Page 8

I do not know why my heart rate doubles or why sweat starts to slide down the back of my neck. I stare at the person from the articles, at their features. I compare the ones I recognize side by side with the ones I do not. I know them, and yet this person is a stranger. The two realizations tug at me, splitting me down the middle and leaving behind a panicked, shameful pain that has been my near-constant companion for the past eight years.

Alive. They are alive. Alive, breathing and whole, and alive, which means—

Their head is shaved down to a crown of brown fuzz. Their facial features are sharp, their jaw angled and dusted with a hint of dark stubble. They are wearing a white, translucent undershirt stretched tight across their flat chest and stomach, while loose sweatpants sit low on square hips.

“What the fuck?” Their face is pinched with confusion as they look me up and down. Their voice—lower, with a husky rasp I do not remember—is yet another part of this stranger I have to learn.

It is too much. Seeing them, right there in front of me, close enough to touch. I make the mistake of inhaling, and catch a hint of cinnamon, tobacco smoke, and mango, and why do I like that smell?

I shake my head. Breathe, idiot. Get it together.

I clear my throat. “Hello, Aleks.”

They glare at me, and the eye contact makes my stomach heave. I brace myself against the doorframe. Green, their eyes are so fucking green.

“What…what are you doing here?”

Again, I clear my throat. “I am here to speak with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I hear you need a coach.”

Aleks’ mouth twists into a sneer, even as a look I recognize as fear flashes through their light green eyes. “You’re joking.”

“I am here, am I not?” It is not what I want to say, but the careless words slip out anyway. My mind is still trying to play catch up, trying to connect the threads of my memories to the harsh-featured, pissed off person standing in front of me. Everything about this interaction is going poorly, and yet… Something about their stubborn disdain is lighting a fire in me.

Aleks glares at me, chewing on their reddened bottom lip. I meet their stare head on. Finally, after a painful silence, they shake their head. “No. No fucking way.”

“So you found a coach, then?”

Their eyes focus on a spot over my shoulder. I watch their jaw tighten, and then my focus is pulled downward to their fingers fiddling with gray cotton. The sweats hang low enough on their hips to expose a band of bright blue briefs. I force myself to look away.

“I don’t need a coach.”

They believe it. I can tell. They have always been stubborn, even before. There is a deep furrow between their eyebrows, and I have to fight the urge to press my thumb to it, to soothe the worry etched in their skin.

“What is your plan?” I ask instead. “You qualified for the Clash, but we both know that is only the first step. Athletes need to report to the Clash of Creature grounds in three days. So, what? You fly to Monstralia, only to get turned away at the gates because you ignored the demands of the IASA? Are you going to find some stranger to stand in as your coach? Someone who can offer you nothing?”

Pale eyes drop to the floor. I am fucking this up. When I imagined our reunion, I had not made it this far. Part of me was convinced it would never come to this, that it was all a mistake, that there was another siren, another of Alina’s children who transitioned and now called themself Aleks.

I need to do better. Taking a deep breath, I refocus on the person in front of me. Before I say anything else about the games, I need to meet them, as they are, right now. “What are your pronouns, Aleks?”

They shuffle their feet. “He/him.”

He is here. He is every bit of a man, he is alive, and we both know he needs a coach. “Aleks,” I say out loud.

He shakes his head, and my hands twitch at my sides.

“Please look at me.”

When he looks up, I am reminded of how much he hates me. He should, after I left the way I did. He was too young then to understand. Probably still is, even now with the years and transformations between us. He was a kid, and I was his coach, and then I disappeared without an explanation.

I do not expect him to trust me. I have made my peace with that. But if me being here gets him a shot at competing in the Clash, then I am not going anywhere.

It is the least I can do for him.

I do not look away from his loathing stare. He is grown now, tall enough that I have to tilt my chin to hold eye contact. “I am sorry,” I begin. “I am sorry for leaving the way I did. There was…” But there is nothing more I can say about my leaving. Not now. How can I look him in the eye and tell him I heard him sing? That I ran away because I thought I had killed him? “I am not here to ask you to forgive me. I do not expect that. But I am here, and you need a coach.”