Page 14 of Stroke Rate

“It’s been a v-ve-very, very long time since I’ve been on a d-d-date, but if this work meeting is any kind of indication. I-I-I’mmm, I’m awkward, nervous, and stuttery. All very attractive qualities in a possible partner.”

“Quit it,” Chris said, reaching across and running his hand over River’s again, knocking his knee under the table. “You,” he said, pointing his finger across the table, “River, are doing just fine, just working out the kinks, cleaning out the old pipes, lubing the gears.”

“Okay, s-st-stop, please stop. All those metaphors, really? You decided on cle-cle-cleaning out the p-p-pipes?” The statement was ridiculous, but Chris was being so cute. Acting as if River’s weird behavior was nothing to even bat an eye at. "Indeed, between zoning out, blushing so deeply I'm sweating, and stuttering. I’m sure this,” he said as he pointed to himself, “is exactly what you want in a coach. I sure am exuding confidence.”

“Well, every single one of my previous coaches were assholes who exuded confidence and professionalism, I think I’m ready for something different. Maybe a coach that’s a little,” He held up his pointer and thumb, squinting. “Awkward, stuttery, and quick to blush.”

River threw his napkin at him, hitting him square in the face. He cackled as he looked at Chris, whose broad shoulders were shaking, his eyes alight with the biggest, most serene smile on his face. River wanted to feel Chris’ smile on his own lips. The thought should have been jarring; instead, the possibility of kissing Chris made something unravel in River’s chest. Something so knotted and tangled, he thought it would never have come undone.

Being there in a deafening restaurant, surrounded by so many people, all River could see was Chris, and he wished that moment could last forever. He wasn't embarrassed or stressed. He wasn't lonely or sad. In fact, he felt a hint of happiness. The kind of contentment River wasn’t sure he would ever feel ‌again. But being there with Chris—his stomach full, abdominal muscles sore from laughing, tears streaming down his warm cheeks—a rush of contentment flowed through him.

Chris' hand brushed against him, a light, almost accidental touch. The touch radiated a comforting warmth, a sense of security, and the familiar feeling of home. It was the most effortless contact River had experienced since his last moments with Coop. They would make a good team; whatever that team became. With that thought, one of River’s missing, long-gone chipped pieces had been rediscovered. He wasn't exactly whole again. He wasn't sure he ever would be, but just that one meal with that sweet boy seemed to sew a little part of his tattered soul back together.

“You want to get out of here? Make plans for when we are back in Colorado?” River said.

“Yeah, let's get out of here,” Chris gestured to the door with a thumb over his shoulder. River quickly threw down enough money to cover the bill and followed behind, thinking he was pretty sure he would follow Chris anywhere.

Chapter thirteen

Chris

Feet hitting the pavement, Chris couldn’t figure out why he had wanted—no, needed—more of River’s company as they approached the dorms. Chris had always shied away from companionship, but this, whatever this was, ‌felt good. There was something about the man that put him at ease, something about River’s quiet, nervous nature that had felt strangely like home. It had been as if Chris’ very soul had been pleading for his time with River to not end, screaming for him to stay. Imploring River to keep him. To see him. To want him.

A dull pain had begun in his chest, thudding the same rhythm as his heartbeat with every step they had taken closer to their destination. The idea of River being gone, even for a single night, settled like a stone in his chest, a weight so heavy it persisted even though he knew he’d see River again, soon. He found the heaviness almost unbearable. The sudden need to link their hands together had been too overwhelming, so Chris swallowed his nerves and reached out for him. River had immediately spread his fingers, intertwining them; a rightness settled in him with the contact. Chris felt it in his very being, an undeniable truth that this was their intended journey: to explore the world side-by-side, hands clasped, forever joined. That’s a dream, no one wants to keep you, the voice in Chris’ brain had tried to remind him, but Chris’ body had been telling him that River was safe, River was his home.

Home, such a weird concept for Chris. He always thought of home as a fairytale type place—an imaginary safe space to land, a place with people who loved him, cared for him, and accepted him. For Chris, home was never that. His childhood home was filled with anger; the people who should have kept him safe and filled him with love instead hurt him and filled him with hateful words that weighed him down like lead. The children, who ought to have been protected, protected themselves. Three little boys snuggled together in one bed, their door locked, hoping the monsters couldn’t get to them. As an adult, home was just a house. A lonely place to swim and lay his head to rest. How weird it was to be holding River’s hand; he felt more at home doing that than he had ever felt anywhere else. There had been very few times in Chris’ life when he’d felt that comfortable, that content, with another person.

River squeezed Chris’ hand, “So tell me something about you. What have you been up to since you won at the Western states Regional Championship y-y-your s-senior year?”

Chris raised an eyebrow and smirked, “you saw that? On video?”

“Ah-ah n-n-no. I was there?” River whispered, then cleared his throat.

Shit, that’s right. Chris was such an idiot. After that race was the accident, Chris knew that. Brooke and he had talked about it; hell, it had rocked the small Colorado swimming community. “Shit, River, I’m sorry,” Chris said, squeezing River’s hand again.

“It's fine, Chris. I-I brought it up. I-Its part of my l-life. But tell me what you’ve been doing since then. Brooke has told me a bit, but…” He let the statement hang, glancing down at Chris, waiting for his answer.

Chris gave him the short version of what he had been up to for the past four years. That he had gone to Mines, and got his degree in communications. That he swam for the school's team, but also trained with Rick and swam competitively at a semi-pro level. That he had never really had a partner, and that Brooke was his best friend. There was nothing else to say. Chris had lived a boring, regimented life over which he had very little control over. He shrugged his shoulders and let the silence settle between them.

Breaking the quiet that had stretched a little too long, Chris said, “I’m kind of boring.” His voice was sheepish as he tried and failed to pull his hand from River’s.

“Y-you’re any-th-thing but b-b-boring Chris. Y-you are an a-athlete. A-athletes are kind of b-boring. We have t-to be.” River looked down at Chris with a kind, sweet smile. “Anything else you think I should know? Before we start working t-together?”

Chris smiled, thinking of a weird thing about himself? What might make River laugh? He wanted to hear more of that sound, wanted to be the one to make River laugh. “Hmm, something about me. I hate bubbly water.” Chris shrugged, feeling River’s eyes on him.

Confusion and a subtle smile flickered across River's face as he looked down at him. "Excuse me?" he said, chuckling slightly as he spoke.

“Oh, well, you said you wanted to know something else. So that something is, I hate bubbly water. I mean, what the fuck is that shit? It’s so carbonated, it hurts my mouth and tastes like flavored static.”

River's laughter was a full-bellied cackle, his head thrown back, the prominent bobbing of his Adam's apple drawing Chris' eyes. He had an overwhelming urge to lick the bump, to feel it rise and fall as his lips touched it. His laughter continued, deepening the crinkles at his eyes' corners, making him look happy and absolutely adorable. Chris longed to lean in, hug him, and soak up his happiness deep within his soul. “Flavored static?” He choked out between laughs. “That’s strangely descriptive, also kind of scary. How do you know what static tastes like?”

“Yeah, you know, like static on the TV. The black and white ants running.” Chris was moving his hands back and forth. Fingers dancing like ants marching. “Bubbly water tastes or feels like that, but in my mouth.” A shiver ran through him at the thought of the liquid assaulting his mouth.

“Oh, um, well, that’s a lot to think about. I-I-Imm-I’m not sure I’ve ever pondered carbonation as much as you have, but I will now.” River’s face scrunched in confusion. “Okay, myyy t-t-turn, well I was born in Illinois.” A little huff left him, as if was hard to think of anything about himself. As if it pained him to give up anything.

“Okay, I see you. Is that why you say, eh? You have a bit of an accent on your A’s. Where in Illinois? Chicaaago?” Chris said it with an exaggerated, nasal A, trying to imitate the way River said them.

“Yes, that’s why I-I-I say some words that way, and no, not Ch-Chi-Chicago. Far north, closer to Wisconsin than to Chicago. Tiny town right on the border. Lived there until I went to college, that’s when I moved to Colorado.”