Archive of Our Own

“Get up,” a stern voice says, somewhere to Henry’s right. It’s strange, he thinks. He never heard his alarm go off, and yet—

“Fox,” the voice calls again. “If you don’t open your eyes and get out of bed, I’m going to turn the light on and you can melt under its fluorescent glow.”

Henry rubs his eyes blearily as a switch is flipped and white light fills the room. For a brief, incredibly delirious second, he wonders whether he’s dead and has ascended to heaven, before someone is clutching him on the shoulder and shaking him roughly. It’s at that point he realises that he’s still on earth, and more specifically, on an Oxford rowing camp.

Squinting into the brightness as he hauls himself upright, he registers that the voice in his room definitely belongs to the head coach – Zahra Bankston – even though it doesn’t really make sense for Zahra to be in his room. The fact that the voice is female and undeniably American excludes basically everyone else. “Coach?”

“God,” she huffs as he blinks rapidly, eyes still adjusting to the light. When she finally comes into view, he sees that she’s stepped back, leaning against the doorframe, wind jacket done up and trademark stopwatch around her neck. “You’d be fucking toast if there was a fire.”

“What is going on?” he asks, his voice rough. He notices that he’s in the bed alone – a small mercy all things considered. It had taken one whole day of training camp for Alex Claremont-Diaz – a transfer student and the second eight’s most infuriating squad member – to get so significantly on Henry’s nerves that they’d almost come to blows. The tension was only exacerbated by the fact that they’d been assigned as roommates in the only hotel room with one bed. If Henry wasn’t already convinced he’d somehow amassed some seriously bad karma, he is now.

After the very public argument at dinner, Alex had stormed off for a run and come back very late. In the heat of the moment, he’d told Henry he was planning to sleep on the couch, and he’s not currently in the bedroom, which means— 

Zahra gives Henry a disdainful look. “You got caught fighting, Fox,” she says, completely deadpan. “Which, believe me, coming from you was almost admirable.”

Henry frowns, wondering whether his brain has had the opportunity to catch up. He can’t quite parse what she’s saying. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”  

“It means that you’re too placid. I’ve been trying to kick some fire into you all pre-season,” she barks. “However, according to the stuffy old men on the committee, fisty-cuffs are not permitted on training camp.”

“Fisty cuffs?” 

“I said what I said,” she replies swiftly. “Now, get up. I’m going to shut this door and by the time I open it in—” she pauses to check her watch, “—three minutes, you need to be dressed for a water session.”

Henry nods. He knows from experience that there’s not much point doing anything else. The previous season, in a fit of immaturity, some of the boys decided to throw cutlery at the ceiling fans. Their penance was pushing a minibus around for three hours in the dead of night. Henry didn’t participate because he was too timid and had terrible aim and the next morning, he’d never been so grateful for his lack of hand-eye coordination.

He throws on an old zoot suit and rolls it down to the waist, throwing on a sleeveless shirt with ‘OXFORD’ stamped across the back in bold, white letters. At the last minute he throws a jumper on – he’s not sure what time it is or how cold it might be outside – and then shoves his feet in a pair of old Nikes, grabs his water bottle and leaves before Zahra can call time on him.

He almost runs straight into Alex who, for some inexplicable reason, has decided to stand right outside the bedroom door.

“I left my socks in there,” he mutters by way of explanation or greeting, Henry isn’t sure. In any case, he moves aside to let Alex pass.

“Frosty,” Zahra quips from the doorway, one eyebrow raised. Henry shrugs and heads to the sink to fill up his water bottle. 

The walk from the hotel to the minibus is filled with silence, punctuated only by Alex asking Zahra what time it is. 

“Two thirty-two,” Zahra replies without looking at her watch which, in Henry’s opinion, is a concerning degree of accuracy. “You’re running two minutes late, so you better start jogging before I add another one.”

“Another what?” Alex asks, starting a slow jog towards the only minibus with its lights on. Zahra doesn’t reply.

Henry feels a bit sick thinking about the fact that they have to be up for another water session at six, and wonders what on earth they’re going to be subjected to. He has absolutely no tolerance for Alex elbowing him in the bicep and saying, “Well, at least your white-ass skin won’t need sunscreen at this hour.”

Shaan is sitting in the driver’s seat of the minibus, drinking a black coffee and scrolling on his phone. He doesn’t even look up, just ushers them inside in a very steady tone that Henry is used to. Then, he switches the bus from neutral into drive with a shudder, swings around to pick up Zahra who has been walking toward it at a very leisurely pace, and heads towards the regatta centre.  

No one speaks during the short drive, the sickening feeling in Henry’s stomach growing stronger. There’s almost no wind out on the course, the trees in the loading bay standing still as the water laps gently at the pontoon. The long shadows cast by the boats on the racks loom ominously in front of them. 

“Oars,” Zahra instructs, pointing them down towards the Oxford area.

“There’s only two of us,” Alex points out, as if Zahra isn’t aware that they are missing six other rowers and a coxswain.

“Sculling oars,” she clarifies with a grimace, before heading towards the speed boats, “and don’t forget your lights!”

“She can’t be serious,” Alex hisses at Henry after Zahra is out of earshot. “We don’t even row quads or doubles. Why would we be training in singles?”

“What’s the matter?” Henry snaps, already fed up from the ten minutes he’s been forced to endure with Alex. “Is sculling too much coordination for you?”

“Fuck off,” Alex retorts, his face adopting a stormy expression. “Of course I know how to row a single. You think that because you’re from a rich fucking school and I’m from–”

“Frankly, I don’t care where you’re from,” Henry interrupts, wrenching two of the small sculling oars from below the boats. “The entire reason we’re here is because you picked a fight with me last night, and I’m not fighting with you again. I want to get this over and done with.”

Alex mutters some profanities under his breath, but Henry is so exhausted that he doesn’t care to listen. Instead, he deposits the oars noisily on the pontoon, grabs a bow and stern light from the toolbox and goes to pick a single from the racks. He’s ahead of Alex, so he gets first choice, although he half expects Alex to try and fight him for the exact same one on principle.

He doesn’t, which is a blessing, but by the time Henry rolls the Courage & Faith over his shoulder and walks it down to the pontoon – kicking off his shoes as he goes – he’s already feeling exhausted. He can barely see Shaan and Zahra in their separate speed boats, puttering though the inky water in the middle of the loading bay, before they turn on two massive torches which flood the surrounding area with light. 

“Today would be nice!” Zahra yells over at them, or rather at Alex, who is only just stalking over to the water with the Endurance in his arms. 

Henry, who already has his oars in, pushes off from the pontoon and drifts into the loading area, shoving his socks on before slipping into the shoes of the boat. The hull rocks gently underneath him, pliant and responsive. 

He’s never particularly taken to sculling, predominantly because he hates the way that his hands get all cut up from rubbing over each other at the release, but he’s never been afraid of it in the way that many people are, either. He likes that the boat feels light underneath him, as if he could be whispering along the water like the wind. It’s exhilarating and freeing and perfectly intoxicating – if only he wasn’t out here as a punishment and, more specifically, with  Alex Claremont-Diaz.

He starts the usual warm up: quarter stroke, half stroke, three quarter stroke, full, and when he finishes the basic elements, Zahra sidles up next to him in the speed boat. 

“Here,” she says, spinning the steering wheel of the boat to idle against Henry’s hull. She thrusts a stroke clock into his hands. “Shaan is floating along with Mr. Half Asleep over there. Let’s just head out.”

Henry secures the stroke clock near his feet before he continues, feeling the glide of the boat across the flat expanse of the transit lane. The one advantage of an obscenely early morning session is the distinct lack of wind, the boat gliding like a sharp knife through butter, cleaving the water with every stroke. 

Zahra doesn’t tell him to stop, so Henry paddles the entire length of the transit lane, then sits still and watches as Alex’s boat looms into view. With the light emanating from Zahra and Shaan’s boats, it isn’t difficult to catch Alex’s form around the back of the stroke, and Henry allows himself to sit and watch as the boat approaches, sliding closer with every push of Alex’s legs. There’s something about the way Alex sits up, the muscles of his traps and lats flexing intimidatingly around his zoot suit. The skin tightens and relaxes with every movement of his body, rippling like the water that flows underneath him. Henry is transfixed by it, watching the curve of his shoulders as they roll back, then forward as he moves through the recovery. 

Rowing with Alex has been incredibly difficult, but it’s impossible not to wonder just how good he could be. If he corrected his form at the catch; prevented his oars from dipping far too deep into the water. If only he wasn’t so bloody stubborn.  

“Right,” Zahra calls out, manoeuvring her speedboat so that she flanks them on the opposite side to Shaan. They’re sitting right at the starters blocks which is ominous. “You can get out of these boats after you do some five hundred metre sprints for us.”

Alex groans. Henry silently begs him to shut up.

“Yes, Alex,” Zahra replies emphatically. “You’re doing six of them. Maximum split will be one fifty-eight. If you don’t improve each one by at least two seconds, then you have to do another set for every one that you fail. Got it?”

“Yes, Coach,” Alex replies forcefully, gently slapping his oars against the water.

“Do we row the distance in between the markers?” Henry asks, hoping that they can spin and do each one back to back instead to save time and energy.

“Yes,” Zahra says. “I’m not having you spin or back up in sculls. One of you turkeys will definitely fall in.” 

“Noted,” Henry mutters, trying to mask his disappointment.

Shaan makes them tap slightly into position while Zahra sets herself up with her stopwatch. Alex slides his seat forward into a three quarter catch and Henry follows suit next to him, clearing the stroke clock as he does. He can already feel the competitiveness rolling off Alex in waves and Henry tries to silently plead with him to keep it steady. If either of them go too fast too early, they’re going to end up being forced to try and break an Olympic record. 

“On my call, start and finish,” Zahra barks. “Attention. Row.”

Almost by instinct, Henry squeezes his legs downwards, his quadriceps bulging as his breath catches in his throat. It feels the same as it does during a race – pure adrenaline, the sound of blood rushing in his head and the tight, responsive twitch of his muscles – as Henry tries to find momentum, working through the start and into full strokes. At first, he allows himself just to feel the movement – the pressure of the oar at the release, the lock of his hands at the catch, the way his wrist flicks to feather the oars. Then, after ten or so strokes, he allows himself to look at the stroke clock. It’s a one fifty-five pace with Alex pushing ahead in Henry’s peripherals and Henry has half a mind to try and yell at him to slow down, when he realises something. 

Alex doesn’t have a stroke clock. He has no idea how fast they’re going. 

Shaan and Zahra are following them, beams of light just far enough away so that Alex and Henry can see their surroundings, but not close enough to blind them. Henry thinks about yelling out again, but there’s no oxygen to spare as he presses firmly against the footplate, allowing the power of his legs to propel the boat further down the course.

The first five hundred is exhausting and when it’s over, Henry is almost glad that they don’t have the option of re-setting. He collapses, dropping his oars and breathing into his legs when Zahra calls through the megaphone, and it takes a fair bit of energy to twist around towards Alex, who had finished almost a full boat-length in front of him.

“You need to slow down,” he pants.  

Alex narrows his eyes and wipes some spray from his leg. “Why?” he retorts, also gasping for breath. “You don’t like losing?”

“Christ, you’re impossible,” Henry replies, pointing down at his feet. “I’ve got a stroke clock. Do you want to murder us in the first few? We have to finish six of these.” 

Alex lets out a strangled cry. Henry is shocked to discover that he finds it extremely endearing. “Why didn’t they give me a stroke clock?”

Henry shrugs. “Probably because you have no sense of rhythm,” he replies, just before Zahra yells at them to paddle up to the next five hundred metre mark.  

The next five hundred is just as torturous. Henry doesn’t mind the exertion so much as he does the cut of his fingernails over the knuckles, the skin soft because he isn’t used to this particular type of rowing. The water has a nasty habit of flicking up at the release, spraying the cuts and making them sting. On the upside, Alex is matching his pace now, eyes flickering towards Henry’s stern as they drive down the course, oars clicking in the gates.

They shave time off every set, getting faster and faster and simultaneously more fatigued. With exactly two seconds separating sets two, three and four, even Henry has to admit, he’s pleasantly surprised by his accuracy. His body isn’t quite as pleased, however. His legs hurt and his back aches by the time they turn around at the two kilometre marker. 

“Two to go,” Alex mutters, evidently trying to sound encouraging. “Then we can get the fuck out of here.”

Henry clears the stroke clock again. “We’re going to have to push it for these last two,” he replies softly. “Do you think we can go quicker?”

“Piece of cake, baby,” Alex says, throwing Henry a mischievous smile through the darkness. Henry supposes that it’s meant to be uplifting, but the unexpected pet name hits somewhere it shouldn’t, leaving him breathless in a way which has nothing to do with the four sprints they’ve just done. 

He shakes his head as Zahra idles alongside them again. “For two idiots, you’re doing pretty well. Keep this up and we can all go to bed.”

They roll forward again before Zahra sends them off with a beep of the megaphone. Henry is so tired and sleep deprived that he allows his body to go on autopilot, his soupy brain flickering between familiar mantras of catch, drive, release, recover. He grits his teeth and pushes through another layer of pain, his throat feeling raw from sucking in air. In the end, they just make it. Two seconds separating the fourth and fifth set.

“Fuck,” Alex moans, dipping his forehead down so it rests against the handles of his oars. “I don’t know if I can go faster.”

Henry tries to laugh through his heavy breathing, but he’s got nothing left to exhale. “So positive before,” he manages to choke out, leaning back into the bow and sliding his seat forward.

Alex mirrors his position and they effectively lie on their backs, resting their spines on the hard carbon, staring up at the stars as they try to catch their breath. The stillness around them soothes Henry and he closes his eyes, taking in the sound of the water lapping at the bow of the boat softly, Alex’s breathing intertwined with his own. 

“One more,” Shaan says when he pulls up. Henry is convinced that he sounds quite relieved. “You can get this done.”

Henry nods before motioning to Alex. Together, they paddle close to the five hundred metre mark and line up alongside each other. “On your lead, sweetheart,” Alex calls, and Henry wishes he would stop using nicknames because, bloody hell, he kind of likes it.

“Are you two ready to go?” Zahra asks as Henry clears the stroke clock again. Alex gives a grunt of approval next to him.

As she sends them off for the last time, Henry swears his lungs are going to give way. Everything burns: his legs, his arms, his back, his neck, his chest as he struggles to inhale enough oxygen. He swears he’s never done a sport this physically taxing, his hands grating together painfully, left scratching the right over and over as the handles cross. 

Catch, drive, release, recover, catch, drive, release, recover spins over and over in his head as he tries to remember to keep his hands moving faster, but he’s so tired he can barely see straight. When he looks down at the stroke clock and notices that they’re going too slowly, he wants to give up.

Then, he thinks about Alex. Alex, the irritating, beautiful, talented teammate in the boat next to him. Alex, who will be forced into another sprint if Henry can’t keep up. Whether on instinct or by a sudden surge of motivation, Henry pushes harder, finding a well of strength he didn’t know he had. There’s a reason that rowing is the ultimate team sport, Henry thinks, and a lot of it has to do with being unable to let his teammates down. The teammates who train just as hard as he does, all with a common goal. 

On a more personal level, Henry doesn’t want to fight with Alex anymore. It’s this water session, this borderline inhumane form of punishment, that has pushed them into the liminal space between enemies and something else. Henry wants to call it friendship, but he’s not entirely sure.

He tries to focus on driving as hard as he can through the water, carving it with his oars as the stroke clock flickers between one forty-seven and one forty-six, reducing with every metre they move. He feels the exhilaration of winning, pushing himself towards an imaginary finish line alongside someone who has stopped feeling like a competitor.

The stroke clock blinks back at him when Zahra tells them to stop, the bright red numbers catching Henry’s eye as he collapses forward again. He barely remembers to keep one hand on the oars – an absolute necessity in a boat that a strong wind could tip over – as a delirious laugh bubbles out of him, huffed out between laboured breaths as he looks at his knees.

When he turns, Alex has practically collapsed backwards onto the bow, lying flat on the carbon, his chest rising and falling quickly. His right hand is loosely wrapped around both handles, his left in his hair, and Henry notices that there’s quite a bit of water splashed over his legs, making the skin look iridescent.

The conditions remain flat and relatively still, and Henry has to bite back a smile. Excessive water in the boat is an indication that Alex isn’t quite as good at rowing in a single as he proclaims to be. 

He pushes himself up after a minute, catching Henry’s gaze. “Did we make it?” he asks, eyes wide.

“One forty-six,” Henry confirms as Alex groans and runs his hand through his hair again.

“Too quick, Henry,” he protests and then immediately laughs into the air above him at the innuendo. 

“Very mature,” Henry murmurs, shaking his head. Alex takes one look at him and grins.

They paddle back to the loading bay extremely slowly, Henry worrying about how his legs will hold up the entire way. They do better than expected, barely shaking as he crawls onto the pontoon, reaching to hold onto one of the riggers as he watches Alex pull up. 

As it turns out, Alex is also evidently worrying about his legs, getting out very carefully as he shoots a wry smile in Henry’s direction. Once he’s clear of the boat, he flops down onto the concrete.

“Zahra,” Henry calls, massaging one of his quads as she walks over to him, playing with her stopwatch. “Would you mind holding my boat for me?” 

“Sure,” she says, giving him a shrewd look as she sticks one of her legs through the riggers to stop it drifting.

Alex silently removes his oars, and when he turns around, he doesn’t question why Henry is standing in front of him. Instead, without saying a word, they each take an end of the Endurance, toss the boat onto their shoulders and limp back to the racks, securing it before they return to the pontoon to collect the Courage & Faith.

Looking at Alex feels fundamentally different now, like something very significant has shifted in the past hour. Between the private smiles and the encouraging words and the sweetheart, Henry feels as if a whole different person is standing in front of him. A whole different person who is shiny from water and sweat, who’s zoot suit is rolled down to his waist and who has incredibly well defined abs and shoulders.

Henry has to look away before he thinks something incredibly inappropriate.

“What great teamwork,” Zahra remarks, her tone condescending as they dump their oars and lights back into their respective areas. “It’s almost as if you learned.”

Henry ignores her, but when he looks over at Alex, his teammate is sporting a deep frown. “Why didn’t I get a stroke clock?” he asks, petulantly.

Zahra smirks, before shepherding them toward the minibus. “That would have defeated the whole point of the exercise.”

Henry turns back to her, pausing as he reaches the steps to the bus. “I thought this was a punishment for fighting.”

“It was,” Shaan replies from the front seat, turning the key as the vehicle roars to life. “But it was also designed to test Alex’s capabilities. As it turns out, he’s capable of following a rhythm.” 

Alex scowls in Shaan’s direction. “I’ve always been able to follow pacing.”

“Not Henry’s,” Zahra points out, settling into a spare seat. “Which doesn’t seem to be a problem for anyone else. Hopefully, it will no longer be a problem for you.”

Alex picks at a loose thread on one of the bus seats. “So, what? This was some kind of torture exercise to force me into submission? What about Henry?”

“Henry got punished too,” Zahra points out, impatiently. “He did the same exercises you did. Only, I don’t hear Henry complaining.”

Alex scoffs but doesn’t say anything for the remainder of the drive. By the time they re-enter the hotel room, take turns showering and change into clean tracksuits, Henry can feel the difference in attitude. There’s a softening; a detente, something he can basically taste in the air around them, and he’s unsurprised when Alex picks up his pillow from the couch and stalks into the bedroom after Henry. 

“Can I sleep here tonight?” he asks, almost shyly as Henry turns on one of the lamps. “The couch is— It’s not great for my back.”

Henry sits down on the side of the mattress. “Of course, Alex. This is your bed, too. It’s not your fault we got allocated the only room with only one bed.”

“It is my luck though,” Alex mutters, throwing his pillow down. “Maybe I deserved it.”

Henry hums, not wanting to make any assessment on Alex’s luck or his deservingness of unfortunate room assignments. “If it makes you feel better,” he says softly. “I have terrible luck, so it could have been me.”

“Why?” Alex asks, rolling onto the bed and sandwiching himself between the sheets. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who attracts bad karma.”

“Really?” Henry counters, sliding under the covers and shuffling over to face Alex across the expanse of cotton. “What is it you called me last night? A pretentious—”

“Yeah, well,” Alex interjects. “Maybe I was wrong. Sorry for being…you know. Kind of a dick. If it makes you feel better, I’m usually right.”

“Surprisingly, it does not.”

Alex snorts. “I’m not very good at admitting when I’m wrong.”

“Truly shocking,” Henry deadpans.

“Shut up, Fox,” Alex grins, before shoving Henry lightly in the shoulder. There’s a beat of silence as they shuffle around in the sheets, rolling over to face opposite walls. “Zahra and Shaan,” Alex adds through a noisy yawn. “They’re fucking psychopaths, right?” 

“Oh, definitely,” Henry agrees, closing his eyes.

Two hours later, just before Henry’s alarm goes off for the morning session, Henry wakes to find Alex curled around his body, one arm draped over Henry’s hip. For a moment, he lets himself bask in the wonderful feeling of Alex’s lips brushing against the back of his neck, the slight touch of his fingertips on Henry’s stomach, before shuffling out of Alex’s grip and pretending to have slept right on the edge of the bed.

It’s funny, though. When Alex blinks at Henry through the morning light, Henry desperately wants to reach for him. A lot has happened since the argument at dinner, but one thing is for certain: Henry has given up trying to hate Alex Claremont-Diaz, and that’s just for starters.

NOTES