Work Text:
Nastya has never hated jumps until now.
She’s been on HRT for nineteen weeks (but who’s counting?), and her chest is sore. She never really realized how much breasts move, and how much you feel them. Landing even a single is jarring.
After practice one day, Mila stops her. “I have something for you.”
She fishes a small envelope from her purse and hands it to Nastya. “Open it!”
She is filled first with confusion, and then with rage. “What in the fresh hell is this?”
“This” is a giftcard for a not-insignificant amount of money to a store whose name Nastya vaguely recognizes. And if she hadn’t known the name, the picture of airbrushed-perfect breasts in a lacy black bra would have been enough to figure it out.
“We’re going bra shopping!” Mila shrieks, clapping her hands excitedly.
“Oh, hell no,” Nastya says, and tries to run.
“Oh, hell yes! I’m your big sister from another mister! You need someone to help you find the perfect fit and give opinions on what’s cute, and I’m not taking no for an answer. I’ve seen you holding your boobs when you land, you’re not subtle.”
Nastya’s cheeks burn with embarrassment at being caught. “It’s way too much money, though. I can buy my own bras.”
“Don’t worry about the amount, everyone at the rink chipped in! A good bra is more expensive than you think. Plus, you’re probably still growing, so you can buy some now, and then use it again for when you need new ones!”
And with that, Mila is dragging Nastya to the mall.
The store is overwhelming.
Nastya has a vague understanding of band and cup size, but there are contraptions here that barely resemble bras, in Nastya’s book.
All told, she’s actually pretty grateful that Mila is there, because the older girl knows exactly where they’re going.
Nastya sighs in relief as they breeze through the “sexier” displays and enter the back half of the store and things become a lot more… tame.
“First thing’s first,” Mila says. “Sports bras.”
They pick out a couple of styles that Mila thinks are the most comfortable for skating before Nastya is shoved into a changing room.
She refuses to model them for Mila, despite the latter’s insistence that that’s a perfectly normal thing for friends to do, but she does describe how she feels in them, and they make it work.
They leave the store almost an hour later with more bras than Nastya would have thought necessary for one person.
“I do laundry, you know,” she gripes.
“You’re a professional athlete, you know,” Mila quips right back. “Unless you want to stank at practice, you need at least one for every day you work out. Which is, um, every day for you. Suck it up, princess.”
At practice the next day, Nastya is still sore, but the support definitely helps: landing jumps is much more tolerable without all that jostling around.
“Oi, Baba,” Nastya calls after practice. She hooks a thumb under her bra strap. “Thanks.”