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“Wilhelm! So, first race back and it was a long, grueling race to the end. We saw some emotion there at the finish line. What can you tell us about what this race meant to you? How are you feeling?”

Wille, his face still flushed underneath his swim cap, the imprint from his goggles having left slight indentations around his eyes, gave a small, hesitant smile, letting out a breathy laugh. “I feel like I just swam four hundred meters.” At the interviewer’s polite ribbing about how even now he was still avoiding their questions, he shrugged, “No, but in all seriousness, it was good to be back in the water again.”

_____

It’s just water.

He’d repeated it to himself so many times he knew he should have believed it by now, but as his fingers drifted aimlessly, sending ripples across the surface of the pool, Wille struggled to breathe. It’s just water. Just stupid water. He’d practically lived in it, fallen in love in it… but then he’d almost died in it, and now, staring at the navy tile of the lane line, he couldn’t bring himself to lower his body into the pool. 

He’d been sitting on the ledge for over an hour at this point, just staring down at the white concrete and clear water lapping against the drains. His coach had given up after the first week and had told him to call when he was ready, explaining that she didn’t see the need to waste her time and his money. She probably would have suggested ways to help, but when he’d seen the pity in her gaze, a swirl of bitterness had choked him, reaching its inky hands around his throat, and he’d shut her out until she’d given up. He’d swallowed down the part of himself that knew that this wasn’t going to work and had let her leave, giving her a faint nod, feeling utterly pathetic but unable to do anything else. 

The few months he’d been forced to take off after the Olympics had felt like torture, his whole body itching with anticipation to feel the water rush over his body again. But then, he’d finally been cleared, and everything had fallen apart. That first day, he’d shown up and had felt excitement simmering beneath his skin, desperate to reclaim the routine he’d always known and fall back into the familiar patterns of morning workouts and evening practices with some of the other swimmers at his pool. Except, when he’d lined up on the blocks, ready for his coach to call the start, his whole body had shaken, trembling on the small platform, until he’d been forced to climb down, black spots swimming before his eyes, breath coming out in sharp, painful pants, knuckles white, fingers digging into his knees that had been brought up against his chest like a shield. 

He hadn’t even made it that far since. Instead, he’d sat, arms wrapped around his legs, toes against the edge of the pool ledge, and he’d stared, heart pounding in his throat, body shaking in fear, down at the water that had once been his home. Every morning he forced himself to sit there for the two and a half hours he’d once spent cutting through the water, swallowing down the bile that rose up just from hearing the rhythm of the pool. The waves, once a steady metronome he’d listened to, hearing them lap against the walls, rush over the drains, splash under his hands; the time clock, each second a click, red lights bright in the early morning sun; it had once been comforting. Now though, alone except for the lifeguard who had given up on making conversation around the same time his coach had given up on getting him in the water, his body was tight, tense, plagued with the memory of how it had felt to drown. 

His toes hadn’t even dipped into the water. Just the lazy movement of his fingers sent waves of panic rushing over him. Still, he breathed against it, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, letting the terrified tears run down his cheeks but refusing to fail so miserably that even the feeling of water would win. It already was if he was honest. Simon hadn’t said anything but he didn’t doubt that his husband had noticed that Wille would only shower with him in the room or beside him. Even that amount of water running over his face sent him into a spiral unless Simon was right there. 

He felt broken. 

The clock ticked towards nine and he scooted back from the edge, his shoulders dropping in defeat. Slowly, he stood up, walking straight to his locker and yanking it open, frustration hissing out of him like a popped balloon and banging his head against the metal, his fist hitting one of the doors with a choked sob. He’d wanted so badly to force himself into the pool that day, to force himself to get over it, to shove his face into the water and make himself swim even if just for a second. But he couldn’t and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to ever again. 

His face was flushed, angry tears collecting under his lash line, and he grabbed his things as quickly as he could, shoving his headphones over his ears and beginning to walk home, flexing his sore hand. Sure, it might have been faster to take the bus or to call a car, but he needed the time to think, to breathe, to let the frustration seep out of him before he reached his destination. He needed to find the will to force a smile back onto his face before Simon could see through the mask of lies he’d been telling. 

For the past month, he’d gotten home each day, hair only wet from the sweat of his walk, and he’d met Simon’s enthusiasm with a smile, kissing him while they stood together in the kitchen, listening to his husband talk about his day and his morning practice, holding back the reality that he hadn’t even been able to get in the water, simply saying practice had been fine, that his times were fine, that he was recovering… fine. 

Simon was so excited about the upcoming Worlds, planning all the things they could do in Beijing, talking about how well his own practices had been going, how he had shaved off more time from his 1,500, how excited he was for them to be able to go to a meet without having to hide anything. And each day, it had been all Wille could manage not to fall apart and admit to everything right there. 

It wasn’t even that he didn’t want to talk to Simon about the confusing swirl of panic and anxiety that was preventing him from getting in the water. It wasn’t as though he didn’t want to be able to turn to him when he woke up from the nightmares of water in his lungs. It wasn’t like he wanted to lie to him and tell him that everything was okay and that he was slowly getting back into routine. He just… couldn’t. He was paralyzed by an overwhelming feeling that he had failed. That he had been rescued from something and had let it drown him anyway. Because it was. It was drowning him, and he was failing to resurface and kick his way back towards air. Still, he couldn’t find the words to ask for help. 

The music coming through his headphones had mellowed out some of his emotions by the time he’d reached their front door. They’d bought a small house right before Paris, but it was only during his mandated resting period that he’d managed to get everything settled. Walking in and seeing a home that actually looked like what he’d always envisioned… he could appreciate at least that part of his necessitated recovery. 

“I’m in here!” came the shout from the kitchen, and he sighed, absentmindedly rubbing his hand from his heart to his shoulder while toeing off his shoes and walking towards the back of the bottom floor. Simon’s eyes instantly found his hand, a crease forming between his eyebrows, but he didn’t say anything, just tugged Wille towards him, a hand holding his waist, and he hummed into a kiss, a soft, “Hello,” forming in the space between their lips. 

“Hi,” he was breathless from the kiss, skin buzzing with happiness at finally being back home. “What are you making?” he looked at the stove briefly. 

Simon lifted one of the lids and gestured towards a pan of pancakes, covered to keep them warm, squatting down to peer into the oven, “I made a frittata too,” he explained, “I wanted to have some stuff on hand so we don’t have to cook every day this week.”

Wille nodded, his hand passing over Simon’s back, freezing when he finally noticed that Simon’s hair was wet. “You already showered?” his voice and hands trembled and he forced them behind his back, feeling the familiar surge of panic rising, his breaths getting more shallow. 

His husband stood up, slowly turning to face him, seeing through his attempt at calm, noting his distress and instantly growing concerned. His hands came up to hold Wille’s face, “Hey, hey, Wille,” his thumbs soothed over his cheeks, “Breathe, baby. You can do it, just breathe.”

Wille dropped down into a crouch, putting his head down, his hands resting on the tile of the kitchen floors. Kneeling beside him, Simon placed his hands on his shoulders and slid down to the floor, pulling him down to sit in his lap, wrapping his arms around him, and placing his hands over Wille’s chest. “Just focus on breathing, okay?” he pressed a kiss lightly to the back of his neck, his nose brushing over the skin. “I just need you to breathe for me.”

Wille gave a hiccuping sob, but nodded, leaning back onto him and anchoring himself to the rise and fall of Simon’s lungs he could feel against his back. “I can’t do it,” he cried, tears spilling down his face, turning to bury his head in Simon’s chest. “I- I can’t,” he repeated over and over, stumbling through his ramblings. 

“You’re doing so well, Wille,” Simon murmured, mistaking the source of his feelings of failure, “Just breathe, baby, you’re doing perfectly.” He pressed a kiss to Wille’s shoulder, burying his nose into his collarbone, his hands still resting on Wille’s stomach. 

Wille’s tears had stopped choking him but trickled down his face in a steady stream, and he couldn’t stop giving up with each word he said. “I can’t do it,” he cried, head hanging in shame. “I can’t,” it fell from his lips with each tear that passed from his eyes. 

“What can’t you do?” Simon whispered the words into his neck, his finger dragging down from his ear to his clavicle, tracing the vein that Wille knew drew a faint blue line down his skin. Wille felt Simon’s hands tighten around him, his lips continuing to ghost over him in spite of the sweat he knew must still be lingering. He opened his mouth to try and say something - anything, but nothing came out, and he shook his head silently, unable to admit his fear. 

He felt Simon exhale, the air released in a puff of breath before Simon dropped his head against Wille’s back. Wille could feel the moment Simon realized that there was no lingering scent of chlorine on his skin or in his hair, could feel the moment Simon thought back and realized that he actually hadn’t smelled the chemical on Wille’s skin in a while, and he heard the pained inhale and the small, “Oh,” that punched its way out of his husband’s throat when Simon connected its absence to what had led to Wille’s panic. 

“Oh, Wille,” Simon whispered, turning him in his lap and holding his face between his now trembling hands, “It’ll be okay, love.” He wiped the tears from Wille’s lash line and tugged him against his chest, both of them tied up like a knot on the kitchen floor, their interlocked limbs the only things keeping them from falling apart into ribbons of bleeding skin onto the tile. “I didn’t even think,” Simon looked pained, his lip caught between his teeth, and Wille just shook his head and burrowed deeper into him, not wanting to hear an apology when there had been no way for him to know. 

Neither of them tried to move until a timer went off, Simon’s phone belling on the counter to signal that he should pull the frittata out of the oven. Wille felt Simon slide back, pushing himself onto his feet, but he stayed on the floor. His eyes were squeezed shut, but he could hear his husband moving around the kitchen, the clinking of dishware, the rush of water from the sink, cabinets opening and closing, all telling him where Simon was without him having to open his eyes. 

Eventually, Simon pulled him up, resting a hand on his back and guiding him down into a chair before setting the food down in front of him and dropping down into the seat across the table. He rested his head on his hands, “Is it… is it all water?” Seeing Wille nod his head reluctantly, he sighed, slicing into the pancake and bringing a bite up to his lips. He chewed silently, brows slightly furrowed, and Wille felt one of his feet press against his leg, reminding him to start eating too. “Why didn’t your coach do something?” 

Frustration leaked through his words and Wille flinched, stabbing holes into his food without even attempting to consume any of it. “What would she have even done?” he glared at his hands bitterly, turning the fork over and over in his fingers. “It’s not like she’s allowed to just push me into the pool.”

Simon’s shoulders dropped and he stood up, coming to stand behind Wille’s chair. He looped his arms around Wille’s neck, his chin resting on Wille’s head, and in a soft voice said, “She could have gotten you a therapist.”

Wille stiffened, his body going rigid in Simon’s hold, and he muttered, “I don’t want a therapist,” finally shoving a bite of pancakes into his mouth. Simon’s thumbs massaged his upper arms, pushing the tension out of his body until he relaxed again, and he sighed, “I… I would just rather try something else first.”

He heard Simon hum, obviously unconvinced, but he didn’t move away, stealing from Wille’s plate so he could avoid having to go back to his own. When Wille’s was empty, the teasing, “Please,” by his ear was enough for him to roll his eyes and drag Simon’s unfinished food over too, letting his husband continue to lean against him while he ate. 

They didn’t talk much for the rest of the meal, and even once they moved to clean up and pack away the rest of the food into the fridge, it was silent, the room heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts. It wasn’t until Simon turned off the water, the dishes now stacked to dry on the counter, that he asked, “Do you trust me?”

Wille looked at him in confusion, seeing only a steely determination in his eyes, and swallowed his uncertainty. “Always,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “I’ll always trust you.”

He watched Simon blow out a breath and walk over to the front door, grabbing both of their swim bags from where they were piled next to the bench they had in their hallway. “Then come on,” he held out Wille’s bag toward him, “We’re going to go swimming.”

Eyes wide, Wille’s mouth dropped open, and he was about to protest, to find some excuse of schedules or not being ready, or anything he could have thought of that could have possibly worked, but Simon walked toward him and pushed his arms through the straps. “Let’s just try,” he murmured against Wille’s lips, “I’ll keep you safe.”

On the bus, his hand circled his chest, the pressure bruising. He could see Simon watching him, leaning against one of the metal poles, his brow furrowed while he watched Wille try to keep his breathing under control. Initially, he’d assumed they’d be going to the main practice facility where he usually trained, but midway through the route, he’d come to the realization that they were actually on the way to his parents. 

Simon was texting, fingers flying over his screen, and Wille wasn’t really surprised when his mom met them at the door. He’d been avoiding her; too scared that she would see right through him, would see that he wasn’t pushing himself like he should have been, that if both she and Simon saw him they’d recognize that he was slowly falling apart. But, when she saw him, all she did was open her arms, wrapping him in a tight hug, holding his head like she had when he was a child, fresh off a loss and fraught with tears. She held him like he was small; like he was safe, and he felt a cry rip from him before he could swallow it down, his body trembling in her arms. 

His husband had already moved into the house, probably on his way down to the basement to drop off their gear by the pool, but he allowed himself to stay with his mom for a while, listening to her reassurances that he hadn’t needed in so long, letting her promise that it would get better, that she’d help him, that they’d figure it out, and that it would all be okay. He just wished he could believe her. 

When they finally made it down to the basement, Simon was already in the water, unclipping the lane line that went down the center. When he had both sides unfastened, his mom grabbed one of the ends, clipping it to the spool and rolling it out of the water while Simon pushed himself up and out of the pool. Lip caught between his teeth, his husband looked him up and down with a furrowed brow before shaking his head, droplets flying off his curls. 

“Do you remember the game we used to play when we were younger?” he looked at Wille, his expression open. Wille saw his eyes look over at Kristina and she sunk down into one of the chairs on the side of the room when Wille nodded. 

“I don’t think I can get in though,” his voice cracked, “I - I haven’t even put my feet in the pool since it happened.” Simon hummed softly and wrapped his arms around Wille’s waist, brushing their noses together until Wille let his shoulders drop down again. 

Simon tugged on his hand and led them both toward the edge of the pool. “Just sit here,” he motioned down, and, when Wille had sat, legs crossed under him, Simon dove into the water, his body arching gracefully. There was a pang of envy that wanted to flood through him, but he pushed it down, letting one of his hands brush the ripples that had been left in his wake. 

Simon resurfaced near the middle of the pool and swam back, leaning on his elbows in front of Wille’s feet. His hands were gentle, fingers loosely running up and down Wille’s calves, and eventually he let his husband loosen them, bringing his toes to the ledge. In spite of how much he trusted Simon not to pull him in, his body was still shaking, and when Simon, as if he had read his mind, said calmly but clearly, “I’m not going to pull you in, Wille. You can trust me, love,” a half sob fell from his lips but he forced himself to exhale, trusting Simon to keep him safe. 

Simon’s hands were massaging his legs, and slowly, he cupped water in one of his hands and let it pour down Wille’s shins, talking the whole time, not letting him think about what the exercise would eventually lead to. When Simon slowly pulled his feet until they extended over the water, he bit back his fear and moved forward, letting his heels rest in Simon’s palms. 

Slowly, so that if he had needed to he could have stopped him, Simon brought his hands down toward the water. He was treading water with his feet, the small waves splashing against the walls of the pool, and his hands were gentle when he moved them from Wille’s heels to his ankles. His grip wasn’t so tight that it couldn’t have been broken, but Wille didn’t even have to, Simon instantly pausing the second his breathing picked up again the closer his feet got to the water. 

“I can’t,” he let out the words in a small whine, and shook his head frantically, drawing his legs back onto the ledge, white knuckles digging into the skin. 

Simon simply swam back closer to him, and loosened his hands, lacing their fingers together and drawing them to his mouth to seal his understanding with a kiss. “What would happen if you put your legs in the water?” he asked softly, his thumb soothing the skin of Wille’s palm. “Can you explain what you’re feeling?”

“It’s just -” Wille blew out a breath, extending his arms back and leaning on his hands, “Every time I think about going under the water, I start - I start feeling like I’m drowning all over again.” He looked up at Simon hesitantly, but seeing that his face held no judgment, continued, “No matter how much I know that every other time I swam I was perfectly fine and that nothing is going to happen, I just - I just can’t breathe.”

Simon laid his elbows on Wille’s knee, leaning down, his damp curls dripping onto Wille’s clammy skin. He didn’t say anything, and Wille let his body relax, lifting a hand to run his fingers through the strands. Once he relaxed, Simon slowly moved away, dipping back under the water and springing upward to push himself out of the pool. 

He sat down, thighs resting against Wille’s, though his legs dropped into the water, kicking slowly back and forth, and wrapped a hand around Wille’s waist, pulling him to lean against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Love,” he whispered, his tone gentle and without hint of confrontation, “I really think a therapist is the best option here… You probably have PTSD.”

“I don’t want to have to deal with that.”

Simon moved back, looking entirely unimpressed, “Wilhelm Eriksson-Vasa, you can either go see a therapist on your own or god help me, I will drag you there myself.” His tone softened and he gripped Wille’s hand, “I don’t want to never swim against you again. And I can help, but I can’t fix this for you.”

“I don’t need to,” Wille squeezed his eyes shut, his knuckles white around Simon’s figure. “I don’t want to see a therapist. I should be fine. I’ve been doing this my whole life!”

He heard Simon huff, could feel his body tense, his patience wearing thin, and his husband’s next words were brittle, his tone raised, frustrated. “Then get in the pool!” he threw his arm out toward the water in a challenge, pushing himself away from Wille and standing up. “If you’re so sure you don’t need a therapist, then swim a lap. Prove it.”

There was a soft clicking sound as the door to the pool closed, his mother deciding that this was their battle to fight rather than hers, and Wille felt tears well in his eyes, hot frustration dripping down his cheeks. “I can’t, Simon,” his voice cracked, “That’s not fair.”

The sounds of his cries echoed across the concrete, their voices falling silent, and he finally stood up, awkwardly walking to the bench and grabbing one of the towels, passing it to his husband. Simon, though, ignored the offering, and instead pulled him into his arms and held him tightly, his hand coming up to cradle Wille’s head. “Love, that’s why you need to get help,” he murmured, his fingers combing through Wille’s hair. “Please don’t fight me on this.”

Taking a steadying breath, Wille leaned his forehead against Simon’s, their noses brushing softly together. He closed his eyes, fighting the parts of himself that wanted to ignore the problem and just keep hoping and willing it to go away, finally nodding slowly. “I’ll… I’ll try,” he sealed the promise with a weary kiss, the fight drained out of him by the sharp reality Simon had painted and forced him to quit denying. 

____

Breaking: Swedish swimmer, Wilhelm Vasa, announces break from swimming in a new statement posted to social media, “Hello, I wanted to share an update with you on my recovery since the Olympics in Los Angeles. I have not been in the pool since LA, and although I miss the water, I’ve been working on finding happiness without it for now. Simon [Note: Simon Eriksson, Venezuelan swimmer and Vasa’s husband (see our interview with the couple linked here)] and I recently bought a house, I’ve learned how to knit, spent the holidays in Venezuela… I know that I can swim without anxiety. I did that for most of my life and I’m working toward getting there again. I’ve learned though, since LA, that if you need a break, you should take one. So I won’t be in the water for a while. But, I’ll be back. In the meantime, I’ll be cheering for Sweden (and Simon) from the stands.”

____

The time away had been what Wille had needed. Without the deadlines of competitions and tapers, without the worry of the next qualifier or semi-final or whether he would be fast enough to medal, some of the knots that had formed, that had tangled themselves around his brain and trapped him in an endless spiral of anxiety and fear, began to unravel. He was no longer drowning in the Olympic pool every time it rained, or he stood under the showerhead and water fell over his face. He’d even been able to let Simon drag him into a shallow hot tub during their vacation, too distracted by his husband in his lap and the lips trailing kisses across his body to give into the urge to panic. 

His therapist had insisted that he step back, had told him that the distance would help, would make it less present in his mind, so with Simon’s quiet support, he’d begrudgingly accepted that more than just his heart would have to be cleared to swim again, and he’d let his coaches and the Swedish Swimming Federation know that he was going to take at least a year off. There had been some hesitation at first, but when he’d explained just how incapable he was of continuing on in the way that he’d tried to, they’d signed off, telling him to keep them updated but sincerely wishing him the best. 

It had been hard, his routine completely thrown off without training in the water, but he’d started to join Simon’s dryland sessions with his mom, which had helped him keep up his strength, but had also given him structure in a way that still felt safe. Sometimes, he’d watch Simon’s practices from the sidelines, listening to his mom switch out of the role of mother-in-law and into the role of coach, occasionally suggesting something from his own previous practices that she’d work into Simon’s training. Seeing it on the whiteboard the next morning always made him smile, his mom giving him a small wave when he’d walk in, but not moving from the edge of the pool where she would be going over splits and techniques with his husband. 

The closer the time came to Worlds, the weirder everything felt, his skin itching with the wrongness of watching Simon prepare while he wasn’t. When Simon went to buy his tickets to fly back to Venezuela for training camp, it had felt strange to not be preparing to leave for his own. For the first time since the Tokyo Olympics, he’d be watching Simon from the audience rather than the next lane, and it was bittersweet, as wrong as he knew it was right. 

When he watched Simon dive off the blocks for the final of the 800 meter free, watched him do what he always did and steadily pull ahead, the gap widening, until he was over a full pool length ahead of the reigning Olympic champion from America who was in second, he felt a certainty settle into his bones, an energy build under his skin. It rang through him, clearly, when Simon touched the wall, the sight of his fingertips pressing against the black cross, another gold medal earned, all that Wille needed to solidify how much he missed feeling the water slide over his skin. 

He met Simon by the pool deck after the medal ceremony for the 1500 free, extending his arms and catching his husband when he barrelled into him. Kissing him deeply, he couldn’t stop the tears of pride that clung to his lashes, the laugh of amazement when he looked at the two gold medals hanging from his neck. “Fuck,” a smile spread across his cheeks, “I’m so annoyed I ruined your gold medals in LA.”

Simon just shook his head fondly, one of his hands resting on Wille’s waist, “I’ll pick them up in Brisbane,” he teased, his head tilting up to look at Wille with sparkling eyes. “Go out with a bang or something.”

“What, you’re going to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-eight?” Wille raised an eyebrow, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Should I start saving up for a retirement home or do you think you’ll still be able to manage the stairs, old man?”

He laughed brightly when Simon shoved at his shoulder, both of them turning to walk out of the arena. “No, I just - we’ll see,” Simon shrugged, squinting against the sun and sliding sunglasses over his nose, “Four Olympics is more than most people get to begin with.”

“Mom did six,” Wille said softly, squeezing his hand. 

Simon hummed, their arms swinging between them slowly. “Yeah,” he finally said, “But she’s one of three swimmers ever, and I don’t know, that all feels really far away.” He was quiet for a moment longer, both of them stepping into the waiting car to take them back to the hotel in easy silence, but then he sighed, “It’s just not the same without you… So, maybe - I think Brisbane will be enough.”

Lifting a hand to hold his face, his thumb swiping over his cheekbone, Wille thought back to how he felt watching Simon dominate the race, how he’d craved the rush of adrenaline and the coolness of the water for the first time in over a year. A soft smile crossed his features and he tilted his head, leaning it back against the headrest of the car, “And if I told you that I think I’m finally ready to come back?”

He watched something like relief and hope bloom in Simon’s eyes, and his husband began to grin, closing his eyes with a satisfied hum. “Then maybe it would be fun enough again for me to quit dreaming about retirement.”

____

Breaking: After fifteen months away from the competition, Swedish Silver medalist Wilhelm Vasa returned to the pool in October 2029, around two months after the World Aquatics Championships in Beijing. Since his return to the competition last October, Vasa has switched around his events, competing in the 400m freestyle competition rather than his normal 800m (He had also been planning to add the 1500m based on information received prior to the 2028 Olympics in LA). He has consistently been dropping time in the new event. At the recent European Championships, he finished 11th with a time of 3:54.62, but just last weekend, he swam a 3:44.60 which would have earned him a fifth-place finish in the finals at the World Championships and makes him the fastest Swede in the event. Vasa will look to medal at his seventh World Championship next month in Barcelona.

____

Wille exhaled, the noise of the crowd fading in the background. There was a small tremor of nerves in his hands, and he bounced on his feet, arms snapping against skin, feeling the rough texture of the pool deck under his toes, letting the anxious energy bleed out of him with each pointed breath. His eyes were closed, goggles still up over his cap, and he shook out his body, rolling his shoulders and extending his hips to loosen out the muscles that still wanted to freeze at the thought of going back in the water. 

When he’d come back, he and his coach had made the decision to take a step back on distance for the first year, dropping down to the 400m race he hadn’t competed in for a few years in order to reduce the amount of time he needed to be in the water. It had been an adjustment, his times suffering with the need to adjust his pacing, but coming into Barcelona, he felt good, maybe not quite confident, but it felt less foreign than it had. 

Another slow exhale, and he pulled his goggles over his eyes, pressing them down to create the seal and stretching his second cap over his head, feeling the yellow cap painted with his country's flag snap against his head. He inhaled, the noise of the crowd surging behind him, and let the cheers, the chants, the noise of the competition, fuel him. 

A step up, and he was on the blocks, looking out onto the blue expanse of water, a thrum of anticipation coursing through his blood. He took his mark, and as the starting horn sounded, Wille pushed off the block, feeling his arms slice into the water, cold droplets spraying into the air from where his body had made impact. 

There was nothing but the movement of his arms, hands pulling him through the water, legs propelling him forward. There was no thought of the seven other swimmers in the semi-final heat with him, only his body, his breath, each stroke a declaration, a point he was proving to himself that LA wouldn’t be the ending of his story. 

He’d gone out slowly, his start shaky and slower than his usual, but over the first 200m, he began to make up ground, seeing the field narrow in his vision. There was a fire burning under his skin, fueled by the sound of the crowd that came through each time he surfaced for air, and he began to push himself harder, making the final the only thing on his mind. He needed it, needed to have the validation that everything wasn’t over, needed to prove that he could do this to convince himself that he could do the 800m next. 

Turning into the last length of the pool, he let himself break free, giving into the last fifty meters and letting them claim him, letting his body become the machine it craved, and when his right arm stretched out, fingertips meeting the wall, exhilaration flooded through him. Wille surfaced, grabbing onto the backstroke handles and pushing his goggles off of his eyes. At the sight of his name, flashing onto the screen in the second position going into the final, he let out a whoop, a disbelieving laugh breaking free from his mouth before he moved toward the edge of the pool to the post-race interviews. 

“Wilhelm! So, first race back and it was a long, grueling race to the end. We saw some emotion there at the finish line. What can you tell us about what this race meant to you? How are you feeling?”

Wille, his face still flushed underneath his swim cap, the imprint from his goggles having left slight indentations around his eyes, gave a small, hesitant smile, letting out a breathy laugh. “I feel like I just swam four hundred meters.” At the interviewer’s polite ribbing about how even now he was still avoiding their questions, he shrugged, “No, but in all seriousness, it was good to be back in the water again. It’s been a long journey back here and there’s still the final tomorrow, but I feel good about my chances, so I’m hoping I’ll pull off a medal.”

With that, he gave a small smile and stepped away, moving toward the steps down to the warm-down lanes, listening to his coach with less attention than he probably should have, but gave a few nods, before she sighed, telling him to go start his recovery and that she’d meet with him after. 

Simon met him by the door, a few heats still to go before he would swim himself, and Wille threw himself into his arms. A hand came up to hold his head, his husband rocking their bodies back and forth, and when Wille pulled back, Simon kissed him softly, smiling. “How’s it feel to be back in second?” he pushed open the door and followed Wille into the warm-down pool. 

Laughing, Wille gave him an easy smile, pulling his goggles down over his eyes and speaking over his shoulder, “Makes me want to get back to where you’re next to me in first.” With that, he dropped into one of the more empty lanes, joining the other swimmers circling in the pool. He let the water flow over his body, felt the power in his muscles, in each stroke as it cut through the rippling waves, focusing on timing his breaths, finding a rhythm, and thinking through the final he’d need to swim the next day. 

By the time he finished, the time clock showed just past the quarter of the hour, and he made his way, quickly, to the stands to watch Simon’s ongoing 800m race. It was the finals, and he slipped into a free seat that his coach had saved for him on the condition he wouldn’t rush his warm-down swim, and leaned forward, glancing toward the clock. 

Based on the time elapsed, the race was just under halfway, and he didn’t have to look very hard to spot Simon. In fact, the more he looked between Simon’s position in the pool and the time elapsed on the board, the more certain he felt that the lead his husband had would not only be enough to give him the gold, but based on his training, gave him a solid chance to break the record he’d set in Paris as well. 

A glance at the screen, the yellow World Record line trailing behind the tips of Simon’s fingers, was enough for him to turn to his coach, rivalries be damned, and shake her, laughing joyfully, “I’d bet you money that he’s under,” he smiled, eagerly looking back toward the pool. 

“I’m not taking a bet I’m guaranteed to lose, Vasa,” his coach stood up with him, both of them leaning on the railing, eyes bouncing between the ticking clock and Simon’s body slicing through the water. “Damn, I wish he swam for Sweden.”

Wille laughed, his joy turning into shouting cheers when Simon’s fingers touched the wall, the stadium erupting around them, people jumping onto their feet, Venezuelan flags fluttering throughout the crowd. “He would never,” he gestured around to the people, face flushed with pride. “Him choosing to swim for Venezuela, putting them on the map in a sport where they’d been counted out for so long… it’s changed things.” 

Looking out on the crowd, still waving the blue, red, and gold flags, chanting his husband’s name, Wille told his coach what Simon had once told him, just a few months after Tokyo, “He’ll never switch to Sweden because every medal he brings home is for the other little kids training in underfunded facilities and trying to figure out how to pay for meets.” They began to climb down, heading toward the back hallways where he’d watch the medal ceremony and then join Simon on the ride back to the hotel. “Sweden doesn’t need him like they do.”

After the medal ceremony, he and Simon headed back to the hotel, the streets of Barcelona flashing past their windows. Simon still had the 1500m, an event he’d added after Paris, but hadn’t gotten the chance to swim the final for in LA. He’d won a hard-fought gold against the American Olympic champion in Beijing, the longer of the two races always a closer call for him, and his husband was reading over notes his coach had sent after the 800. 

“How do they even have notes after a World Record swim?” Wille mused, reading the numbers and comments over Simon’s shoulder. 

Simon shrugged, a distracted hum the only answer Wille got, and he popped in his headphones, opening the notes his own coach had had plenty of after his qualifying race. She’d made notes on his stroke pattern compared to the German swimmer who’d been in first and the American in third, pointing out that his rhythm would falter in the middle even though he closed the race well every time. 

He watched the marked-up recording with his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, his leg bouncing on the car seat. When they finally arrived at the hotel, he waved Simon off to his room, neither of them having wanted to risk a joint room since the 2025 Worlds after their wedding, and went to find his coach, letting her walk through her notes and settle the first flutters of anxiety that had begun to build. 

“You’re doing well,” she tapped the screen and looked toward him, “But I don’t want you to keep just relying on your last fifty. That worked in the longer distance races, but for the shorter ones, we need to work on your midgame.” When he sighed, looking at the splits she’d laid out in front of him, she squeezed his shoulder, “Don’t forget that this year was always for building. You’re not fully back yet, but you’ll get there. Just do your best tomorrow and that’s going to be enough for me.” 

He nodded, running a hand through his hair, and turned toward the door to head to his room. “Wilhelm,” she called out, offering him a small smile, “No matter what, be proud.”

____

“On the blocks right now is the final of the 400 free. Germany’s Lukas Märtens is the number one seed there in lane four, with Sweden’s Wilhelm Vasa in lane five in the second seed, and the two Americans in lanes three and six. What are your thoughts on this lineup, Hugo, it’s a bit different from what we’ve seen in the past?”

“Yeah, Mikael, Vasa here is our wildcard. We normally see him dominating over in the long-distance swims with Venezuela’s Simon Eriksson, but since his return back to the sport in October, he’s been solely competing here in the 400.”

“I’m unsure about his pacing here in the shorter-distance races. In the 800, we’ve seen a couple of times how much he excels in that last lap, particularly how much time he gains on that last 50. That’s a bit harder here. All of these athletes are working with fairly consistently fast splits. They aren’t having to make up any ground.”

“You aren’t wrong Mikael, but we also can’t count him out just yet. He’s second seed for a reason. Wilhelm had a great prelim swim. We’ll just have to see if he can pull it out for this final. It’s his only race of this championship, and the jury is still out on if he’ll keep this race in his lineup once he starts back in the 800s again.”

“And there’s the starting horn. Slow starts for Australia and Romania in lanes one and two, but Märtens in lane four and Smith over in three were both off the block quickly and are setting a good pace. Vasa is keeping up with them though, sitting there in that third-place position in lane five. Little bit of movement there off the turn, Italy’s Gabriele Detti in lane seven jumping into that third place position briefly, but Vasa reclaims it, inching up on Smith a few lanes over.”

“Yeah, we’re seeing a very controlled swim so far from Märtens, nobody shaking his position at the front of the pack. He’s looking good, won’t be a record swim for him, but if he stays consistent, he should have no trouble securing the gold.”

“Alright, there’s Vasa in second now going into the halfway point and Hugo! Look at this, he’s catching up to Märtens at this turn coming back into the last lap, and now we’re seeing Vasa in first by a hair, Märtens, in second, with the two Americans and the Italian battling it out for that third place, neck in neck.”

“Vasa excels on this last fifty, so if he holds onto this lead at the turn, we might see an upset here in this 400m free final, Mikael. Would be a nice sign that Sweden can get back into those distance swims with Vasa after the shock at the LA Olympics.”

“Unfortunately, Hugo, it looks like Vasa isn’t going to be able to hold it. He’s starting to break out of that rhythm he’d found. It’s unusual for him - we normally see that last fifty as his strongest leg. And yep, there’s Märtens with the gold, Smith, the American, with the silver, and we’ve got Italy’s Detti there taking home the bronze. The other American, Jake Mitchell, is going to take fourth, and in a disappointing turn for Sweden’s Vasa, he ends up in fifth, less than three-hundredths of a second off the podium.”

“It’s a hard finish for him. You can see he just looks crushed with how it all turned out. Truly a rough ending to an overall well-swam race.”

____

Wille pulled himself out of the pool, not even bothering to swim to the edge, and dropped his head into his hands. He’d had it. He’d gone into that last hundred feeling great, knowing he’d managed to edge ahead, so confident that, with how strong he was on those final 50s, he’d at least be on the podium. 

And he’d failed.  

0.27 seconds off. He breathed out slowly into his fingers. He was so close, and he should’ve been able to do it and he just… hadn’t. Walking into the post-race interview, he couldn’t find the energy to pull out a smile, his face painted with the disappointment he felt. He braced himself for the usual questions, expecting to have to talk about his disappointment, bare his soul to the world, and relive his failure, but instead, when he came up to the interviewer, she surprised him. 

“Wilhelm, a big swim for you here in Barcelona. Not the result you wanted, I’m sure, but I have a message here to pass along to you.”

She gestured toward the screen by her side and he turned to look, one of his hands clutching onto his goggles and cap. When Simon’s face came up on the display, his husband framed by the walls of the pre-race tunnel backstage, a small noise left him before he regained his composure, inhaling sharply and biting his lip. 

“Hi love,” he heard his husband say, watching him stretch on the first of his caps in preparation for the qualifying race he was about to go out to for the 1500. “You’re sitting on the pool deck right now, and I know you’re disappointed, and I know you think you could have done better. I can see it right now from where I’m standing, but I also know you and you hate fourth and fifth most of all.” He laughed softly, a voice off-camera quietly telling him he needed to move soon, and Wille watched his husband give a small nod before looking back into the camera. “I am so proud of you, Wille. You and I know what it took to get here, how much you had to do to swim today. And love, you should be as proud of that fifth place as you were of the world records and podium finishes. I know you wanted to medal, and I know that wasn’t the finish you wanted, but [bleep], I’m proud of you.”

Wille let out a shaky laugh, wiping tears from his eyes, and nodded slowly, exhaling in a rush of air. “How does that feel?” the interviewer asked, a soft smile on her face. “How does it feel to hear that from your husband after that race?”

“I’ll answer that to Simon later,” he admitted, drying the last of his tears and taking a deep breath. “But in light of that, I will say that he’s right. This was a big swim for me for a multitude of reasons. And I have a lot of work to do between now and Japan next year if I want to race him in Fukuoka, but this was just a step in the process and yeah, I’m disappointed, but I, of anyone, should know that you can’t predict the future.”

“Ah, the classic answer,” she teased. 

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, huffing out a small laugh, and left with a thank you, apologizing to his coach in his head as he made the decision to skip his warm-down and instead go watch his husband swim. Hopefully, it would be the last time he’d have the chance for a while. 

____

The 2031 World Championships in Fukuoka, Japan, found Wille and Simon finally racing against each other once again. Wille hadn’t added back the 1500m yet, that still a race Simon would have to compete in without him, but they’d face off against each other in the 800m free for the first time since Los Angeles. The two were in different heats for the semi-final qualifiers, Wille having improved enough to be in the second heat, though he was still coming in as the fourteenth seed, while Simon was the defending World Champion and record holder, seeded first and swimming in the third qualifying race. 

There was a general buzz floating in the air, everyone excited to see whether Wille would make the finals and whether they would finally see the two back in the same pool for the first time since it had been revealed they were more than just rivals. It was whispers of, “Wilhelm is going to surprise everyone and beat him,” or, “He won’t even make the final and we’ll have to wait for the Olympics to see them compete.”

Without question, though, the focus of the meet was solidly on the two Swedish and Venezuelan swimmers, media already planning what questions they’d ask the two of them now that they could possibly get the joint interview they’d been coveting for years. 

The first qualifier was fast, even the lower-seeded swimmers jumping out of the gate and setting quite impressive times. It only made the crowd hold its breath more, the whole stadium on edge for the second qualifier, waiting to see whether Wilhelm Vasa, Sweden’s pride and joy, would finally reclaim his title as one of the best in the world. 

When Wilhelm touched the wall first in the second heat with a time of 7:46:09, the energy went electric, his path to the final a guarantee. The only question, heading into the final qualifying heat, was where he would be seeded, how many of those in the last group would beat his time.

When Simon reached the wall, clearly holding back his energy and touching only a hair before the American National Champion, Finke, the stadium erupted into cheers, seeing Simon in first, Finke in second, and only a Ukrainian and German swimmer above Wille who’d managed to claim fifth. They watched, cowbells ringing in a deafening roar, as Wille’s coach wrapped him into a hug, the swimmer’s face a picture of joy and elation and disbelief. 

After the year where he hadn’t swum at all, and then the year of disappointment, the pictures of Wille’s face when he saw his name on the list of finalists were on every headline, the story of how he’d gone from sinking to the bottom to clawing his way back up to the top the number one story of that day of the competition. 

It made the final feel even more anticipated, suddenly the race that had seemed possible, though unlikely, now a certainty. For the first time in almost four years, Wilhelm Vasa and Simon Eriksson would race each other for the gold. And for the first time ever, the public would get to watch them interact, no longer as rivals, but as each other’s biggest supporters and husbands. 

Swimmers take your marks.

Unfortunately, it was obvious from the start of the finals that Wille was tired, his stamina still not quite up to where he’d once been. For the first two hundred meters, he held onto fourth by a finger-length, Simon, the American, and the Ukrainian swimmers beginning to widen the gap between the front and back of the field, but by the midway point, he had fallen to eighth while everyone else barrelled on ahead. 

On the turn into the fourteenth lap, he managed to gain on the Austrian swimmer in lane six, edging ahead into seventh, but he couldn’t sustain it and touched the wall in eighth, almost seven seconds slower than his time in the qualifying round. Simon had finished around ten seconds shy of his world record, with a time of 7:41:87, but the American and Italian who had medaled with him had both been over a full second behind. It wasn’t the dominant performance the crowd was used to, but there was a sense that this race had only been the precursor, still just a blip on the path toward the main event. 

Wilhelm Vasa was back, and with the Brisbane Olympics less than a year away, the world began to hold its breath, waiting for the moment both of them would surge forward off the block, their bodies cutting into the crystal clear blue of the water, feet kicking them toward the promise of gold and silver once again. This race had only been a taste, a teaser, but it would be Brisbane that would become history, where they’d both finally be back in peak form, ready to face down the world side by side. 

_____

“Sorry my love”: Venezuela’s Olympic flag-bearer Simon Eriksson announces he lost wedding ring during Opening Ceremony in new post on Instagram. Read the Venezuelan swimmer’s romantic letter to his husband (Swedish swimmer Wilhelm Vasa) below:

“Sorry my love (oops). Too many kgs lost in the past few months, or maybe just my overwhelming enthusiasm for this beautiful country I still call home, maybe both, but the ring you bought me at that jeweler across from the Eiffel Tower in Paris is, unfortunately, going to find its final home in Brisbane. I saw it fly off my finger, followed it with a glance while my arms kept waving the flag, but with the same graceful energy with which you leap from the blocks, it disappeared into the void of the Pacific, and I watched it dive into the water like that was the only place it wanted to be. It’s like us, in that, I suppose. 

“It was only a few moments but lasted an eternity. 

“If it was meant to happen, if I had to lose that ring that’s come to symbolize so much for us, I couldn’t imagine a better place. It will stay forever in the city that’s offered us a chance to reclaim our history, having flown away while I lifted the blue, gold, and red colored flag of my nation as high as I could during the opening ceremony of the most important sporting event in the world and one that is a constant thread through the story of our love.

“If you want, we’ll throw yours into the Pacific too, so they can swim together forever, and we’ll have an excuse to get married anew. I love you, my Wille, and here’s to the hope of coming home with more gold than I lost, if nothing else.”

____

Wille looked up from his phone and rolled his eyes fondly at Simon. “Did you seriously make a whole post about losing your ring?”

“I’m sorry,” Simon whined, dropping into his lap and curling into him, “I know how special it was to you and it’s at the bottom of the fucking ocean now.”

Kissing him deeply, trying to hold back a smile, Wille murmured against his lips, “The ring was only special because you were the one wearing it. But if you’re feeling sentimental about Paris, we can always melt down your World Record gold that I was so annoyed about, according to the press. Put it to a better use.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Simon laughed into the kiss, licking into his mouth with a soft moan. “I really did love that it was from Paris, so if you aren’t careful, I’ll take you seriously.”

“I’m glad you have so many you feel you can be generous with them,” Wille teased, pinching his husband’s hip and leaning back further into the chair. “You’d think you had twenty rather than only two.”

Simon only hummed, reaching out to spin Wille’s white gold, silver-colored ring around his finger. “I could get two more here,” he shrugged, leaning back in to mouth at Wille’s neck, though neither of them would make the mistake of going further, “And then maybe, if this one’s fun, I’ll try to pick up some more next time too.”

“I thought you were retiring?” Wille raised an eyebrow and smirked, “I’ve got a chair lift for the stairs already in my Amazon cart.”

Groaning, Simon looped his arms around Wille’s neck and rested their foreheads together, unable to stop the smile from growing on his face, “You know I’m not quitting till you do. Who would you even compete against?”

Wille snorted, thinking of the whole list of swimmers who had crept up on them in times, narrowing the gap they’d once set between them and the rest of the world’s elite. Even now that he was keeping up with Simon again more easily, they’d still both have to fight to bring home a medal at all this year, especially for Simon in the 1500m free. 

He pushed Simon off his lap gently, standing up and stretching his arms above his head, feeling the muscles relax. “See you tomorrow in the water, love,” he kissed him slowly, savoring the taste of his lips before leaving to go to his own room and finish his preparations for the next day’s race. 

“Love you,” Simon called after him down the hallway, leaning against the frame of his hotel room door and waving his fingers goodbye. 

____

“We’re coming to you here from the finals of the men’s eight-hundred-meter freestyle at the 2032 Brisbane Olympics. The qualifying heats turned out to be the bloodbath we were expecting, with the most shocking miss coming from Italy’s Gregorio Paltrinieri, Bronze medalist at last year’s World Championships, who came in ninth with a 7:45.87. Paltrinieri was a favorite to win a medal in the event this year, though there were some who thought he’d fall off the podium with how Wilhelm Vasa has been swimming over the past year. “

“Yep, it was, indeed, a crazy prelim. Venezuelan Simon Eriksson continues to impress here at his third - sorry, fourth, Olympics. He got out to the lead in the first of the circle-seeded heats yesterday morning and didn’t look back, clocking in at a 7:40.90, almost a full second faster than his winning time at World’s last year, though still a far cry off from his own record, marking an exceptional morning swim for the distance superstar.”

“Let’s talk about Simon’s husband, though, Émile. Wilhelm Vasa clocked a 7:43.87 yesterday morning, putting himself at fifth for tonight’s final. It’s a familiar place for the Swedish distance swimmer. He swam the fifth seed at last year’s Worlds but ended up eighth in the final. He had an even-split race yesterday too, which is unusual for him. We’re used to seeing him negative split those two halves, and really bring it home in those last few meters.”

“Well, some would argue we aren’t used to Wilhelm at all anymore, Hugo, after the whirlwind he’s been through since we were here four years ago. We are looking at a swimmer who had to completely build back his career almost from scratch. The leaked report about his PTSD made a lot of what came after make sense, but you’re still looking at a swimmer who underwent a significant change in trajectory very quickly.”

“And that, right there, is why his position in this competition is so uncertain. No one is quite sure where to place him this year. You’re looking at a swimmer who, statistically, is a solid gold or silver medal contender, but who hasn’t seen a podium since the 2027 World Championships. And with a field as tight as this one? Well, he’s going to have to swim one of the best races of his life.”

“Just to quickly run through the rest of the competition here before we go to the broadcast of the race, Hugo, in lane one we have Mykhailo Romanchuk of Ukraine, the seventh seed qualifier, then Vasa in lane two, swimming next to Ahmed Hafnauoui of Tunisia in lane three. Eriksson will swim in his usual place there in lane four as the top seed, with Sam Short of Australia next to him there in lane five, Lukas Märtens of Germany in lane six, Bobby Finke of the United States in lane seven, and then Guilherme Costa, the Brazilian, rounding out the final in lane eight. It is truly a stacked final and times are expected to be quite fast. Many of these people are quite used to seeing this podium.”

“And what an Olympic race that will make.”

____

Wille refused to look toward lane four to his right, keeping his eyes fixed on the end of the pool. He ignored the crowds, the cheering fans, the sea of flags that dotted the arena. He adjusted his goggles on his face, pulled the yellow cap more firmly over his forehead, and swung his arms out, hearing his skin clap where they met behind his back, leaning forward and smacking them into each other again. 

A breath exhaled slowly from his mouth, the smell of the chlorine filling his senses, and he breathed in, bouncing on his feet and stretching out his muscles, before hearing the signal to step onto the blocks. Breathe in. He’d been repeating it like a mantra, each inhale and exhale perfectly spaced, perfectly controlled, perfectly orchestrated to let adrenaline pump through his veins without triggering a surge of anxiety. Breathe out. He crouched on the block, the toes of his left foot gripping the edge while his right pushed against the board. His fingers came to rest along the edge, finding friction on the grit of the rough surface, and he narrowed his eyes, setting his sights on the end of the pool. 

Take your marks.

When the starting horn sounded, his body propelled forward into the water like a slingshot. It was still slow, he could feel it, but he shoved it from his mind, focusing on the movement of his body through the water. A stroke, a breath, he pulled himself forward through the water.

____

“What a start. Finke, Hafnaoui, and Eriksson are already out there at the front, creating that separation early from the rest of the field. They came out under world record pace, but here at the 200-meter mark, that line is creeping up on them.”

“Yep, there it goes. That Barcelona time is just insane. It’ll be a while before anyone touches that.”

“Those three are staying glued together, but we’re seeing some movement here and there. Here’s the turn now for the 300 and it looks like Eriksson is hanging onto first just barely at this point in the race, but Finke has moved into that second position, sending Hafnaoui into third.”

“Let’s not forget the two swimmers right behind them, though, Hugo. Only about a body length behind them, we have Vasa and Short, and neither of them are letting the three at the front get away. This distance isn’t getting any wider here at the halfway mark.”

“We are seeing some distance within the top three. If you look there in lane four, Eriksson, Venezuela’s distance Champion and the current World Record holder, has begun to pull ahead. This isn’t anything new for him, though it’s happening a bit later than it used to. I’m not sure if the rest of the world is catching up or if he’s just been bored without Vasa on his tail the past few years.”

“Five hundred meters now, just over four minutes into this race, and we’re seeing some fatigue in those outer lanes, Romanchuk in lane one and Costa in lane eight both beginning to get left behind. Märtens, there in lane six, also dropping back, and it looks like it’s going to be between Venezuela, Australia, Tunisia, Sweden, and the United States here coming into the six hundred meter mark.”

“There we go - Vasa’s begun to make his move. And what a move it is! He’s now in second here, still behind Eriksson but just a fraction of a second ahead of Hafnaoui there in third. Bobby Finke, the American, is falling back, and it looks like Sam Short is going to pull ahead of him here on the turn into this seven hundred mark to step into fourth.”

“Right now, Eriksson is almost a shoo-in for gold, but Hafnaoui and Vasa are trading off at the fifties for second and third here. Vasa is a force to be reckoned with in these last fifty meters, but as each of these athletes put in this closing dig, I’m not sure it’ll be quite enough to catch Hafnaoui who pulled ahead there at that last turn.”

____

The roar of the crowd was his backdrop going into the last fifty meters. On the underwaters and from what he could see when he breathed, he was in second, maybe third. It lit a fire in him, his burning muscles and the exhaustion he felt fading away with the constant thrum of the siren song of the podium flowing through the water into his blood.

He could see the wall, the black cross in front of him so close he could almost already feel his palm slamming into it, and he propelled himself forward, cutting through the water like a knife, carving himself into the history of this race he loved so much, that he’d poured so much of himself into for so long. 

Wille’s hand reached the wall and he drew back, heaving breaths in through his mouth, water pouring off his face and dripping back into the pool. He turned to the scoreboard, his heartrate in his throat, hearing the other swimmers complete the race beside him. With a flash of the screen, the second, third, and fourth lanes lit up, Simon’s name and the Venezuelan flag showing a golden one there in lane four, then the silver two next to the Tunisian flag, and there, next to his own name, next to his flag and his country, an unmoving, bronze three sat beside his name. 

He shouted out in ecstatic disbelief, slamming the water down in celebration, feeling incredulous tears start to run down his face. “Oh my god,” he laughed, eyes still fixated on the scoreboard, reading the 7:38.67, the fastest he’d gone in years, looking back at him. It still hadn’t quite sunk in when he congratulated the Tunisian swimmer in the lane next to him. 

Suddenly, he found himself surrounded, Simon crossing over the lane line and wrapping around his body, pulling him into a hug. “Oh my god,” he repeated again, looking at Simon with wide eyes, his mind entirely empty of anything useful. “Holy shit.”

Simon laughed, grabbing his face between his hands, and pulled him into a kiss, his laughter silenced by Wille’s lips, both of them in sheer disbelief that he’d done it. He’d pulled it off. When Simon’s lips met his, the roar of the crowd became almost deafening, the entire arena screaming and cheering, a sea of blue and yellow and red, yellow, and blue striped flags. There were some rainbow flags mixed in too, and as he pulled his body over the lane line with a smile he wasn’t even going to attempt to hide, he lifted himself out of the pool and let himself soak it in.

All at once, he found himself in his mom's arms, Kristina pulling Simon in with him, his coach coming over to join their celebration as well, and he looked to the rafters of the arena where the Swedish flag would soon fly and let the awe of the moment fill him. It hadn’t dissipated by the time the anthem sounded through the speakers, his head dipping down to receive the bronze medal around his neck. And, when Simon pulled him and the silver medalist up to the podium, he couldn’t resist throwing out the decorum, the professionalism, all the rules they’d lived by and hidden behind for so long, and he pulled him into a kiss. 

He may have been used to Simon taking gold and him taking silver, but hey, bronze worked too.