." She grabbed his shoulders, made him look at her. "You just qualified for the 200 free final at French Nationals. Do you understand what that means?"
He did. One race away from Junior Euros. One race away from everything he'd been working toward.
One race where Verso Dessendre would be in the lane next to him, and 0.12 seconds might as well be a mile.
Gustave couldn't eat breakfast.
Emma tried—she really did. She'd gone down to the hotel buffet and come back with a plate of everything: croissants, fruit, yogurt, a protein bar for good measure. She set it on the desk in their shared room and gave him a look that said you will eat something or I will force-feed you.
"I'll puke if I eat," Gustave said. He was sitting on his bed, staring at his phone, at the finals start list he'd already memorized.
"You'll pass out if you don't." Emma sat down next to him, took his phone away. "Gus. You need fuel. Even if it's just a banana and some water."
His stomach was a tight knot of anxiety. The 200 breaststroke final was this afternoon—he'd qualified third, had a legitimate shot at a medal in his backup event. But that wasn't what was making his hands shake.
Tonight was the 200 freestyle final. The race that mattered. Top two finishers made the Junior Euros team.
"What time is it?" he asked.
"8:47. Exactly three minutes later than when you last asked." Emma handed him a banana. "Eat. Then we're going for a walk. You're going to spiral if you stay in this room."
She was right. She was always right.
Gustave peeled the banana, took a bite. It tasted like nothing, sat heavy in his stomach. He forced down half of it before Emma deemed it acceptable and dragged him out of the hotel.
They walked along the Seine, the early morning sun turning the water gold. Emma talked about nothing important—her plans for university, some drama with her friends back in Lyon, a TV show she'd started watching. Gustave listened with half his attention, the other half stuck on tonight's final, on lane assignments, on the fact that in approximately ten hours he'd know whether the last year of training had been worth it.
His phone buzzed. Sophie.
Good luck today!! I'm so proud of you already. You've got this ❤️❤️ Love you!
Gustave stared at the message. She was always like this—enthusiastic, supportive, using multiple hearts and exclamation points. It was sweet. It was one of the things he'd liked about her when they first started dating, how she made everything feel bigger and more exciting than it was.
He typed back: Thanks. Nervous but ready. Love you too.
Added the heart emoji. Hit send. Felt the familiar twist of guilt in his chest that he couldn't quite name.
"Sophie?" Emma asked, not looking at him.
"Yeah."
"You should call her later. After everything."
"I will." He would. He always did. That's what good boyfriends did, right? They called their girlfriends after important races, shared the wins and losses, let them be part of it.
So why did the thought of that conversation make him feel tired?
〜〜〜
The 200 breaststroke final was... fine.
Gustave finished fourth. Close to the podium—only 0.3 seconds out of third place—but close didn't count. His coach said it was an excellent performance, that fourth at Nationals in a secondary event was nothing to be disappointed about. Emma hugged him and said she was proud.
And then his phone was ringing. Sophie, of course. She'd been watching the live results.
He answered, still catching his breath poolside. "Hey."
"Fourth place!" Her voice was bright through the phone, genuinely excited. "Gus, that's amazing! I know you wanted a medal, but fourth at Nationals is incredible."
"Yeah, it was good." He tried to match her energy, tried to sound happy about it. "Close to third."
"So close! But hey, now you can focus everything on tonight, right? The 200 Free?" She paused, and he could hear café sounds in the background—she must be on her break at work. "Are you nervous? You sound nervous."
"A little." A lot. "But I'm ready."
"You're going to be amazing," she said, with absolute conviction. "You're going to make Junior Euros and it's going to be incredible and I'm going to brag about my boyfriend to everyone."
He smiled despite himself. "Don't jinx it."
"I'm not jinxing anything. I believe in you." Her voice went softer. "I wish I could be there. I tried so hard to get the day off, but—"
"It's okay. Really." And it was okay. It was more than okay. Having her here would mean... he didn't know what it would mean, but his brain was already too crowded. "Emma's here. Coach is here. I'm good."
"Okay." She sounded like she didn't quite believe him. "But you'll call me tonight? After? Even if it's late?"
"Yeah. I promise."
"I love you," she said. "Good luck, Gus. You've got this."
"Love you too," he said, and meant it—or thought he meant it—or meant it in the way he'd always meant it, which had never felt complicated before but suddenly did.
He hung up. Emma was watching him with an expression he couldn't read.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing." But she was still looking at him like she was trying to figure something out. "Come on. You need to eat something before tonight, even if it's just half a sandwich."
She didn't mention Sophie again, and Gustave was grateful for it.
〜〜〜
The call room before finals was different from semis. Quieter. More intense. Eight swimmers, most of them wearing headphones, locked into their own pre-race rituals. The air felt electric, charged with nerves and anticipation.
Gustave sat on the bench, doing his breathing exercises. Four counts in, hold for four, four counts out. His coach's voice in his head: Control what you can control. Your breathing, your technique, your race.
He couldn't control Verso Dessendre sitting three seats down, eyes closed, headphones in, looking completely calm. Couldn't control the fact that they'd be swimming side by side again. Couldn't control the way his heart rate spiked every time he glanced over and saw him there.
"Nervous?"
Gustave's eyes snapped open. Verso had pulled out one earbud and was watching him with an expression that might have been amusement.
"No." The lie was unconvincing even to his own ears.
"Liar." Verso's smile was quick, almost gentle. "Me too."
Gustave stared at him. Verso—confident, unshakeable Race Club prodigy—was nervous?
"Could've fooled me," Gustave said before he could stop himself.
Verso's smile widened slightly. "That's the point." He leaned back against the wall, rolled his shoulders. "But yeah. This is... big."
Junior Euros. International competition. Representing France. Everything they'd been working toward.
"Yeah," Gustave said quietly. "It is."
They sat in silence for a moment. Around them, the other finalists were warming up, stretching, checking their tech suits. The official would call them to march out soon.
"May the best man win," Verso said finally. He stood, held out his fist for a bump. "Let’s meet in Belgrade."
In Belgrade. Like he already knew they'd both make it. Like top two was a foregone conclusion, and the only question was who'd be first and who'd be second.
Gustave stood too, bumped Verso's fist. Their knuckles touched—callused, warm—and that weird jolt went through him again.
"See you there," Gustave said, and tried to sound more confident than he felt.
〜〜〜
The finals were everything.
The crowd was massive—biggest he'd ever swum in front of. The stands were packed with scouts, national team coaches, parents, athletes from other events. Somewhere up there, Emma was probably having a heart attack. Back in Lyon, Sophie was refreshing her phone every ten seconds, believing in him with that uncomplicated certainty that made him feel both grateful and guilty in ways he didn't want to examine.
And Gustave was on the block in Lane 5, with Verso Dessendre in Lane 4, and two hundred meters of pool between him and everything he wanted.
The announcer's voice boomed through the natatorium: "The winner and runner-up of this race will represent France at the European Junior Championships in Belgrade this September."
Gustave's heart was trying to break through his ribcage. His hands were steady on the block edge, but only because he was gripping so hard his knuckles were white.
In Lane 4, Verso was perfectly still, coiled and ready.
"Swimmers, take your marks."
The world narrowed. No crowd, no noise, no thoughts. Just the water below, mirror-smooth and waiting. Just the starting beep that was coming. Just this moment, this race, this chance.
Beep.
The race was perfect and terrible and not enough.
Gustave swam the race of his life—technique sharp, turns clean, every stroke exactly where it needed to be. He was aware of Verso the entire time, that constant presence in Lane 4, matching him for the first hundred, pulling ahead in the third fifty, staying just out of reach no matter how hard Gustave pushed.
The final wall came up too fast. Gustave lunged for it with everything he had left, touched, and looked up at the scoreboard through vision blurred with exertion and pool water and something that might have been tears.
Lane 4: 1:47.23
Lane 5: 1:47.51
Lane 6: 1:49.12
0.28 seconds. Just over a quarter of a second. The width of a hand.
Third place was more than a full second behind them. It wasn't even close. Gustave had qualified for Junior Euros—had achieved everything he'd set out to achieve—and all he could feel was the hollow ache of second place.
Again.
He hung on the lane rope, chest heaving, and stared at those numbers. 1:47.51. A full two seconds faster than his seed time coming into this meet. A personal best that would have won most junior finals. A time that proved he belonged here, that he deserved this.
And still. Second place.
A figure moved in his peripheral vision, and Gustave looked over. Verso was watching him, chest heaving. His expression was unreadable—not triumphant, not sympathetic, just... considering.
"That was close," Verso said. Just that. No good race, no platitudes.
0.28 seconds. Close enough to taste and still too far.
"Not close enough," Gustave said.
Something flickered in Verso's eyes—surprise, maybe, or understanding. "No," he agreed quietly. "It's not."
They held each other’s gaze across the lane rope, both breathing hard, water dripping into their faces. The moment stretched, charged with something Gustave couldn't name. Around them, the other finalists were climbing out, coaches were shouting, the crowd was roaring.
"See you in Belgrade," Verso said finally. It sounded like a promise. Or a threat.
Then he pulled himself out of the pool and was gone.
The podium was smaller than Gustave had imagined. Or maybe he just felt small standing on the silver step, looking up at Verso on the gold.
Literally looking up. The gold platform was taller, placed Verso above him in a way that felt both symbolic and painfully literal. Verso stood with his shoulders back, head high, every inch the champion. His Racing Club de France warmup jacket was perfectly fitted, expensive. Gustave's Lyon club jacket had a small tear in the sleeve that Emma kept saying she'd sew up but never did.
The official placed the silver medal around Gustave's neck. It was heavier than he'd expected, the ribbon scratchy against his skin. He touched it briefly—cold metal, embossed with the French swimming federation logo and "2023 National Junior Championships" engraved on the back.
Second place. Junior Euros qualification. Everything he'd worked for.
It felt hollow.
The gold medal went around Verso's neck next. He didn't touch it, didn't look down at it, just kept his eyes forward as La Marseillaise started playing through the speakers. The French national anthem. Gustave had heard it a thousand times, but standing here on this podium, with the crowd rising to their feet and the music swelling, it felt different. Bigger. Real in a way it hadn't been before.
He was a French national team member now. Junior team, but still. He was going to Belgrade to represent his country.
Next to him, Verso was singing along quietly—Gustave could hear him, just barely, over the music. His voice was surprisingly good, steady and sure. Figures. Of course Verso would know all the words, would sing them with confidence, would look like he belonged up here.
Gustave mouthed along but didn't sing. His throat was too tight.
The anthem ended. Applause thundered through the natatorium. The official gestured for them to turn, face the cameras for photos. Gustave turned mechanically, tried to smile. The flash went off. Once, twice, three times.
"Junior Euros qualifiers, together please!"
The photographer was waving them closer. Before Gustave could figure out the appropriate amount of space to maintain, Verso's arm was around his shoulders—casual, proprietary, like they'd done this a hundred times.
The weight of it was solid, warm even through both their jackets. Gustave could smell chlorine and something else—expensive cologne maybe, or just the clean scent of someone who grew up with money. He was very aware of how close they were standing, of Verso's hand on his shoulder, of the camera pointed at them.
"We're teammates now," Verso said quietly, just for Gustave to hear. "Smile."
It wasn't a suggestion.
Gustave smiled. It felt tentative, uncertain, but genuine. Next to him, Verso's smile was brilliant—camera-ready, practiced, the kind of smile that belonged on magazine covers.
The flash went off. The photographer checked his camera, nodded in satisfaction. "Perfect. That's great, boys. Congratulations."
Verso's arm dropped from Gustave's shoulders. The absence of it felt strange, like a cold spot. Gustave told himself it was just the evaporation of pool water on his skin.
"Good job," Verso said, turning to face him properly. He held out his hand for a shake—formal, official.
This time, Gustave took it. Their palms met, grip firm. Verso's hand was warm, callused. The handshake lasted a beat too long, or maybe that was just Gustave's imagination.
"You too," Gustave managed. "Congratulations on the gold."
"Thanks." Verso's smile shifted into something more genuine, less performative. "You pushed me. I haven't had to race that hard all season."
It should have felt like patronizing—the winner congratulating the loser on making him work for it. But Verso's tone was sincere, his eyes steady. He meant it.
"Belgrade," Gustave said, because he didn't know what else to say.
"Belgrade," Verso agreed. Then officials were ushering them off the podium, directing them toward the media area, and the moment was over.
The media area was chaos.
Reporters with microphones, cameras with bright lights, officials trying to organize who went where. Gustave had done exactly one media interview in his life—at Lyon regionals last year, a two-minute spot for the local sports segment. This was different. This was national press, swimming journalists, scouts taking notes.
Verso was already in front of a cluster of reporters, answering questions with easy charm. Gustave caught fragments as he was directed to his own interview spot.
"—very happy to represent France at Euros. It's an honor."
"—Gustave pushed me hard today. He's an excellent swimmer. I'm looking forward to training with him."
Gustave's heart did something complicated hearing his name in Verso's mouth, hearing himself called excellent. He forced his attention to his own interviewer—a woman with a microphone and a press badge that said SwimNews France.
"Gustave Augustin, congratulations on second place and qualifying for Junior Euros." She smiled professionally. "How does it feel?"
"Good. Really good." His voice came out steadier than he'd expected. "I'm honored to make the team."
"You swam a significant personal best today—1:47.51. That's nearly two full seconds faster than your seed time. What changed?"
What changed? Gustave's mind flashed to Verso in Lane 4, that constant presence pushing him harder than he'd ever pushed himself. To the locker room conversation, to that confidence that said see you in Belgrade like it was inevitable.
"I just... swam my race," he said finally. "Stayed focused. Trusted my training."
"Your competitor Verso Dessendre praised your performance just now, called you an excellent swimmer. What's it like racing against him?"
Gustave's mouth went dry. He was very aware that Verso was probably close enough to hear this, that his answer would matter beyond just this interview.
"He's... very fast," Gustave said, and immediately felt stupid. Very fast. Brilliant analysis. "I mean—he's a strong competitor. Racing against him makes me better."
The interviewer smiled. "Will you and Verso be training together before Euros?"
"I—I don't know. I assume so. National team training camp." He hadn't thought about it. Hadn't let himself think about three weeks of intensive training with Verso, of being roommates potentially, of having to see him every day.
His palms were sweating.
"How does it feel to qualify in second place?" the interviewer asked, and there it was—the question he'd been dreading.
"I made the team," Gustave said carefully. "That's what matters."
"But you must be disappointed not to win?"
He should say no. Should say that making Junior Euros was the goal and he'd achieved it. Should be gracious and professional and not let them see how much that 0.28 seconds was eating at him.
"I wanted to win," he admitted. "But Verso was faster today. That's racing."
The interviewer looked pleased, like he'd given her the quote she wanted. A few more questions—about his training, his club, his goals for Euros—and then she was thanking him and moving on to the third-place finisher.
Gustave escaped to the side, where Emma was waiting with his warmup jacket and water bottle. She handed him both without a word, just squeezed his shoulder once.
"You did great," Emma said quietly. "The interview, I mean. You didn't sound like you wanted to die, which is impressive for you."
"Thanks," he said dryly.
"Come on." She started steering him toward the exit. "Let's get you some real food before you pass out. You barely ate today."
But Gustave glanced back one more time.
Across the media area, Verso had finished his interviews now and was standing with his Racing Club coaches, listening to something one of them was saying. Still no family. No parents celebrating with him. Just the coaches, professional and distant.
Verso's posture was perfect, but there was something lonely about the picture. Something that made Gustave's chest ache in a way he didn't understand.
Then Verso looked up, caught Gustave watching. Raised an eyebrow—questioning, maybe amused. Then turned back to his coaches without acknowledgment.
Gustave's face burned. He turned away quickly, followed Emma out of the natatorium into the Paris evening, and tried very hard not to think about anything at all.
The café near the hotel was small and crowded, filled with other swimmers and their families celebrating or commiserating. Gustave sat across from Emma, picking at a croque monsieur that he wasn't hungry for. The silver medal was in his bag under the table. He kept expecting to feel proud of it.
His phone sat face-up next to his plate. Sophie had texted three times since the race.
YOU DID IT! Junior Euros!!!
I'm so proud of you ❤️❤️❤️
Call when you can, I want to hear everything!
He should call. He'd promised he would. Emma was watching him with that knowing expression that meant she was waiting for him to do something he clearly didn't want to do.
"Just call her," Emma said finally. "Get it over with."
"Get it over with?" Gustave looked up. "That's a terrible way to phrase it."
"Is it though?" Emma took a bite of her pasta. "You've been staring at your phone like it's going to bite you."
"I'm just tired."
"You're procrastinating.“
Gustave sighed defeatedly and picked up his phone, stepping outside the café into the warm Paris evening. The street was quieter here, just the distant sound of traffic and conversation from inside. He dialed Sophie's number.
She answered on the first ring. "Gus! Oh my god, I've been waiting for you to call!"
"Hey." He tried to match her energy. "Sorry, it's been crazy. Media stuff, and—"
"I saw the results! 1:47.51! That's incredible! And you made Junior Euros!" Her voice was bright with genuine excitement. "I knew you would. I told everyone at work that my boyfriend was going to do it."
"Yeah, it was... good." He leaned against the café wall, watched a couple walking past holding hands. "Really good."
"Just good? Gus, you're going to Belgrade! You're going to represent France!" She paused. "Are you okay? You sound weird."
"I'm fine. Just exhausted." Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. "It was a long day."
"Tell me about the race! Was it close? Were you nervous?"
He told her—or a version of it, anyway. The technical details, the splits, the final touch. He left out the parts that mattered: the way Verso had looked at him in the call room, the electric feeling of racing side by side, the hollow ache of second place that he couldn't shake.
Sophie listened, asked questions, said all the right supportive things. She was being perfect. She was being exactly the girlfriend he should want.
So why did talking to her feel like checking boxes on a list?
"I wish I could've been there," she said softly. "I tried so hard to get the day off—"
"It's okay. Really." He meant it. Having her there would have been... complicated. One more person to perform for, to pretend he was happier than he felt.
"When do you leave for training camp?"
„Six weeks. Three weeks at Font-Romeu, then two weeks after straight to Belgrade for the championships."
"That's so long." She sounded sad about it. "Will you be able to call?"
"Sometimes. When we have free time." He didn't mention that free time at training camp was minimal, that they'd be swimming twice a day plus dryland plus video review. "I'll try."
"Okay." A pause. "I love you, Gus. I'm really proud of you."
The words should feel warm. They just felt heavy.
"Love you too," he said automatically. The words felt wrong in his mouth, like food that had gone slightly off but not enough to spit out. He swallowed them anyway.
Sophie deserved better than autopilot I-love-yous. He'd do better. After the race, after everything settled, he'd be better at this.
"Talk soon?"
"Yeah. Soon."
He hung up, stared at his phone for a long moment. The lock screen photo of them smiled back at him—Sophie laughing, him with his arm around her, both of them happy.
They looked like a couple. They were a couple.
So why did it feel like he was lying?
He went back inside. Emma had ordered him dessert—some kind of chocolate thing that looked expensive. She pushed it across the table as he sat down.
"How'd it go?"
"Fine." He picked up the spoon, took a bite. It was good. Rich and sweet and exactly the kind of thing he should enjoy after the day he'd had.
"You're a terrible liar," Emma said.
"I'm not lying."
"Gustave." She set down her fork, looked at him directly. "You just qualified for Junior Euros. You swam a massive personal best. You made the national team. And you've looked miserable since you touched the wall."
"I got second place."
"Is that really what this is about?" Her voice was gentle but firm. "Because you've gotten second place before. You've lost races before. This feels different."
He didn't know how to answer that. Didn't know how to explain the tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with race results and everything to do with pale blue eyes and a confident smile and the feeling that something fundamental had shifted today that he couldn't name.
"I'm just tired," he said again.
Emma sighed. "Okay. But for the record, I'm not buying it." She paused. "That Verso guy. You couldn't stop looking at him today."
Gustave's heart stuttered. "I was racing him. Obviously I was looking at him."
"Not just during the race, Gus. On the podium. In the media area. Just now when you were leaving, you looked back at him like..." She trailed off, studying his face. "Never mind."
"Like what?"
"Nothing. Forget it." But her expression said it wasn't nothing. "Come on. Finish your fancy chocolate thing and let's go back to the hotel. You need actual sleep."
They walked back through Paris streets lit with evening gold, Emma chattering about the other races she'd watched today, the drama in the women's 100 fly final, the scout she'd overheard talking about Gustave's breaststroke technique. Gustave listened with half his attention, the other half replaying the day on loop.
The race. The podium. Verso's arm around his shoulders, warm and solid. We're teammates now. Better get used to it.
That raised eyebrow across the media area, questioning and dismissive.
The fact that in six weeks, they'd be at training camp together. Roommates, maybe. Training partners definitely. Three weeks of seeing Verso every day, of racing him in practice, of trying to close that 0.28-second gap.
Three weeks of trying not to think about why his heart raced every time those blue eyes met his.
Back at the hotel, Emma hugged him goodnight outside their room. "I'm proud of you," she said quietly. "Even if you're too busy spiraling to be proud of yourself."
"Thanks." He hugged her back, tight. "For being here. For everything."
"That's what sisters are for." She pulled back, studied his face. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we'll go home, you'll train, and then it's training camp. Belgrade. All of it."
"Yeah," he said. "All of it."