Chapter Text
The first time she sees Aliya Mustafina at the Olympic Village, Aly Raisman is standing at the main lobby through which all Olympic athletes have to check in. Her teammates have sat down beside the delegation from Brazil while Aly waits in line to request some extra keys before they head to their assigned rooms. While she speaks to an older woman behind the front desk, Aly turns to the area behind her, intending to point to where the rest of Team USA is, and that’s when her gaze is instantly pulled to the arriving Russian gymnastics team—to one girl in particular, deeply engaged in her phone while her teammates point and comment on their surroundings.
Aly, like the rest of her team, knows the Russian gymnasts. Not only because Russia and China are their toughest competition, but also because the more veteran international gymnasts, like Aly, Jordyn, Aliya Mustafina and Viktoria Komova, sort of grew up together; in the yearly competitions everyone got a chance to catch up on who’s grown up a couple of inches, who’s perfected that skill they struggled with last year, etc. So Aly knows who Mustafina is, and knew she was going to be here, and yet, for some reason she can’t figure out, her attention is completely monopolized by her. She has to blink back a flash of memory; a blur of sparkling purple leotard, flying impossibly high above every apparatus, and the one perfect landing at Worlds in 2010 that made Aly wish she spoke Russian, so she could congratulate the gymnast and have a chance to say, however breathlessly and dorkily, “you’re perfect—really, really perfect.” The scene, only a moment long, splashes inside her mind and is gone just as quickly.
Aly tries to watch Mustafina discreetly, and is relieved when the girl doesn’t notice, as she doesn’t seem to have anything on her mind besides helping the other girls with their bags. Mustafina was the queen of Worlds in 2010, while Aly herself only really matured into her gymnastics in the last year or so. Even now… yes, she’s the team captain and everything, but she’s not the one at the forefront in the media and in anyone’s winner predictions… Jordyn and Gabby are the stars here, and she’s kind of the steady backup. And even recovering from a horrible (and recent) injury, Mustafina still could win everything. It’s kind of daunting to think about that. Another look at the Russian girl reminds Aly that she’s also really, really pretty. Probably the prettiest gymnast in the world…
Aly clears her throat and turns to the hotel employee again, who now has the extra keys available and is wishing her luck in a crisp English accent. Reluctantly, Aly walks back to where her team is awaiting her; she’s almost too aware that Mustafina and the rest of Team Russia are standing only a few feet away now, and there’s a nervous tremor accompanying her heartbeats, anxious for when competition finally begins and she has to go up against the Russian juggernaut, and nervous for when Mustafina finally sees her (will she recognize her?). Aly is then immersed by her teammates’ conversations, momentarily forgetting all about Mustafina: apparently McKayla can’t find her phone charger, Jordyn thinks her shampoo exploded in her bag, and Gabby is having a hard time fitting all her luggage inside the carrying carts they’ve been supplied with.
It’s only when the girls are already in their rooms (and she and McKayla are squealing that they get to share theirs), that Aly wonders whether she should have greeted Mustafina and the rest of the Russian team. Gymnastics is a fiercely competitive sport, of course, but there’s genuine camaraderie between its athletes. No one was overjoyed when Mustafina’s knee practically came apart after that vault landing a year and a half ago… every athlete has a certain amount of respect for the others who have worked just as hard to achieve their own dream.
But then, Aly thinks, biting the corner of her lip, she’ll be seeing plenty of the Russian gymnastics team out there when they go head-to-head for the gold. Most of the Chinese and Romanian teams are injured so it looks like Russia will be their main adversary.
Yeah, now that she has a clearer head, she’s glad she didn’t try to be that loser that goes over to the cool girl on the other team to say hi.
“Hey, I’m gonna go get some ice,” Aly tells McKayla, who’s busy snapping pictures of their room and the view it provides of the London skyline.
“Buy me a water, please?” McKayla requests, smiling but not taking her eyes off her phone.
Aly nods, immediately remembering that McKayla probably didn’t see it, then steps out of their room. When she rounds off the corner and into the hallway that has the ice machine, she’s distracted, watching through the open doors as various athletes, from every nation imaginable, unpack their things, laugh, take pictures, and do the things that regular people do whenever they’re settling in to a new, exciting location. It’s almost easy to forget that these are all world-class athletes.
She’s walking down the hallway, smiling goofily at a pair of laughing athletes from where she guesses is New Zealand, when her gymnastic reflexes allow her to narrowly avoid tripping over a backpack laying on the carpeted floor. She feels a hand on her lower back, steadying her off-balance body. It takes her a split second to gather her composure and turn around to thank her helper, and another split second for her to widen her eyes, her words of gratitude stalling on her tongue.
Oh my God it’s Aliya Mustafina. That was the hand steadying her.
Her breath catches and her body freezes, and it really only takes one very long, stretched out second for Aly’s eyes to sweep and study the Russian—the flawless ponytail, the way her skin is kind of perfect, glowing and pale, and the way her eyes are large and colored halfway between green and gray, the shape of her slightly blushed cheeks, and the curve of her mouth… wait… she’s smiling. It’s not a wide smile, by any means, but there is a smile there, apologetic, and maybe a bit shy. Aly immediately takes a step back, to create some much-needed distance.
“Okay?” Even a simple word like this betrays her accent, but it only makes Aly appreciate it more; Aliya Mustafina is trying to speak her language in order to inquire on her well-being. It sends a dangerously exhilarating sensation down her chest and stomach.
“Yes, I’m okay,” Aly replies, aware of her own breathlessness. “Thanks for helping me.” Mustafina’s eyebrows furrow slightly, and Aly realizes that she probably didn’t fully understand her last sentence. “Thank you,” she repeats, and Mustafina smiles again, and shrugs.
Aly shifts her eyes to the floor and feels some slight panic. She really, really wishes she could speak at least some basic Russian, just to elaborate on her thanks, or maybe ask her what she thinks of London so far, or whether she’s done unpacking—anything, just to hear Mustafina say something else. Aly can’t remember ever hearing her voice before that “okay” from a minute ago, which she’s already replaying in her head over and over for reasons she can’t be bothered to figure out for now.
Mustafina gives her another smile, and that’s when Aly figures that she might as well stop gawking at the girl and get going. So she returns her smile with a blush, then turns back to the hallway. It takes her two steps to notice that Aliya is right behind her, and her mind is swollen with a thousand anxious thoughts—are they going to the same place? Should she ask? Would she understand? Should she walk with her?
Aly enters the small room with the ice dispenser and various snack and drink vending machines, and stands to the side and waits. Sure enough, Aliya Mustafina follows her inside a second later, and Aly almost wants to throw her arms up to the sky and ask, “really, universe? I have to be in this little room with her?” but she settles for moving on ahead towards the ice dispenser. Apparently Mustafina had the same idea, and their hands end up bumping against each other as they simultaneously reach for the dispenser’s button.
Mother of God. (Why does everything feel so awkward with Mustafina?)
“You can go first,” Aly blurts out rapidly, but of course the Russian only throws her a puzzled look.
Mustafina points to the dispenser, then to Aly. “You,” she says, and Aly can’t help memorizing the sound of her voice with that word, as well. She can add that “you” to the earlier “okay” and have… almost a whole sentence.
Jesus—something is wrong with her if she’s committing to memory the way Aliya Mustafina says English words.
Wordlessly, Aly nods and then reaches for the button on the dispenser. Upon its pressing, a low churning sound is emitted from the machine, and then a small bag of ice is neatly deposited for pick-up at the slot on the bottom.
“Ice.” Mustafina’s voice makes Aly pause when she grabs the bag. Did she imagine that? Is she hallucinating now? Or did she actually address her; did she actually try to speak another word in English?
Swallowing hard, Aly turns to the Russian girl, only to find her with a disarmingly sheepish smile that makes her insides melt, just a bit.
“Ice?” Aly repeats in a mumble, then follows Mustafina’s gaze to the bag in her hand. “Right—yes, this is ice.” She hopes fervently that the girl’s limited English won’t keep her from understanding what she’s about to say: “How do you say ‘ice’ in Russian?”
Mustafina’s smile widens with understanding, and then she says something that sounds a lot like “low-te” but with a very heavy and closed “oh” sound.
Aly tries to repeat it, but Mustafina laughs and shakes her head. Aly tries again, but it sounds worse than the last time and she has no choice but to join Mustafina in laughter; apparently her Russian is hopeless.
Her laughter dies down into a grin, and because she isn’t sure of what other words they can try to teach each other, Aly presses the ice button again, retrieves another bag, and holds it out to Mustafina.
Mustafina has to step forward to grab it, and at their increased proximity, Aly feels it again—that nervous tightening in her chest, that reluctance to look in the eye someone who’s so beautiful. She gives Aly another smile, then takes the bag from her and says something slowly enough that Aly catches all the syllables.
“Spa-see-bwa?” Aly repeats, feeling as though she’s frying her brain trying to recreate the exact pronunciation the Russian gymnast used.
Mustafina grins with surprise, making Aly cock her head to the side slightly, wondering if that means she did well or even worse than her usual.
“Yes,” Mustafina tells her with a firm nod. “Good.”
“Really? That was good?” She knows her obvious excitement must make her look like a dork, but she doesn’t care. “And that means ‘thank you’?”
“Yes. Thank you,” the Russian says confidently, engraving the sound into Aly’s mind. Her heavy accent, emphasized by the way she rolls her tongue more, and stresses the vowels more, makes Aly momentarily forget that they’re having a conversation—a real one—because all she wants is for the girl to keep talking. It’s the voice, the accent, the manner with which she positions her lips to pronounce everything; it’s all kinds of mesmerizing.
At the sound of footsteps nearby, Aly immediately takes a step back. It occurs to her that she’s always the one creating distance. Even if she might be the one (the only one) who wishes they could stand just a little bit closer.
“Bye, Aly,” Mustafina bids her, snapping Aly from her daze (was she staring at the Russian? Oh my God). Aly is a bit disappointed that she can’t think of anything to say to prolong their conversation, and it’s while she’s distracted with that thought that she misinterprets Mustafina’s step towards her. Before Aly can realize that Mustafina is about to hug her, she’s already stretched out her arm for a handshake, effectively stopping Mustafina in her tracks.
Her stomach sinks to the ground when she sees Mustafina bite the corner of her lip, seemingly hiding a tiny smile, then grip her hand gently with her own. It’s too late to try to fix things and hug her, so Aly focuses on the handshake instead, and gives her a proper smile, one that doesn’t betray how nervous she is. Mustafina raises her bag of ice and returns her smile. “Thank you, Aly.”
“Um… spa-see-bwa… for helping me not fall before.” Tensely, she licks her lips—how much of that did Mustafina really understand?—and thinks about how she called her by her first name. The way it sounded from her lips.. was like it wasn’t a foreign word. “Aliya.”
The sound of her name doesn’t go by unnoticed by the Russian; she pauses by the door, gives Aly one last glance that’s colored by a faint smile, then exits the room.
Aly remains there for a minute longer, mind pleasantly empty now that the Russian girl isn’t there making her hyperventilate. She stares at the open door for a few seconds, wanting to leave, but simultaneously thinking that she could stay in there for a very long time, listening to Mustafina’s voice reverberating off the walls of her chest.
Was she really there? Did they really talk? Did that really just happen?
Later—did she wait five seconds or five minutes?—when she’s back at her room, McKayla is still unpacking. Aly stands by the door, clutching the bag of ice that might have started to melt already, aware of not much else except the accented words still echoing in her head.
“Bye, Aly. Thank you.”
Stop thinking about this…
“Aly?” The call makes Aly snap her eyes up from their carpeted floor to McKayla’s frown. “You okay there?”
“Yeah,” Aly replies, aware that her voice sounds a little less lively than usual. “Here’s your ice.”
“The ice was for you,” McKayla reminds with her trademark haughtiness. “Where’s my water, woman?”
Crap. She totally forgot that.
“Well, this is almost melted. It will be water if you wait about ten minutes,” Aly jokes weakly. “I’m sorry, I got a little… sidetracked.”
Don’t think about Mustafina. Don’t think about Mustafina.
“Yeah? What happened?”
She can get away with not answering this honestly, or outright lying. McKayla’s level of interest in this conversation is understandably low; they’re in the Olympics, for crying out loud. Talking about ice isn’t that exciting. But she swallows down her apprehension instead, and says, as evenly as she can manage, “I bumped into one of the Russian gymnasts.”
McKayla glances up from her luggage for a quick second, just long enough to let Aly know that she’s listening.
“Which one of them?”
“Aliya Mustafina.”
She’s said that name before, but it feels odd to say it now; it’s weightier, and it feels like it means something.
McKayla has the expected dramatic response. “Oooh, the ice queen.”
“She’s really nice,” Aly responds, a little too quickly. “I mean, she was nice to me. She taught me some Russian, too.”
As soon as she adds that last part, Aly regrets it; McKayla shifts her attention to her and Aly is tempted to take a step back into the wall to avoid her friend’s intense gaze.
“Really? So you two actually talked?”
“For a little bit.”
“How was it?”
“I told you; she’s nice.” And beautiful. Really, really beautiful.
“And she taught you some Russian words?” McKayla is smiling. That’s not a good sign. “Which ones?”
“’Ice’ and ‘thank you.’”
She laughs then, but Aly isn’t sure if she’s amused by what she just told her, or by Aly herself—she feels so, so uncomfortable right now, and it probably shows.
“Did you teach her some English, too?”
“She kind of speaks it already,” Aly answers, unsure of whether she should even say another word about her encounter with the Russian. Now that she’s talking about it with someone else, she realizes that it really wasn’t that much of a big deal. These are the Olympics and they’re going to be seeing other gymnasts practically every hour of every day. With this in mind, Aly forces herself to be nonchalant as she adds, “we talked for like, thirty seconds. I barely remember what happened.”
You remember everything…
“Ice.”
“Ice? Right—yes, this is ice.”
“Oh, okay.” McKayla’s attention is once again focused on her luggage, much to Aly’s relief. Aly herself puts down the bag of half-melted ice on their small kitchen sink and slumps down on her bed. “You haven’t even touched your bags yet.”
She throws one languid look at her pile of luggage and sinks down on her bed. “I’m having a lazy moment. Leave me alone.”
She’s in no mood to unpack, and they have a meeting with their coaches in less than 40 minutes. Can she just take a quick nap? She savors the softness of the covers, closing her eyes to rest for the first time since they landed in London. She doesn’t think about her routines, doesn’t think about the pressure of being the team captain, doesn’t think about the hopes and expectations of an entire nation, resting on their hands. And she tries her very hardest not to think about Aliya Mustafina, and that perfect smile, and those impossibly bright eyes, and that voice that’s gotten her almost addicted and wanting to hear her say every word ever invented. She’s really close to allowing her mind to be dragged into unconsciousness…
Until: “So. How do you say ‘ice’ in Russian?”