This is a rewrite of an earlier fic, Crash and Burn and Break.
He watches the Olympics from his couch sipping at a can of beer under dim lights and thinks that this isn't how things are supposed to be.
I'm Austin Tucker.
I'm Austin Tucker.
The words reverberate through his mind in a constant stream that pounds at his consciousness, each heavy syllable drumming out a steady rhythm until it all kind of runs together, and he's left to wonder if it even means anything anymore, if the fact that he's Austin Tucker means anything. He's pretty sure that if it did, he wouldn't be here sitting in an empty house alone watching the Olympics from his house.
He watches every single second. He stays up late to watch the tape-delayed coverage, even sits through the mind-numbing hours of NBC commentary, and as he watches, he slips deeper and deeper into himself. At qualifications, he sips beer. At team finals, he crushes each beer can in his fist before dropping it to the floor to lay in shambles at his feet. At all-around finals, he nurses Jack & Coke, and by the time the last event final rolls around, he's throwing back shots of whiskey, sometimes vodka, and somehow, he still can't stop imagining himself out there competing on that admittedly vomit-inducing bright pink floor.
He lost.
He lost what feels like everything so it's with this in mind that he drives to the Rock just minutes after coverage of the event finals ends.
He parks his car in front of the gym and stares at the banner emblazoned with his name that hangs above the door and wonders when his banner will give way to Kaylie's and Payson's (he doesn't think about the third name that should hang with theirs).
He thinks that this sport is more than a little bit unforgiving. Even of its heroes.
Four years.
Four years, and he's already irrelevant, and the thought of it cuts him to the core, because he's always wanted to be more.
He's not sure why, but he walks toward the glass doors and as the key slides smoothly into the lock (Olympic medalists get privileges) thinks that this place is as close to home as he's been in awhile.
He expects quiet, and that's what he gets. But he also expects total darkness so he's surprised when he takes note of the dim lights casting a soft glow over the balance beam, but it's not so surprising that the petite moving figure making her way across the beam belongs to Lauren Tanner.
He closes the door softly behind him so he won't disturb her or maybe so she won't see him watching her, mesmerized. He doesn't leave, and he can't really think of a reason to justify his presence besides the simple fact that Lauren Tanner on balance beam isn't really something anyone can look away from.
He just watches in silence, and somewhere, in the back of his mind, it strikes him that this (standing in a darkened corner of the gym just watching) is a little bit creepy, but the heady influence of alcohol numbs that part of his brain so he stays.
He's witnessed Kaylie draw the eyes and hearts (including his) of an entire arena on floor exercise and heard the sharp intake of breath elicited by Jordan Randall's dismount on bars, but this, this thing he can't really define is a quieter sort of magic, different even from Lauren Tanner's own usual brand of magic, her "sizzle." It's quieter and gentler but somehow more.
And, something about that magic he can't quite put a name to makes him realize that yes, she's human too, that she can crash and burn and break just like the rest of them (and maybe, she did on a spring morning when some man in a white lab coat with an advanced degree denied her a chance at a dream). Then he remembers a stolen moment in the form of a plea that he heard from beyond a door (I don't want to have sex; I just don't want to be alone) and thinks that maybe, her humanity has been staring him in the face all along and he's just been too blind, too stubborn to see it, and then, he thinks that he's quite possibly crazy (but really, aren't they all?) for seeing all this in a beam routine, because some things just are, right? They don't have some secondary meaning woven between the threads.
"Did you watch?" her voice shakes the silence, and he thinks that maybe, she knew he was there all along.
"Yeah..." he answers carefully controlling his voice, keeping the pronunciation clear. He can't slur, can't show weakness. "Did you?"
"No."
The single word passes her lips softly, so softly he almost doesn't hear it, and he follows her line of sight and sees it rest on the photo collage from the World Championships, catches the softness in her eyes, and he thinks that maybe they're the same, dreamers trying to hold on to something they lost.
"Couldn't do it?"
"I could've won all-around, you know?" she says, voice strong and sure, and he would never admit it, but he thinks she could have. Maybe (but sometimes, maybe is all you need). "I wasn't, I'm not a one-trick pony."
And his mind trickles back to a long-held belief. He thinks, has always thought, that success is equal parts talent and just sheer belief, belief that you will make it, no matter what the odds say, and Lauren, he thinks, has always had that (belief) in spades.
"Did you ever think it would end up like this?" he asks.
"End up like what? Me, here, alone in a darkened gym, refusing to watch the Olympics, stuck with only you for company?" she scoffs, "No, it's fair to think I didn't think it would end up like this. You don't do what we do if you don't think you're gonna make it... No one's strong enough for that."
"Are you still mad at Payson?" he asks.
"Yes," and the single word comes out resolutely and without hesitation, but he looks into the blonde's eyes and sees sadness there that seems to belie her emotionless response.
"She was looking out for you, you know?"
"And she took away my dream."
"She saved your life. That's a real friend."
"No! She fucked up her double illusion that day so she told on me so she wouldn't get cut!"
And he's not sure what makes him say it, but he does it anyway even though he knows it's below the belt. "She's not you, Tanner!"
And her eyes meet his all fire and heat, and he can tell she wants to hit him, can see from the way that her fists clench that she's barely managing to hold herself back.
"You could've died," he says more quietly, so quietly he's not sure she hears.
"Like you would've cared," she says, her voice dripping acid, and this, this is the Lauren Tanner he remembers, the bitter one, the one who can level a person with a few words and a smirk, and like she wants, he recoils, which she immediately notices.
"What? You didn't think I realized you hate me? That you tell everyone what a massive slut you think I am? That you run around telling everyone the story about how I ripped out Max's heart, ripped it to shreds, and then spit it back up even though you and I both know that he was the one who couldn't make up his mind? Save your breath, because we both know that you wouldn't have shed any tears if I had trainwrecked on that Pepto-Bismol-ed mat. You wouldn't have rushed down from the stands and carried me out like a princess. You didn't, you don't give a damn about me."
"You wouldn't have wanted me too," he says, "You've never wanted or needed anyone, me especially to save you."
"That's beside the point," she snaps, "The point is that you're standing here pretending that you give a damn about me, my life, my relationships, and a thousand other things when we are both well-aware of the fact that you hate me. Why are you even here? I thought you and the Princess made up. Shouldn't the two of you be partaking in some sort of post-competition leg-waxing?"
"What?"
"C'mon. You wear shorts enough. I've seen your legs. No way your legs are that smooth without waxing."
And he laugh, laughs because of the sheer absurdity, and he's surprised when he hears her laughter chiming in, soft and slightly raspy.
"Why are you here?" she asks when the laughter dies down, only her voice lacks the malice that shown through just a few minutes before. She just sounds resigned and tired, and her voice holds the same fatigue that has seeped into his bones and into every muscle of his body over the years, only he thinks she, unlike him, still has enough left to make one more go of it.
"I don't know," he says, because it's the truth, and it's the only answer that makes sense.
He doesn't know.
She doesn't know.
No one knows, but somehow, right now, the why and the how of it all doesn't matter.
It's just him and her and this (whatever this is) in a darkened gym they call home.