Synchronised Motion (BoyxBoy)

Chapter 16

As soon as I am through the doors, it feels like home. The unmistakable strong scent of chlorine, the humid air, the sound of splashing of water.

Fuck I've missed it.

I see the swimmers in the water, puffing and red-faced as their coach gives them instructions.
I'm caught off guard by the emotion I feel: relief. Relief to not be them right now.

I missed this place—a lot—but I'm starting to question if I actually missed the swimming...

Maybe I just missed doing something? Maybe I missed the location? Or worse, maybe I missed the people? —missed Andy and I shit talking early in the mornings, missed the team's debates on whether pineapple belongs on pizza or not, missed when Oliver's lip would tug every time I challenged him.

Maybe I missed when Coach would let his serious mask slip for a minute, and joke around with us. When Oliver is out of breath after a race, and his eyes flicked to me, no matter who was the more competitive competition, his eyes always found me.

My appreciation is cut short when I see Coach across the room talking to some of the freshman swimmers. I duck behind swimmers walking by, dropping my head low and angling my face away. I think I'd take my chances that Oliver would be more lenient than Coach.

Or maybe, a tiny voice in the back of my head thinks: Oliver might just be easier to persuade.

It's funny how quickly I picked up Oliver's schedule. I unconsciously learned it at the start of the year, when his presence was so insufferable to be around , that I made an effort to not be around him for too long. To not hear everyone suck up to him and fawn over him.

It feels like a lot has changed since then, and I'm not exactly sure when it started.

I go to the locker room. I pass a few people in there, weaving through the lockers to where I figure Oliver is, right at the back where all the 'A squad' lockers are.

And there he is.

He's shuffling through his bag with his head hunched over and wet hair curling at the ends. His hair is darker damp, and his shirt is sticking slightly to his damp chest. He looks frustrated.

Maybe I would have tried to decipher it more, but seeing him sparks me in a mood.

I shove him into the wall. Roughly.

Oliver stumbles back into it, caught off guard. Surprised.

Was it unnecessary? Probably. Did I get satisfaction from it? Yes. Am I proving how bipolar I am to him? Definitely.

All I know is that I want his eyes on me, his body close to me, and I have an explainable feeling towards him. I pretend it's anger.

He blinks. I push him again so he is pressed up against the wall, and he lets me.

He lets me crowd his space, he lets me fist his shirt, he lets me hold him against the wall. He lets me get in his face.

He lets me.

And I know he is letting me do this—because he's stronger than me. He's proven it time over time that he can easily overpower me at any moment. I've seen him swim. I've seen him at the gym. I'm not blind, I've seen his physique.

But he doesn't stop me.
And it confuses me and eggs me on.

His brows are furrowed. His skin smells like chlorine and he's still slightly damp from his swim session. The locker room is emptying now, the time everyone has finished up.