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When he gets to Rio, Bellamy knows who Clarke Griffin is in the same way he knows who Simone Biles is; he's an athlete and he keeps up with this stuff, even in sports he doesn't play. Even in sports he barely understands. Especially when they're gearing up for the Olympics, he keeps one ear open for names that are getting a lot of hype, and Clarke has been in that conversation since the 2012 games. She has a story too, which helps, means the media wants to talk about her. And to her.
And that helped him notice her too, mostly because her story is basically the opposite of his. She's a legacy, raised to do this since she was a kid. Her grandfather has a gold medal in diving, and her mother does in swimming. She comes from a family for whom "Olympic medalist" is as common a thing as "blue eyes."
Bellamy, on the other hand, still can't believe he's here, most of the time. Even as adults started realizing he was good--really good, not just "good for his age" or "good for his school"--he didn't really think he'd be able to make any kind of career in sports. He started playing soccer after school because he needed something to do for himself, some excuse to have a few hours where he wasn't watching his sister, and he lied and told his mother that the school made them have an after-school club after his gym teacher told him he should join a team.
Once she was old enough, Octavia started playing too, but she had trouble with the more regulated violence of soccer and switched over to karate. Bellamy stuck with it because he liked the way he felt on the field, liked being a part of a group. When he was at school, people cared about his old, ill-fitting clothes, but on the field, that didn't matter. He was too good to ignore or dismiss, and that started to carry over into his personal life too.
By sophomore year of high school, he was popular and respected, and the coach was talking about scholarships. And now, somehow, he's at the fucking Olympics, being featured alongside Clarke Griffin as a first-time US athlete with something to prove.
Clarke is more nervous than he would have expected, her leg jiggling as she waits for them to call her in. She's a good few years younger than he is, pure California girl, blonde-haired and tanned from the sun. If Octavia had brought her home from school, Bellamy would have categorized her as cute, but it feels too dismissive for the actual Clarke. He's seen her waiting to race, and it's impossible to forget her intensity, her focus.
"You okay?" he finds himself asking, and her attention snaps to him. The intensity is back in her eyes, and it makes him straighten up a little.
"What?" she asks.
"You're, uh--" He gestures to her leg, feeling a little rude. "Not a fan of interviews?" he finally asks.
"Oh. Not really."
"Why not?"
Her mouth twists up a little. "I don't want to say the wrong thing."
"Oh, that's easy," he says, and she snorts. "It is. They feed you all your lines. We're athletes, so they don't expect us to have brains. You're excited to be here. You're proud to represent your country. You're doing it for--your mom, I assume? And your grandfather?"
It doesn't seem to make her feel better. If anything, her expression darkens. She's the closest thing to a storm he's seen since he got to Brazil. "I can't be doing it for myself?"
"Not if you're doing a TV spot," he says, keeping his voice easy despite her clear hostility. He's curious to see how this one plays out. And it'll be nice to tell Octavia he was being the reasonable one, for once. "See, I'm doing it for my sister. To give her a better life."
"And you need a gold medal to give your sister a better life?" she asks. "Are you going to sell it for college tuition?"
"I bet I could get a lot for it on eBay," he muses, and she cracks a smile, finally. It makes her look more like the person he thinks she could be, just another college kid. Someone who could exist in the wild without scaring everyone off.
"I bet you could." She leans back, closing her eyes. "I'm just sick and tired of having the same conversation. I've known my lines since I was five. It's the family legacy. And that's--it is. But that's not why I'm here."
"And you're afraid you're going to say that."
"You can't say I don't give a shit about my mom's legacy in an interview."
"You could," he says. "If it's live, no one can stop you. But it's probably not a good idea." He pauses. "So, uh, if you don't give a shit about your mom's legacy, what are you doing here?"
"Clarke, we're ready for you," says the PA, and Clarke stands, stretches, and smiles over her shoulder at Bellamy.
"Those medals aren't going to eBay themselves, right?"
She's gone in to do the interview before he can respond, and Bellamy finds himself just watching the door, wondering.
*
The next time he sees Clarke, he's fucking an Argentinian field hockey player, and Clarke stumbles in on them with her own hookup, a gymnast from--he wants to say Japan, but he's not 100% sure. He doesn't get a great look at them, except that they're kissing, and Clarke's hand is up the girl's shirt.
"Occupied," he says, and Clarke's eyes widen in what might be horror. "Pretty sure you can try the bathroom, though."
It's not like he came to the Olympics to get laid, but--he's pretty sure he's going to get laid a lot, which is nice. And it's not like he's the only one, and it's not like anyone thinks much of it. He certainly doesn't think much of the encounter--Clarke found someone to hook up with. He doesn't blame her. Who would turn down the chance to fuck an Olympic gymnast?
But she finds him the next day at breakfast, takes him by the elbow, rough, and drags him to a secluded table.
"Good morning to you too," he says.
"You can't say anything, okay?"
He opens and closes his mouth, and then, when she glares at him, says, "Sorry, I didn't know when I started not being able to say anything. What are you talking about?"
She worries her lip. "About me and that girl."
"What am I going to say?" She glares again, and he huffs. "Jesus, you're such a fucking princess. I have no idea what's going on, okay? What's the problem?"
"I'm not out," she says. "And I don't want to be right now."
That kind of hurts, if he's honest. "Wait, what? You thought I was going to out you? Seriously?"
She looks like she's thinking it over, but somehow that doesn't bother him. The consideration makes him feel better about the whole thing.
"Not maliciously," she finally says. "I didn't think you were going to be an asshole. But--I thought you might not realize I wasn't out and say something in passing."
"Nah," he says. "I get it, okay? I'm--my sister said pan, which is cool with me. I don't totally get the difference between that and bi, but I like pan because he was a Greek nature god. With goat legs. Which is awesome."
Clarke bites her lip on a laugh. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm not that out about it, but--people don't really care about me, honestly. Not like they care about you."
Her smile is tired, and older than twenty-two. "They only care about me every four years. Or if I fuck up."
"Is that how being famous works?"
"Basically, yeah."
They lapse into silence, which is Bellamy's preference before nine a.m., but there's something about the way Clarke is poking at her food that makes him think she's going to follow-up somehow. Which isn't bad either, as far as he's concerned. He has plenty of teammates he likes, but he doesn't mind making new friends. And Clarke is--fuck, he honestly can't figure it out. He thinks there's someone he'd like somewhere in there, but he's not sure. She feels more like a puzzle than a person.
"I'm bi," she finally says.
"Cool."
"It's a pain to explain. I'm going to someday, I just--I want to wait for the games to be over."
"Hey, it's your call. I don't care."
"Thanks for the support." She glances behind them. "You can go back to your team. I didn't mean to drag you away."
"Wow. That was one hell of an accident. You seemed so confident about it."
She scowls at him, and he grins. He's always more comfortable with people who are grumpy; they feel like his people. "Like I said, you can leave."
"You never eat with your team," he points out. It was one of the first things he noticed about her, how she always seemed to be a little bit separate from everyone. He figured she was just conceited, but that doesn't scan with the idea he has of her now. Awkward, maybe a little stand-offish, but probably to cover up nerves. It feels like she should have gotten over it pretty quickly. She seems to have already gotten used to him.
"Nope," she agrees. "But we're not really a team."
"Wow. Don't say that in an interview either."
She ducks her head on a smile, and it's actually better than her scowling at him. "You know what I mean. You guys play together. We're just--thrown together for the Olympics."
"So are we."
"Are you always this pedantic, or just when it's early?"
"I just want you to admit you're not really a patriot. That's what I'm going to tell the tabloids. Clarke Griffin hates America."
"I just hate people," she says. "It's not about America."
"Way less interesting." He watches her, thoughtful. "The team is cool, but I see plenty of them. And I'm still trying to figure out why you're here."
"It's the Olympics," she says. "If someone says you can go to the Olympics, you go."
"Yeah, but it's not like you just trip and fall into it. You've been training your whole life. If you hate it, why would you do that?"
"Who said I hated it?" she asks, not making eye contact.
"It was kind of implied."
"It wasn't implied. You inferred," she corrects, prim, and he snorts.
"Now who's being pedantic?" He nudges her under the table. "So, you don't hate it, but you hate the legacy."
"Is your story true?" she asks after a moment of consideration, and it takes him a second to figure out what she's asking.
"The one in the interviews?"
"Yeah."
"I'm not sure. Tell me what you think it is."
Her smile is wry. "The American dream. Poor city kid who finds if he can dream it, he can be it." To his surprise, the smile softens. "The stuff about your sister seemed real."
"That part is real." It's not a secret, but he still feels weird telling her. Maybe because she's so close-mouthed. Part of him wants to stay quiet, to see how she likes it. But he finds he actually wants her to know. "I didn't really dream it. I started playing soccer because I wanted to do something after school. I'm at the Olympics because if someone says you can go to the Olympics, you go. But I started doing it for the money. And--" She looks interested, so he finds himself admitting it. "I didn't fit in, until I was good at sports. I was just another weird poor kid. Once I started being good at soccer, people started liking me. It was pretty selfish."
"And your sister?"
"Once my mom died, we needed money. A team wanted to give me enough money I could take care of her. It's not like it's a huge money sport in the US, but they made me an offer I could work with. So--I did. NBC figured out how to make it romantic and noble or whatever, but it was pretty mercenary, honestly."
"It can be both," she says. There's a soft smile playing around her lips, and Bellamy might just like all her expressions.
There's something fascinating about Clarke Griffin.
"It's a nice story."
"Good thing," he says. "Since we're not going to win."
He has to bite back on a grin at her shocked expression, which he knows is mean. But she didn't think they were going to win either, did she? No one even thought they were going to qualify.
"I don't think you're supposed to say that," she says.
"I'm not saying it on camera. But we're not really known for our soccer skills, as a country." He pauses and then corrects, "Our male soccer skills." The women's team could kick his ass and he'd thank them for it. "I'm getting press because I'm pretty good and I've got an uplifting story, which is cool. I'll take some PR and some popularity. But I don't think anyone's expecting us to win. Sometimes you know you're outmatched."
Clarke worries her lip, watching him. "Well, I'm rooting for you," she finally says. "So don't tell anyone I'm not a patriot."
"USA," he agrees, solemn, and her amused eye roll has him in a good mood for hours.
*
The men's soccer team, by some miracle, scores enough goals to make it to the elimination brackets, and Bellamy feels like he's in shock through all the stupid post-game interviews. From what he can tell, none of the rest of the team resents that he's the big story this year; he's talented, which no one denies, a natural leader with a story that the network can spin. Someone has to be the face of the team, and, as Murphy put it, he's got a pretty decent face.
By the time he's done, the rest of the team is already celebrating with the day's winners, or commiserating with the losers. There's always someone ready to feel over-emotional in the Olympic village, Bellamy's discovered.
But he can't get into it, somehow. He finds his eyes darting to the coverage on the TV, to the door, and it's not until Miller says, "Jesus, I'm sure she did fine," that he realizes his weirdness is obvious and, apparently, that Miller has a theory about it.
"What?"
"Your swimmer girlfriend."
Miller's the only person on the national team who's really his teammate--they both play for LA--and therefore the one who knows him best, but this one seems like a stretch.
At the same time, Clarke is racing today. And he does want to know how she did.
And it didn't take him long to figure out who his swimmer girlfriend was supposed to be. Not that he knows any other swimmers, but still.
Stupid Miller.
"It's not like we even won by that much," he says. "We got to the second round so we can lose it instead."
"I can't believe they let you talk to cameras."
"At least I can pretend to be positive. You're a grumpy asshole all the fucking time."
The door opens and he jerks up to see a group of swimmers come in, led by Lexa Elmhurst. He sees no sign of Clarke, and he can't help remembering what she said, about how they aren't really a team. But maybe she's just lingering in the showers. Getting interviewed. It could be all kinds of things. It's not inherently weird that Clarke didn't come with them.
"Congrats on the bronze," Miller offers Elmhurst, when she leans over next to him to get a drink, and she raises her bottle. "Griffin on her way?"
"I assume so," says Elmhurst. She takes a beer and leaves without further comment, and Miller watches her go, shakes his head.
"That was cold. I thought we were supposed to be bros," he tells Bellamy.
"I didn't think she had bros." He's never spoken to her before, but she's already got something of a reputation. She's basically the reality-TV contestant who isn't here to make friends.
"Yeah, but we're both out and proud. There was an article about it and everything. The one you didn't make it into because no one wants to bother explaining what the fuck pansexual means."
"Huh," he says, watches her and the rest of the small group settle in. It's not the weirdest thing, but--well, Clarke Griffin is still a puzzle. And he feels like this must be part of it. Maybe the other swimmers care more about press than the soccer team does. Maybe they hate that Clarke is getting all the attention that Ledecky isn't, just for her family.
Or maybe they just didn't want to wait for her to be out of the shower.
It's another half an hour before she shows up, her appearance heralded by one of the divers, Green, yelling, "Silver medalist!" Clarke ducks her head, but can't actually hide her smile, and Bellamy whoops and cheers along with a handful of other people. At the sound of his voice, she jerks back up, and he raises the beer he's been nursing in recognition. Their next game isn't the day after tomorrow, but drinking in excess still feels like several steps beyond a bad idea. There's celebrating, and then there's stupidity.
"See?" Miller murmurs. "Told you."
Clarke is making her way in their direction, showing no interest in the other swimmers who are already present. She settles in next to Bellamy, smiles at him, and Bellamy feels his stupid heart skip.
Fuck.
"I heard you guys won," she says, raising her water bottle to him.
"Did you know you're only supposed to toast with water when you're toasting Robert E. Lee?" he asks, because once he realizes he has a crush, he loses all ability to be smooth. It's like a disease.
Her eyebrows shoot up, and he feels himself flush. "Is that really a thing?"
"No idea. I had this roommate in college who told me I shouldn't toast with water unless I was toasting him, but he also called the Civil War the War of Northern Aggression so I didn't really trust anything he said." He wets his lips. "Nice medal."
"Probably at least a hundred bucks on eBay, right?" she asks, looking down at it. "Is it douchey that I'm wearing it? Monty wouldn't let me drop it off."
"If I had a medal, I'd be wearing it."
She perks up at that. "You're getting closer, right?"
"We're still in it." He wets his lips. "So, your first medal. It's for your mom, right?"
As he hoped, Clarke laughs. Even steals his beer to take a swig. "It's for your mom," she shoots back. "She's my inspiration."
"She's dead. Awkward."
"Clarke Griffin: Gay Necrophiliac," she says. "I'm giving you all kinds of tabloid fodder."
"Bisexual necrophiliac," he corrects. "Don't wanna libel myself."
"And that's definitely the libelous part," Clarke agrees, but her smile is unsteady, like it's spilling over.
She's so fucking cute, and he likes her.
"Really, how does it feel?" he asks, gesturing to the medal around her neck.
"Pretty good. You want to try?"
She's taking it off and draping it around his neck before he can respond, and there is something oddly emotional about it, the weight of it, the feeling of victory. Even when it's not his victory.
"You cried, didn't you?" he asks her, mostly because it might stop him crying. He's proud of her, and it feels inappropriate.
"I cried because I got silver," she says. "I hate losing."
"So that means I can keep it, right?"
She pats his shoulder. "Why don't you just win your own?"
"Because I have way fewer opportunities to win than you do," he grumbles. "How many events are you in?"
"Four. But I can't get gold in one."
"Is there a rule?"
She smirks. "Up against Ledecky. I'm realistic."
"The silver is pretty cool, though. You should get another so I can have this one."
Clarke reclaims the medal. "You can bid on it on eBay like everyone else. No special treatment just because you're cute, Blake."
The comment makes him flush, and he looks around for Miller automatically, mostly because Miller is probably smirking at him about his whole--thing. All the shit that's happening right now.
But, miracle of miracles, Miller isn't paying attention to them at all, and actually seems to be flirting with Clarke's diver friend, which makes this the best day of Bellamy's life. Miller never flirts. Bellamy's always been pretty sure he gets laid, but he doesn't know how. There's this whole missing courtship portion of Miller's conquests that he's never been able to fill in.
"Holy shit," he tells Clarke, low. "Please tell me your friend is into guys, I never get to make fun of Miller."
"I don't believe that. You seem really good at making fun of people." She grins, leans in close too. "But yes, he is."
"Better than getting a medal, seriously."
"You're just saying that because you don't have one," Clarke says. She snags his beer again and takes another drink. He's weirdly into it. "I'm bored, you want to play darts?"
He'd been planning to find someone, see about hooking up. Celebrating. But he sucks at darts, and he bets Clarke does too, and he'd rather hang out with her. Which is worrying, but Miller is flirting with a cute boy, so obviously he has a defense already prepared if he gets called out.
"Winner gets the medal," he says.
"You wish," Clarke shoots back. "Just be really good at soccer and get your own."
"Wow. Be really good at soccer. I can't believe I didn't think of that."
"I should be a coach."
He finishes his beer. "You're an inspiration. Come on, medalist. Kick my ass."
*
Going for a swim the next morning has absolutely nothing to do with Clarke. He likes swimming. He always has. It's his favorite morning exercise, especially after a game. Honestly, it's surprising he took this long to check out the pool, but it felt weirdly like he was intruding. It's not his sport; he doesn't need to practice his freestyle. But everyone uses the track, everyone uses the weight room. It's all just workout space. So Bellamy is going to use the pool. There is nothing weird about that.
Miller doesn't say anything when he leaves, which Bellamy takes to mean he's still flirting with the diver and doesn't want to give Bellamy an excuse to tease him. He also doesn't come to the pool, though, so flirting with the diver apparently doesn't involve lowkey stalking.
Not that Bellamy is stalking Clarke. He swims a lot, okay? And he doesn't even know if Clarke is going to be there. It's not like she lives at the pool. He's seen her at plenty of places that aren't the pool.
Fuck. He's twenty-seven, he's at the fucking Olympics, and he's acting like a teenager with his first crush. A celebrity crush, even. It's so sad.
He sees Abby Griffin before he sees Clarke, standing by the side of the pool with her arms crossed, glancing between the water and a stop watch. And that's when he stops paying attention to her, because, honestly, Clarke is just way more interesting than her mother. And he's never really seen her swim before. He's seen footage of it in passing, but it's different in person, watching the way she moves through the water, her focus, her ease.
He doesn't realize she's staring until Coach Griffin snaps, "Can we help you?"
He jumps. "Uh, no, sorry. Just--I was going to say hi."
"She's busy."
Clarke slaps the end of the lane and stops to tread water. "I was basically done with that one. Hi, Bellamy."
"Hey. Not trying to interrupt, I just thought it would be weirder to not say anything."
"Yeah, standing around like an awkward creeper was definitely your best call," she says. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm kind of athletic. I like swimming to warm up after a game day. It relaxes me."
Her grin is all teeth. "This lane is free. You wanna race?"
"Clarke--" Abby starts, and Clarke's smile changes. He's not sure how, exactly, but--he doesn't like the new one as much.
"I'm not going to go easy on him, don't worry."
"As long as you don't mind if I doggie paddle," he says, hoping to break the tension. He's not sure it works, but her expression softens a little.
"I don't care what you do. Just don't drown."
It's less a race--because, honestly, Clarke can kick his ass without even trying--and more just--companionable. Two friends hanging out, enjoying the water. And, granted, it's really fucking intense for Clarke, but he thinks she's having fun too. He's never seen her in her element before. It's obvious this is where she feels best.
"I was really close on that one," he tells her, after he finishes a lazy backstroke.
"I did like five laps in the time it took you to do one."
"And I nearly beat you on the last one."
She laughs, and he lets himself splash her before he remembers her mom, Olympic gold medalist Abigail Griffin, is watching them. And probably judging him for being shitty at backstroke and flirting.
"Dork," Clarke says. "When's your next game?"
"Not until tomorrow night. Why?"
She worries her lip. "I might actually be able to come watch. If that's cool."
"You want to?" he asks, not keeping the surprise out of his tone. "My sister says soccer is, and I quote, the most boring game she can think of with rules she actually understands."
"Does that mean she's not here?"
"No, she's here. She just drinks during my games and is trying to hook up with some hot fencer. Standard little sister stuff."
Clarke laughs, rests her cheek on her arms as she smiles at him. It's a lot to deal with. "Then, yeah. I really want to come to your game."
"Cool. I know a guy. I bet I can get you seats."
*
"Miller says you've got a swimmer girlfriend," Octavia says. They're grabbing lunch before he goes back to practice, which is about as much as he sees her most days at the games. He's fucking busy. But she looks happy, smiling m and relaxed, like she's been having a good time. She might be fucking the fencer; he's not going to ask. It's not like he wasn't getting laid here before he went and developed stupid feelings. It's her business.
"Miller thinks any time I talk to anyone, it's because I want to fuck them."
"He's basically right," O points out. "She's cute."
"She is cute," he agrees. "But I'm not really trying to fuck her. I just want to figure her out."
"Oh, so you're really into her."
"How's what's his face? The one with the big sword?"
"Fencing foils aren't that big," she says. "It's not like he has a broad sword. Or a bastard sword. He could have a much bigger sword. Well, actual sword. But metaphorically speaking--"
He holds up his hand. "Jesus, fine. I forgot you cheat at this game." He leans back, closes his eyes, and soaks in the sun for a minute. At least he finally took his sister on a tropical vacation. They're both bad at taking time off without an excuse, and this is the best one. "She's interesting."
"I can't wait to have a sister. She seems way cooler than you."
"Most people are."
She considers him. "At least it's taking your mind off stressing about the games."
"No one expects us to win, so it's actually really low-stress. Just winning getting to elimination rounds was a major accomplishment."
"Set your sights low."
"As much as possible." He stands and cracks his neck. "She's coming tomorrow, so don't be weird, okay? No comments about how you always wanted a sister or--just pretend I didn't raise an asshole for like two hours, okay?"
"One hour."
"Deal."
He's not actually that nervous about it--no more nervous than he is about the entire situation--until about an hour before the game starts, and he realizes the girl he likes is going to come to his soccer game. It's a feeling he hasn't had since high school, this kind of nervous, stupid energy, the desire to impress just one person feeling completely ridiculous given he's at the fucking Olympics.
He deals with it with his usual grace and maturity, which is to say that he goes and bugs Miller.
"How's your diver boyfriend?"
"We actually made out, so I'm way ahead of you and your swimmer girlfriend, I assume."
That brings him up short. "You just made out?"
"I'm a fucking romantic, okay? I'm wooing him and shit."
"Wow, yeah. You sold me. So romantic." He lets out a breath. "She's coming to this game. So--let's try to score at least once, okay?"
"Remember when you used to be good at motivational speeches? What happened?"
"Fuck you. I'm going to give the whole team an awesome speech before we go out. But you get I want to impress my swimmer girlfriend."
"You should definitely tell everyone that," Miller says, and claps him on the shoulder. "We're all always rooting for you to get laid."
"I'll see if I can work it in." He glances at Miller. "You really think we could win this?"
"What, like, today? Sure. The entire Olympics? Probably not. But weirder things have happened, right? Maybe the entire Brazilian team gets food poisoning. And then all the other teams. And Murphy too."
Bellamy snorts. "He hasn't fucked us over yet. Which probably means he's due."
"Put that in your speech too." And then, in a fit of what Bellamy assumes is patriotic glee, or possibly the first signs of some serious illness, Miller squeezes his arm and says, "Dude, we're at the Olympics. Everything else is gravy."
It's true, of course, but he's still really glad when they win the game, and Clarke hugs him after, throwing herself in his arms like they're in a movie.
"Like a third of that was interesting! Maybe even almost half!"
He squeezes her hard and can't stop grinning. "I shouldn't have let you sit with my sister."
"Seriously. You're really good. It's cool to see in person."
"In person?"
She ducks her head. "My dad liked soccer. We used to watch sometimes. I saw a few of your games on TV. He really thought you were going places."
He swallows past a lump in his throat. It's not like no one's ever recognized him before. It's not like he's not something of a celebrity. He has fans. He has a fan club.
But he never imagined Clarke giving a shit about who he was.
"You didn't say."
"Didn't want to make you nervous."
After a win like that, he doesn't even remember what nervous was, so he wraps his arm around her shoulders and tugs her toward Octavia. "We're getting dinner," he says. "You're coming, right?"
"Apparently." She settles in against his shoulder like she's going to stay there, and he hopes she is. "You're buying."
*
Clarke has her race versus Ledecky and gets fourth, so the two of them get actually drunk, since they both have a few days off after. Clarke is sanguine about her loss, which he expected, and she still has two more events left, but alcohol still seems important.
"We're going to lose next round," Bellamy admits, once it's dark and his eyes are closed.
Clarke tucks herself into his side and feels like she fits there. "Maybe. Maybe not. You guys aren't terrible."
"No. But I don't want to start getting my hopes up." He lets his cheek rest on her hair. "That's how I've been getting through this. Just keep telling myself--we're not going to make it. We didn't last time."
"I forgot you were on the national team four years ago," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "You guys didn't do terribly."
"Not terribly. And no one listened to me back then."
"You shouldn't be on team sports either. You're too much of a control freak."
"That's the best reason to be on a team. I get to boss everyone around." He breathes. "I want to win," he admits. "I want to get a stupid medal."
He feels her lips press against his shoulder, and he wonders if he could kiss her. He finds he doesn't want to risk it yet. "So win."
"Wow. I didn't think of that. You should swim fast."
"Good plan." She sighs. "If I don't get a gold, my mom will be so disappointed. So at least there's that."
He laughs, surprised, and tugs her closer. What happens to the people you meet at the Olympics when the world shifts back to normal? He has no idea. This doesn't even feel like his life. It doesn't feel like anyone's life.
But Clarke feels real against him, and he wants to keep her there for as long as he can.
"That's the spirit," he says. And then, "I'm rooting for you."
"Yeah. I know."
*
Bellamy's not the only one who wants a medal. The whole team seems to be waking up to the reality that they might, through some miracle, be able to place in this thing. It's not that they're bad--he knows they're the best men's soccer team the US has put up in years. But the US hasn't even gotten a medal in men's soccer since fucking 1904. They've never gotten a gold. His team is not as good as the other teams. It's not bitterness; it's like Clarke up against Katie Ledecky. It's realism.
But they could get bronze, maybe. Bronze isn't out of the question. Silver isn't even.
Gold feels like too much, at least to him. But apparently Coach Pike doesn't agree, because their training leading up to the semi-finals is a few steps beyond grueling, and he barely feels capable of eating and showering after, let alone interacting with humans. The best he manages is half-falling into the pool most mornings and doing a few laps with Clarke before he goes into full-on training mode. It's the indulgence he can allow himself, something technically productive, still active and good for him, but--at least he gets to see her.
"Don't die," she tells him, the morning of the semi-finals. She has a race herself, so she's not coming, but she's been quietly supportive, bringing him food at meals and sitting with him even when he's too tired to do anything.
She likes him. She definitely does.
"What if it gets me a medal?"
"You can't posthumously sell a medal on eBay." She worries her lip. "If you want a medal that much, you can have mine."
"You're just saying that because you're going to get two more."
"I'm not sure," she says, and glances to see that her mother is distracted before she leans over and pecks him on the cheek. "Good luck, Bellamy."
"Thanks," he manages. He's tired enough it feels like a dream. "You too."
He's not surprised when they lose the game--disappointed, of course. Sad, and a little let-down. But it's not a surprise, they're still in for the bronze, and he thinks they played well. They didn't get their asses kicked, and the other teams take them seriously. He has already proved himself.
It still hurts, and he goes to find Clarke on autopilot. To his relief, she's already in their usual drinking spot, nursing a beer, with an actual gold medal around her neck.
His smile hurts, but after the last few days, everything hurts. He's exhausted.
"Holy fucking shit," he says, and picks her up for a hug. "You got a fucking gold medal."
"You didn't," she says.
"I couldn't have tonight. I can still get a bronze, if I play my cards right." He kisses her hair. "Congratulations. That's fucking awesome."
"It feels pretty good." She smiles at him, looks tired, proud and sad all at once. "I'm really sorry you lost."
"Now you can definitely give me the silver. You don't need it." He wets his lips. "Fuck them. We're getting the bronze."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He licks his lips. "I can't actually stay, I'm wiped out, but I, uh--I wanted to see you."
Her cheeks redden. "No, that's--I figured. I was going to come with you."
For a second, his brain shuts off, and then he groans and drops his forehead onto her shoulder. "Seriously, I'm so fucking tired. It's not that I don't want to, but I don't think I could even--what's the least possible effort I could put into sex? I couldn't do that." He kisses her neck anyway, soft. "Is this a one-time offer? I could pound a Red Bull."
"It wasn't really an offer," she says, and his stomach drops. He nearly pulls back to apologize, but Clarke tangles her hand in his hair and rubs his scalp. Which feels so good it's impossible to have any other emotions. "I know you're tired. I thought you just might want, um--honestly, I thought you might want to snuggle. But that's--"
"That's the best idea I've ever heard," he says, and turns his head to kiss her jaw. His filter is several steps past dead, and Clarke smells like chlorine and warm metal. He wants to live the rest of his life with his face in her neck. "If I haven't fucked this up."
"You're good. You're cute when you're dying of exhaustion," she says. "Come on, Bellamy."
She twines her fingers with his, tugs him back to what must be her room. She helps him get out of his shirt and jeans, pushes him into her bed in just his boxers. He gets his glasses off while she undresses, and when she slides in next to him in an over-sized t-shirt, it's not better than an Olympic medal.
But as consolation prizes go, it's not bad.
*
"I think I actually prefer the bronze," he tells Clarke. He's not convinced that she's a good luck charm--most of their first-round games were before he'd started talking to her, and they did pretty well in those--but he thinks he probably does better when she's watching him. He likes impressing her.
Clarke leans up off his chest enough she can look at the medal, critical. "You're just saying that because you don't have a gold."
"Definitely." He kisses her hair. "Are you getting another? You don't need two. I could take one. You wouldn't even notice."
"I'm getting another one," she says, with a fierceness he didn't expect.
He thinks they're dating now, or at least dating as a useful short-hand term for making out when they aren't too exhausted to move their mouths and sleeping together most nights. He's managed to get her off twice, which is not nearly enough, in his opinion, but he thinks he's probably going to be able to do it later.
He's got some time off after this; he thinks Clarke wouldn't be opposed to his spending it with her.
But there are still thinks about her he doesn't know.
"Yeah?" he asks, and hopes its the right thing.
She worries her lip, and he tilts her face up so he can kiss her. He's still exhausted, but it's a triumphant kind of exhaustion. The best US Olympic finish in one hundred years. It's not a gold medal, but--it's fucking awesome.
"Do you want to take a walk?" she asks finally, and he just stands and offers his hand.
For all that there are tons of people around all the time, it's not really that hard to feel private at the Olympics, he's found. Everyone seems to have their own stuff going on. The most commentary he's gotten on his new relationship from people who aren't Miller or Octavia is a mild talking-to from Miller's diver boyfriend about how Clarke's had a hard time and Bellamy better not hurt her, which was honestly kind of endearing. He's glad at least one semi-teammate has Clarke's back.
"Lexa's in this one," Clarke says, soft, once they're on a fairly deserted stretch of street.
"And you want to kick her ass? I can see that."
Her laugh is a little more watery than he'd like. "She screwed me over."
"I believe that, yeah." He reaches down to take her hand, rubbing his thumb against the smooth skin of her knuckles. "Is this why you suck at teamwork?"
"Shut up," she says, without venom. And then, "Yeah. Not--I was in the relay qualifier for 2012. To make the team. I wasn't--I never liked the relay. Part of why I like swimming is that I don't have to worry about other people. Everything is--it's all on me. I like that. But the coach thought relay would be a good fit for me. And my mom didn't, so obviously I did it."
"Of course," he says. "And?"
"And Lexa--thought I wasn't ready. That's what she told me later. She said it would have been bad for the team, for me to go in 2012. That I would have--" Her face twists. "Maybe she even believed that was what she was doing. The needs of the many or whatever. But--I think she didn't want the competition. Back then, we were in most of the same events. She made me think she was tagging me in and didn't really, so we got disqualified from the relay, and they decided I wasn't ready yet."
Bellamy tries to remember his trivia. "She got two medals, right?"
"Bronze and silver." A smile flashes over her face, something more vicious than he's seen before. "I've beaten both her times. Not that--maybe I wouldn't have if I was here. But I would have had a good shot." She lets out a breath, closes her eyes. "Maybe she was right. Maybe I was too young. But it wasn't her call."
"And no one believes you?" he asks.
"Believes me?"
"If someone fucked up my chance to go to the Olympics, I wouldn't still be on a team with them. Or talking to them."
"We dated for a while," Clarke admits, looking kind of amused. But not like it's funny. "We were dating when she did it. I was the one who got DQed, I was the one who broke up with her. Even my mom didn't figure out what really happened. I would have looked like a bitter, immature kid. And they already all thought I was, so I--I didn't want to make it work." She exhales. "I thought about quitting."
"Jesus. That--fucking sucks."
She leans her head on his shoulder. "After I got the silver, she acted like I should thank her. Like if I'd come in 2012, I would have destroyed my career. Like I owed my medal to her."
"I bet a silver medal would work okay as brass knuckles," he muses. "Did you try it?"
"No. I told her I had an interview to get to and congratulated her on the bronze."
"Even better."
Her breath is shaky. "It sounds stupid when I say it, I guess. Like--it was four years ago. It didn't ruin my life. I'm doing well. I got a gold. But--every time I get interviewed, that's what I think. I'm here because I deserve to be here, and I'm here because I stopped doing relays and stopped trying to get to know my teammates and--"
"Nope," he says.
It startles the scowl off her face. "What?"
"That's not why."
"It's not?"
He considers, picks up an empty bottle someone dropped by a garbage can and starts dribbling it. "My dad really loved soccer."
"Yeah?"
"I don't talk about it, because--O, she likes attention. She's happy to be part of my story. But my dad--I don't share him."
"Why not?"
He pauses, but they are being honest. "He and my mom never got married. He wasn't around much--he was a pilot, so he traveled a lot. He lived in Manila and only passed through every few months, and he died when I was ten. But he was all mine. I didn't have a lot of people like that. So he's still mine." He kicks the bottle to her, and she kicks it back, easy. "He'd always make sure he came for my birthday, and when I was five and my mom was pregnant with O, he bought me a soccer ball in, like--it was in a mesh bag on a string, so I could play with it even when I was alone. So when I was figuring out something to do after school--" He shrugs. "I didn't start playing soccer because I wanted to go to the Olympics, or because I wanted to make money."
"Yeah, you would have started playing football if you wanted money," Clarke teases.
"Or baseball, or basketball. Basically anything else," he agrees. "I started playing because I love it. And that's why you swim too, right?"
"Yeah," she says. "But you can love swimming and not go to the Olympics."
"If they ask you to go, you go." He kicks the bottle and manages to land it in a bin on the first try; Clarke claps. "You don't need a supervillain origin story to want a gold medal. If anyone asks, just tell them you needed to get two so your boyfriend could have one."
It makes her laugh, so he doesn't regret saying it. Even if they never talked about that. "Trust me, as a female athlete, you want to avoid referencing your boyfriend as a motivation. The media is already all over that."
"But I still get a medal, right?"
She tugs him down to kiss him, and he goes easily. She's in California too. This could be real. It doesn't have to be a Rio thing. He could keep her.
"Maybe in Tokyo," she says.
*
He gets a silver medal in 2020, and Clarke agrees to marry him when he asks after her last race. Which, as he points out, means that they will have joint custody of all of her medals, the three from Rio and the two from Tokyo.
"That's why I proposed," he tells her. "This whole thing was a long-con. Easiest way to get a gold medal."
"Yeah, it's not like you've got enough talent for your own." She leans her head against his shoulder. "Which reminds me, I decided our kids are going to be total nerds. We won't even tell them what sports are until they're teenagers."
"I wanted to have twins who played beach volleyball," he says. "Was that not the plan? I had expectations, Clarke."
"Tiny little nerds. Even thicker glasses than yours. They're going to play Magic: The Gathering and be afraid of gym class."
"Shit. We should have talked about this before I proposed."
"Too late now. You told NBC. Everyone knows. You can't back out."
In terms of things Bellamy wants the whole world to know about him, engaged to Clarke Griffin is neck-in-neck with two-time Olympic medalist. And if he could only pick one, he's pretty sure he'd pick her every time.
"Guess not," he says, settling in. "I'll live. Somehow."
"Somehow," Clarke agrees. "You're smart, for a jock. I bet you can figure it out."
Bellamy has no doubt.