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He crossed the finish line, tunnel visioned. All he had seen was the end. All he had heard was his breath, and the rumble of his dragon, her wings beating, all he had felt was his body, a collection of organs, muscles, tendons, and ligaments working together with his dragon, his weight against the saddle. His mouth had tasted like pennies but he swallowed it down, keeping his legs in the proper position, keeping his weight forward for the final run. He had smelled leather, sweat, and a little blood from somewhere.
And now he was done. The first one done.
And the roar of the crowd swallowed him up.
Somewhere between being cheered so loudly that he could barely concentrate, being given an energy drink and gel to swallow as fast as possible, brief treatment for the cut on his face he’d acquired at some point and the headache that had come with it - he hadn’t even noticed at the time, the adrenaline must have carried it through - and being laden with friendly punches and a medal, he had gotten everything he had dreamed of since he had first climbed onto a dragon’s back and someone had noticed that this was what he had been made for.
Nan was beside him, holding his shoulders proudly, as they listened to the speeches and the runback of the commentaries. “Youngest champion ever,” she said, for about the twentieth time in the last five minutes.
“Don’t get soft on me, Nan,” he was smiling though, so hard that it hurt.
“You’ve had a long road here, and it’s paid off.”
“Big time,” he laughed. “What now?”
“Party,” she said. “There’s the official one, of course, and you’ll have to make an appearance, talk to a few of the benefactors and so on, it’s boring as fuck but it makes them happy and them being happy-”
“Makes our lives easier, yeah.”
“And then, I expect there will be a real party for you. Which I will not be present at,” she was giving him a significant look.
“Understood, Nan.”
“Do not end up on the front of a tabloid, please.”
“What about page three?”
She jokingly boxed his ears, “Behave. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do in public.”
“Interesting caveat but okay.”
“Necessary caveat, actually,” she grinned at him, and ruffled his hair - thankfully recently washed, although still damp since the hairdryers had been cursed by some witch whose brother had come second sixteen years ago and they hadn’t quite fixed them yet. “I think your unit is looking for you now,” she pushed him gently away and towards where Morrigan, Lam, Arch and all the others were waving at him, their faces painted in the same colours as his riding skills.
Anah made him show her the cut on his head, and only tut-tutted a little at the stitches done on it, “Let me see your eyes,” she said, holding up a small handheld torch, and peering in before declaring that his pupils looked normal, and promptly congratulated him on his victory, and managing to cut out the second place winner at that last corner.
They dragged him away towards the bar, laughing the whole time as Francis passed out the treats he had made earlier in the shape of his dragon.
“Do you think I could save one to give to her later?” Hawthorne mused, studying it as Morrigan demolished her third one.
“Actually, I was going to ask you about her diet so I could make one just for her.”
“Francis!” he grinned, elated on victory and rounds of beer that his unit mates had bought for him. “Yes! Please!”
Morrigan created the race again out of smoke, so they could all watch it in miniature. One of them had thankfully organised for the bar to be empty except for them so they didn’t have to explain all of that, or get kicked out for causing trouble.
“Did I really do that?” he muttered to Morrigan, looking at one of the flips he’d done to dodge a blow from one of the opponent’s tails.
“I was so scared watching that,” she said.
“I had no idea, it was just… instinct. I guess I knew when to move and how but… I wasn’t really thinking about it,” he mused. “It was more like my body was making decisions before my brain even caught up with it.”
She suddenly eyed the pint glass in front of him, “Won’t that mess with your medication?”
“Ah, no. I checked, don’t worry.” He had, extensively. Not because it was an absolute turn away from his meds, but just to be safe. And then he’d had Homer check for him in case he’d managed to miss the line of DO NOT FUCKING MIX WITH ALCOHOL in the admittedly tiny instructions.
They were new, but making his life so much easier. To the point he hadn’t even understood how difficult things had been without them.
Like things stopped melting into the background, and he was able to focus more, but also he just… well it was all of it. Almost everything in his life was so much easier now since he’d been diagnosed and medicated. And found meds that worked for him after the fifth time trying.
“I mean,” he took a sip of his beer. “It’s not exactly as dangerous as the stuff you get up to, is it?” He started counting off every shenanigan Morrigan had committed or gotten involved in since he had known her - conveniently ignoring the ones she had done with him - until she shoved him and he spilled his drink down his front.
“Hey!”
“Oh my- sorry, Hawthorne,” she said.
He responded by dropping her drink onto her.
“Hey! I just washed my hair, come on,” she spluttered.
“Alcohol shampoo is all the rage. It’s the hops and the fermentation. Makes it, uh, shiny,” he said.
“It absolutely is not and does not,” she said. “You should hear Jupiter and Dame Chanda’s lectures on proper hair care.”
“I’ve heard Jack’s,” he said.
“Where do you think he gets it from?”
Hawthorne shuddered as Thaddea joined them at the bar. “What are youse blethering about?”
“Hair washing techniques,” Morrigan said.
“Is that how you both ended up covered in drinks?” She raised an eyebrow and ordered them both some orange fizzy drink from the highlands that tasted like if rust concentrate was diluted and carbonated. “Here’s some ginger. Good showing, Swift.” She punched him in the arm.
“Thanks, Thaddea,” he winced. She had never quite gotten a handle on her strength, but he was glad she had held back. Otherwise he would be appearing at tomorrow’s interviews with a sling.
“Come on,” she jerked her head towards the dance floor where Mahir and Arch seemed to be trying to embarrass each other by moving so awkwardly that it was almost painful to watch. “Stop being so boring in your corner. It’s a party.”
“So?”
She rolled her eyes, “So go, party. In the sense of the verb. I’ll put on a better song if they let me near the jukebox.”
“Fine, fine.” Morrigan finished her drink. “We’re coming.”
“Grand.”