Going for the Gold

“Oh God, this room is the size of my closet. Walls closing in. Can’t. Breath,” Harry’s roommate, and diving partner, Niall complained, throwing himself on one of the beds and gasping for air dramatically.

Harry set his bags on the other bed and looked around the plainly decorated room, it was similar to the one he’d stayed in, while competing in Beijing. This one was different though, slightly more familiar, slightly more homey.

He supposed that was another one of those ‘home field’ advantages. 

With a tired sigh he reached down into his bag and pulled out a giant, homemade card from his sister.

‘Don’t fuck up’ It read, and Harry smiled fondly at it as he tacked it up next to his bed.

He couldn’t fuck this up.

He was older than he had been when he was that tiny little 14 year old, making his debut at Beijing.

There were expectations now. Covers of magazine, throwing him forward as the face of the London 2012 Olympics.

‘A Nation’s Hope’ headlines read.

And so he couldn’t fuck this up. But then he met a swimmer.

OoOoO

“I don’t know how I feel about this outfit. Do you think it makes me look pale?” Niall asked, tugging at his jumpsuit jacket and Harry rolled his eyes, zipping his own jacket up as he sat amongst other UK Olympians, in the Gymnastics center, waiting for their turn to be presented at the opening ceremony.

“Niall why would you ask me that?”

“You’re gay. You’re supposed to know these things!” Niall exclaimed in frustration and Harry rolled his eyes.

“If you weren’t my diving partner, I’d hate you. You know that, right?”

“But I am.”

“So I love you instead. Yeah, I know,” Harry, groaned. He flopped down on his back and shut his eyes, trying to push down the growing headache.

“You’re really sleeping through this excitement?” A voice Harry didn’t recognize asked, and Harry opened open his eyes, blinking away the bright industrial lights, as his eyes focused on a goofy smile above him.

A boy with a bright white grin and tussled hair looked down at him, and Harry sat up slightly, staring up at the boy he vaguely recognized from a magazine article, about the UK’s swim team.

“The tension is giving me a headache. I’m tried of trying to be friend to countries I’m trying to beat,” Harry snapped back and the boy pulled a face, rolling his eyes.

“Oh-ho-ho, Mister big shot over here,” He muttered sarcastically, shaking his head, “Don’t you know the point of these Olympics are to unite the world.”

“A bunch of people playing sports isn’t going to solve the shit state our world is in.”

“You’re not very pleasant.”

“I don’t feel very good.”

“You want a Tylenol.”

“I’ve had six.”

“Bad back?”

“Pulled my shoulder in training last week.”

“I broke my toe once.”

“Don’t you swim? Isn’t that shit for your performance?”

“Well I was six, so I think I’ve recovered.”