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Don Hume hated recruiting.

He had disliked being recruited as a frosh, and how the varsity boys had smirked at him and his classmates, daring them to quit before they even started. He disliked it even more his first year on varsity, having to be there every day, answering questions, explaining parts of the stroke, and promising that if you were willing, you could go the distance, compete at the highest levels of athletics in the nation, be a part of something bigger than yourself, be a part of history.

Not that he was the one doing most of the talking. He left that to the coaches and his more gregarious teammates, who enthralled the wide-eyed frosh with little trouble. Still, he hated it on principle, the idea that he was some kind of mentor or knowledgeable figure. He was just Don, just here to row.

Now that he had an Olympic gold medal, he disliked recruiting more than ever. What on earth was he supposed to say to a bunch of kids—never mind that he was only two or three years older than nearly all of them—about the team? How was he supposed to convey to a bunch of child strangers what this program meant to him?

Was he supposed to tell them that this sport was the most important thing in his life, that these men were the most important people in his life, that if they stuck around, they, too, could fall in love with the sport, Lake Washington, the boys they rowed with and for, and that they could leave a legacy greater than themselves? That they were about to embark on possibly the greatest journey of their young lives?

Absolutely not.

Still. He showed up each and every day, did his time, answered questions in his typical manner, which was to say, in as few words as possible.

Johnny had just about doubled over laughing when some clueless frosh asked Don what he did for his blisters.

“I don’t know. Row through it, I guess,” he said shortly. “Try not to get blood on the oar.”

The kid looked faintly horrified, and seemed to be on the verge of asking a follow up question before Johnny intervened.

“Christ almighty, Don, take it easy!” Johnny said, scarcely able to get the words out he was laughing so hard. He clapped Don on the shoulder and turned to the kid, Miller or Lewis or something like that. “Keep ‘em clean and dry, and let ‘em harden into calluses. Don’t keep picking at ‘em. And don’t ask Don for any more health advice!”

The frosh skittered back to his friends, and Johnny was still laughing.

“You gotta play nice, Don, we need to keep some of the frosh around for next year,” he’d said, wiping at his eyes.

“I know,” Don said, rolling his eyes. “I just never know what to say to them.”

“Aw, buddy, you don’t have to say much,” Johnny said, putting his arm over Don’s shoulders companionably. “But maybe try and make your face a little more friendly when you do.”

Don had scowled, and Johnny had started laughing all over again.

The one bright side of recruiting this year was getting to see Bobby in action. Not Bobby, his best friend, trusted cox, and general pain in the ass, but Assistant Coach Bobby Moch, Olympic gold medalist.

Unlike Don, he was completely in his element recruiting. He was effortlessly charming with the frosh, knowing exactly where to draw the line between approachable and intimidating, commanding their respect with what looked like very little effort.

“Nothing about this sport is easy,” Bobby had said to the wide eyed frosh gathered at the boathouse on the first day. “The very essence of this sport is chasing perfection. You’re always looking for that extra inch, to make those tiny adjustments to make your stroke perfect. It should look easy, but it’ll work you to the bone. It takes remarkable physical strength — you have to push yourself harder, for longer, without any breaks. It requires mental fortitude — you need to be able to push past the pain, ignore external distractions, and focus only on the shell. And it takes grit. You won’t make it far on this team if you can’t handle a little adversity, some choppy waters.”

“But…” and here he smiled, his perfect, charming little smile. “But I can promise you this. If you have what it takes, and you’re willing to give this team everything you have, you will be great. You’ll be standing on the shoulders of giants, boys, and you have an opportunity here to leave your mark on history.”

And when it came from Bobby’s mouth, you couldn’t help but believe it, because he believed it. To Don, at least, he was as much Washington rowing as Al Ulbrickson.

The frosh boys, who all towered over him, flocked to him after tryouts to ask about their form, what they should be focusing on as they pushed Old Nero along. The coxswains, too, all followed him like ducklings, frantically taking notes as he talked them through the best lines to take on the cut and just how much pressure was appropriate when on the rudder.

And Don didn’t blame them. To know Bobby was to love him, to desperately want his attention, his approval, his eyes on you. Don had felt it from the very first day Ulbrickson had stuck him in their boat, had felt that extra nip at his heels, wanting Bobby’s elusive nod of approval.

“Get with Hume,” he’d called during that first practice, and it had gone to his head in a rush. Intellectually, he knew that it wasn’t because he was anything special, it was the coxswain’s job to get the boat in sync. Nevertheless, it was heady to hear Bobby call his name, like he believed in Don already.

It didn’t hurt that Bobby was a looker, had a great smile and great eyes and great hands, was mesmerizing in the curve of his neck and his shoulder, the dip of his waist.

Of course, Don hadn’t realized what was going on until Poughkeepsie. Too in his own head, too focused on the boat, not enough attention paid to the interpersonal dynamics. Story of his life, really. Naively, he’d thought it was just admiration, thought it was just the thrill of winning when Bobby had grabbed his hands after they’d beaten Cal in their dual and his whole body narrowed to the point where their hands touched.

At Poughkeepsie, when Bobby had said, “go to hell, Syracuse,” Don’s first thought had been, Jesus Christ, Ulbrickson is gonna have a conniption if he finds out Bobby was swearing in the boat. His second thought had been, Oh god, I’m in love with him.

Thankfully, the burn in his lungs and his legs had meant he hadn’t really needed to think about it for about two miles, but everything had come to a head at once when they crossed the line, and Bobby had ripped off his megaphone and threw himself out of the coxswain’s seat into Don’s arms, throwing his arms around his neck and screaming. Don hung onto his oar with his inside hand and put his other on Bobby’s back, keeping him steady. He ran his hand up and down the knobs of Bobby’s spine. He was so warm, how was he so warm?

Bobby had let go and fallen back into the coxswain’s seat, grabbing hold of the steering strings again, whooping and shaking his head, water flying everywhere.

Then, of course, Don had been left to deal with the fallout of the revelation, effectively making him useless the rest of their time in New York. He could hardly focus on anything else when he finally understood, for the first time in his young life, why he’d never understood the appeal of dating, or romance: it was because he’d been looking in the wrong place.

He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Bobby, knocked sideways by the shock of seeing him in a different light, as more than just a best friend and teammate, as an object of desire, someone Don wanted.

Much to his mortification, that brought on a barrage of astoundingly vivid dreams, featuring Bobby’s thighs and his mouth and his voice in Don’s ear.

Don had woken up several nights in a cold sweat, desperately hard under his sheets. He’d done his best to get off quickly and silently, biting down on his palm, wishing the hand on his dick had been Bobby’s, and feeling like a fool for it.

Now, after months of pining, a shared Olympic gold medal, and countless practices, shared meals, and afternoons studying, Don thought he had it mostly under control. Wanting Bobby Moch had been his default state for so long, he thought, surely, the separation of him in the launch could only be a good thing.

He hadn’t accounted for Assistant Coach Bobby Moch. Sure, Don was no longer three feet away from Bobby and his perfect legs and hands. But now, he was painfully aware of just how handsome Bobby looked in a suit, like a real grown up, and how confident he was in telling his frosh—and they were his frosh, no matter what he said—what to do.

Don contemplated this dilemma during an open boathouse, sitting on the little wooden bench next to the Husky Clipper in a set of slings, ostensibly available in case a frosh had a question about a part of the shell. Bobby walked up to him, grinning.

“What do you think, Don?” Bobby put his hand on Don’s arm to get his attention. Not that he needed to ask for it. “Any rising stars in this group?”

“How would I know?” Don had grumbled, but he leaned into Bobby’s touch regardless.

“We all knew you were something special the first time we saw you in a shell,” Bobby said, taking his hand away, but bumping his hip against Don to get him to scootch over on the bench. “Thought maybe you’d have an eye for similar talent. Like attracts like, and whatnot.”

He made himself comfortable next to Don, not an inch of space between them. It was a small bench, Don told himself. It wasn’t like Bobby wanted to be close to him specifically, or anything.

“Never liked recruiting much,” he said, crossing his arms, left hand brushing against Bobby’s coat. “Don’t know what I’m looking for, what I’m supposed to tell ‘em.”

“Yeah Donny, I know,” Bobby laughed, gently kicking his foot against Don’s. “That’s half the fun, is watching you be a massive grouch and scare the kids away.”

“‘Massive grouch?’” Don rolled his eyes. “Not grouchy, just don’t have anything to say.”

“You’re a little grouchy, Don,” Bobby grinned. “What makes you smile? Winning? I think that might be the only thing.”

“I smile plenty,” Don said. Bobby gave an undignified snort. “When coxswains stop picking on me, that makes me smile.”

“You’d hate it if I stopped picking on you, Hume,” Bobby said, sure as anything. He patted Don’s cheek. “Besides, you know you’re my favorite. Don’t tell anyone though, it’ll destroy my credibility.”

Don actually hadn’t known that, and smiled before he could stop himself.

“Aw see, look at you!” Bobby stood up and clapped the back of Don’s neck with his hand. “That’s what we need more of, Donny, you handsome bastard. That’s an easy pitch for a frosh: ‘take up the oar, young man, and you, too, could look like Don Hume by your senior year.’”

Don rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Go back to the frosh, Moch, Bud’s gonna think you went feral.”

Bobby laughed and sauntered back over to where Bud was assigning frosh seats on Old Nero. Don could still feel the warmth of him along his side, where he’d been sitting just moments before.

As it did every year, seemingly endless sunny September days turned into chillier, shorter October afternoons. The frosh crew was selected, and Don watched them closer than he had last year, observing Bobby’s handiwork all over the next generation of Husky oarsmen, all against a backdrop of vibrant fall colors on Lake Washington.

The first really cold week of October, Ulbrickson had them doing back end progression, starting feet out on Monday and only letting them tie back in on Thursday when he was satisfied with their posture on the layback and the speed of their arms away.

There was nothing quite like an early morning fall row to distract you from whatever bullshit was going on outside the boat—your upper level geology lab, your roommate’s snoring, how your former coxswain’s neck looked when his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck.

It was crisp and cool and quiet out on the cut. Don relished the feeling of the strain in his abs as he focused on keeping his wrists and arms perfectly positioned, shifting up at the right time to drop the blade in the water. The early morning breeze felt good on his face, the boat felt smooth underneath him. When they tied back in and built the rate up, the rhythm of the 22 shifting into the 24 felt so good, Don felt himself smiling.

He glanced over at the frosh, still doing the arms away, bodies over sequencing in the shell he knew Ulbrickson only kept around in case some frosh cox crashed it. He let his eyes drift over to the launch, where Bud was pointing something out to Bobby, maybe one of the guys in the engine room. Bobby tilted his head, bit his lip. Muttered something to Bud, who laughed and clapped Bobby’s shoulder.

“Okay boys, I’m going to have Paul bring you back to full strokes here, and we’re going to try something new,” he heard Bobby yell distantly. Gunwale taps, he thought absently, or a feather-square sequence. It was about that time of year, right? Surely the frosh were doing those drills by now.

“I want you to shift it back down, boys, with power, here,” Morry called, Don’s head instantly back in the boat. “Striding back down to the 18 in two… that’s one… and two. Right… there. Legs, send. Look at those puddles, boys, that’s what we want to see!”

Don was feeling pretty pleased with himself after the drills, and walked back to campus with Bobby, letting him chatter away about the frosh: how they’d done with the feather-square sequence, whether he could negotiate a nicer shell for them from Ulbrickson, and his ideas to scramble the lineup.

“What do you think?” Bobby was looking up at him expectantly, his nose and cheeks pink and his hair windblown.

“Sorry?”

“About trying Janssen at stroke?”

“Oh, uh…” Don wracked his brains quickly, trying to recall who Janssen was. Redhead, long arms, engineering major. “It can’t hurt for a practice. Like you said, he looks good in the single, really great reach at the catch without overextending. I think it’s a question of whether he’s consistent enough, especially when there’s chop.”

“That’s true, Donny,” Bobby said, pursing his lips. “I think I’ll try him in stroke when conditions are good, and if it goes well, we’ll see how he maintains his composure on a bad weather day. That may just be the kicker. I do want to see a little more snap on the front end progression from him, though.”

“Yeah, but if he’s coachable, that’s not an issue,” Don replied. “Who do you have at coxswain right now? Could you ask them to drill the front end a little extra in warmups?”

“Well, I have Paul in what I think is gonna be the 1F right now, but I don’t know if I’m gonna keep him there.” It was not lost on Don that Bobby called all the oarsmen by their last names, but referred to the coxswains by their given names. It was sweet, the way he looked out for them, even though he’d deny it up and down. “I might try Frank.”

“Why the switch?”

“Paul’s a good coxswain, he’s got a good feel for the boat and his lines are always excellent.” Bobby bit his lip. “But Frank’s really competitive, and I want to give him a chance, see if he’ll bring some of that killer instinct to the top boat, maybe build a little confidence.”

“Chemistry’s everything,” Don said. “If you’re trying Janssen at stroke, you need a cox who’s going to hold it together.”

“Yeah? Speaking from your experience as stroke?” Bobby grinned.

“Obviously,” Don said. He could feel his cheeks turning red, knowing what was coming, but refusing to look at Bobby, instead keeping his eyes resolutely ahead.

“Did I ‘hold it together,’ Donny?” Bobby was smirking now, looking unbelievably smug—and Don was a little irritated with himself for how charming he found it. “Did I teach you everything you know?”

“First of all, Bolles had me at stroke way before you were ever my coxswain,” Don said, rolling his eyes. “So it wasn’t like I needed your expert guidance. Secondly, you know you always had it well in hand. When was anything ever out of your control? You basically masterminded every win last year, we just happened to be holding the oars.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Bobby said, still grinning impishly. “But don’t sell yourself short, Donny. I think Ulbrickson dreams of your stroke at night, it’s so pretty. I think you can take a little credit for some of those wins.”

“Oh, a little credit? For some of the wins? Generous of you.” He kept his tone deadpan, knowing Bobby would find it all the more amusing.

“I’m serious, Donny, you’re a real asset!” Bobby was laughing for real, now, which made Don’s chest hurt a little bit. He liked Bobby’s laugh so much. “I’ve been telling the frosh to watch your form when we rest between pieces.”

“Oh.” He whipped his head down to look at Bobby. “Is that a joke?”

“No?” Bobby looked back at him, confused. “I’m serious, you have such a great stroke, it’s great for the frosh to be able to see it up close, model what they’re doing on it.”

Don felt himself turning red. It was one thing to want Bobby’s eyes on him, to want Bobby to see him, notice him, want to pay attention to him. It was another thing entirely to have a bunch of kids scrutinizing Don at any given moment. He found it nearly impossible to be self-conscious about anything he did in the boat, but on land, hearing about it after the fact, made his skin crawl.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Bobby said, putting his hand on Don’s arm, stopping him. “I mean it, though, you have a beautiful stroke, and perfect rhythm. You made my job easy.”

Don shook his head, picking at a callus. “I don’t know if that's true.” He forced himself to look Bobby in the eye. “I mean, you basically dragged me across the finish line yourself in Berlin.”

Bobby grinned again, though it was less amused now, more earnest. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Don bit the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, well.” Bobby was looking at him knowingly, like he didn’t expect Don to say anything else, and was fine with it.

“So all that is to say,” Bobby said, picking up the conversation like it was nothing, leaving Don feeling both relieved and a little guilty that he didn’t have anything more interesting to say. “You think I need to give Janssen a cox he’s got chemistry with?”

“Well, yeah,“ Don said, back on familiar ground. “They’re the glue. Boat won’t go without ‘em.”

“You know, Don, us coxswains spend a lot of our time feeling deeply underappreciated by the oarsmen,” Bobby said, bumping his arm against Don’s companionably. “I’m not sure you know how nice it is to hear you say that.”

“Nice to hear him say what?” Johnny was suddenly there, throwing an arm over Bobby’s shoulders, Joe and Roger just behind him.

“Probably just about anything, not like Hume’s got the gift of gab here,” Roger said, elbowing ahead.

“I don’t know, man, he had words for me about my hand placement yesterday,” Joe said, winking at Don.

“It’s no skin off my back if the boat’s always down to starboard,” Don said. It hadn’t actually been that bad, but someone needed to keep Joe’s head from getting too big. “Not my fault you’re rusty.”

“I’ll tell you who’s rusty, it’s Gordy,” Johnny complained. “And I don’t mean his form, I mean his literal seat. I hear the slides squeaking the whole damn practice, it drives me nuts.”

As they made their way to the nearest dining hall, Don made an effort to put a little distance between himself and Bobby, walking in the dewy grass instead of on the footpath. He felt wary and slightly exposed, sure if he stood too close, if anyone saw how he looked at Bobby, they’d know immediately how he felt. Joe looked at him a little funny, but didn’t say anything.

Joe was a bit of an enigma. Sometimes, it seemed that he had infinite emotional intelligence, having come to college with a fiancée and the understanding that he had a lifelong partner and companion. Other times, it seemed like he was baffled by the poor schmucks around him who didn’t know the first thing about durable interpersonal relationships.

Either way, Don had decided long ago, it was better to not draw any undue attention to himself, lest he become the focus of Joe Rantz’s brotherly concern. So naturally, of course, he felt faintly horrified when Joe pulled him aside after breakfast, asking him gently if he was doing okay.

“You’ve just been a little quiet lately, is all,” he said.

Don looked at him blankly.

“Point taken, I guess,” Joe laughed. “I know, I know, you’re not a big talker in general. It just seems like something’s been eating at you a little bit.”

“I’m alright.”

“I don’t doubt that you’re alright, Donny, but you can talk to me if there’s something going on,” Joe said. “Any of us, really, but I wanted you to know that I’m around.”

“It’s not going to affect the boat,” Don felt compelled to assure Joe.

“That was never a concern, Don,” Joe smiled ruefully. “You’re always on. But you don’t have to be, you know?”

He didn’t know, but nodded anyway.

“Regardless, let me know if you need anything,” Joe said, giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder before heading out.

҉

Friday morning brought lower temperatures and calm water—so calm, in fact, that Ulbrickson had them take out the singles.

The boat felt good underneath him, the water glassy and smooth. Don loved the eight more than anything, loved the challenge and poetry of synching up the stroke, hitting the rhythm together, and seeing just how far they could push the shell with a single stroke. But he’d fallen in love with rowing as a solitary sport, and the single had its own kind of poetry. He relished the total bodily control, the awareness of every little movement and how it affected the shell.

Sculling was also an opportunity to work out the kinks: he had to be extra vigilant about how he rotated his wrists, not over/extending with his shins or his arms, maintaining a straight spine to keep the boat set.

It felt good. It felt like the summer he’d discovered rowing, when he just did meters and meters out on the water, thinking of nothing but how acutely aware he was of the limits of his body, and how far he could push it. It was the knowledge that the limit was in flux, that he was in control, that he could push himself further for longer.

Don almost forgot how fitfully he’d slept the night before as he hauled his shell off the dock and back into racks, practically whistling as he made his way to the locker room. Of course, he hadn’t counted on the natural mood dampener that was the frosh crew.

“Hey, Hume,” one of them said to him. Don resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but turned to look at him. He wore an expression like he had just received bad news about the health of a loved one, and had red hair and long arms.

“Janssen, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” the kid said, looking shocked that Don knew his name. “Moch is trying me at stroke, he said I should ask you for tips.”

“Oh yeah, he said that?” Don rolled his eyes for real now. “What do you want to know?”

“Oh. Uh, I don’t know, anything you think might be helpful?” He looked terrified.

“Right,” Don said blankly, before turning back to his wet clothes.

“Actually, though. Can I be honest?” Janssen grimaced before continuing. “How do you get your coxswain to like you?”

“What?” Don looked at Janssen properly, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Campbell is coxing the boat Moch wants me to try stroking,” Janssen started.

“Wait, which one is that?”

“Uh, you know, Campbell. He’s short—”

“They’re all short.”

Janssen turned red, but persevered. “—dark hair, wears a lot of sweater vests—”

“What’s his full name?”

“Oh, uh, Frank Campbell.”

So Bobby had switched coxes. Interesting. “Okay.”

“But every time we’re in the boat together, it seems like he’s bent out of shape with me.”

Don was not equipped to deal with this. “Are you screwing it up?”

“I don’t think so,” Janssen said, his face going even redder. “I mean, I’ve only been at stroke for a week now, so maybe I am screwing something up. But shouldn’t he tell me that?”

Don took pity on him. “Do you trust Campbell?”

“Yeah, of course, if Moch trusts him, it must mean he’s good.”

“That’s not really good enough,” Don said, looking down as he wrung his wet troy clothes out. “You have to trust him, separate from what the coaches or anyone else thinks.”

“I mean, I do trust him,” Janssen said, looking—somehow—even more distressed. “I think he’s a great coxswain, he knows just what to say to get us going, and he’s gotten way better at steering.” Softer, he said, “I just don’t think he likes me very much.”

Don did his best to refrain from rolling his eyes yet again. “What are you telling him in the boat?”

“What?”

“What do you say to him?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t,” Janssen said. “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk back to the coxswains.”

Don resisted the urge to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. He repeated Johnny’s words to himself in his head: these kids are the future of the team, we have to make sure they succeed here, they’ll be the team after we’re gone.

“Don’t talk back to him, just talk to him. You have to let him know what’s going on, if there’s rush, if the rhythm’s off, if you need a call.” Don stuck his trou back in his bag and fished out a clean pair of socks. “He needs to know that you trust him to manage the boat. He probably thinks that you think he can’t handle it, if you’re not telling him what’s going on. Or worse, he thinks you think you can do a better job managing the boat than he can.”

Janssen looked stricken. “That’s not true, I absolutely trust him to manage the boat. I don’t want to manage it. I didn’t know I was supposed to be talking to him.”

“Well, you should start now.” Don stuck one foot into his shoe. “How’s he supposed to help you if he doesn’t know what the boat feels like behind you?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, there you go.” He stuck his left foot in his other shoe. “Good luck with… all that.”

“Thanks, I think,” Janssen said, looking a little dumbfounded.

“Yup.” Don swung his bag over his shoulder and walked out of the locker room. Joe was hot on his heels.

“Some pretty sage wisdom there, Donny,” he laughed.

Don rolled his eyes. “Not that wise.”

“Who’s wise?”

And there was Bobby, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, cheeks pink from the chill.

“No one,” Don said at the same time Joe said, “Don.”

“Well I could’ve told you that. My dad always said, still waters run deep,” Bobby said, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “So what wisdom was Donny imparting?”

“Nothing,” Don said at the same time Joe said “He was telling this frosh how to treat his cox.”

“Oh?”

“Y’know, wine and dine him, buy him flowers,” Joe said, laughing.

“I just told Janssen his cox isn’t gonna trust him if he doesn’t let him know what’s going on in the boat,” Don said, elbowing Joe hard in the ribs. “That’s all.”

“Joe, I don’t expect you to understand the bond between a cox and his stroke,” Bobby said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a special connection, a real meeting of the minds. Seven is basically the engine room. There’s no real brain power required there.”

“If only they’d had me rowing port instead of starboard when I was trying out as a frosh,” Joe said wistfully. “There would be no stopping me at stroke if I were a port.”

“Cornell’s varsity eight was rigged starboard stroke at Poughkeepsie last year,” Don said reflexively.

“Yeah, and look how bad we beat their asses,” Bobby scoffed. “I’m a traditionalist. No buckets, no starboard stroke, no nothing. Row the damn boat the way Pocock built it.”

Joe laughed heartily at that. “I’m sure he appreciates the support, Bobby.” He nodded at the pair of them. “I gotta run, I have a lecture. But if either of you need to study later, Joyce and I’ll be at the library, if you wanna come by.”

“Sounds good, Joe, see ya around.” Bobby waved as Joe walked off. “Listen, Donny, can you do me a favor?” When Don nodded, he explained. “I had Tommy in the launch with me today, and whoever’s with me usually helps me carry the life jackets, the gas can, the spare oar, all that stuff. But I had to drop him back at the dock early so he could make it to class, so I just need to get everything back into the shed before I lock everything up. It’ll take like five minutes, I promise.”

Don shrugged and followed him down to the dock, didn’t even complain when Bobby had him take the two bags of life vests, two full gas cans and a third half empty one, and a large stick Bobby claimed that Bud used to move the medium-sized logs to the banks.

“The stick can’t stay in the launch?”

“Are you kidding? Don, it’s the best stick we’ve found so far, I want to keep it out of the rain so we can use it all fall.” Don said nothing, but made sure Bobby saw him roll his eyes.

Meanwhile, Bobby carried exactly two spare oars, one from his and Bud’s launch and one from Ulbrickson’s.

Bobby unlocked the shed, clattering loudly as he shoved the oars into the corner, began taking things from Don’s hands.

“Just stick the life jackets up there on the top shelf, I can’t reach it.”

“No shit.”

“Oh, am I short? This is the first I’m hearing of this, call Royal fucking Brougham and tell him we have tomorrow’s headline.”

Don snorted, not dignifying it with a response, instead focusing on moving miscellaneous items to make room for the life jackets and the gas cans, discovering a random piece of jagged sheet metal in the process.

“Oh shit, what the fuck—” Bobby had gone pale. Don followed his gaze and saw his own hand was covered in blood.

“Must’ve nicked it,” he said, bringing it closer to his face. Sure enough, the skin on the meat of his thumb had split cleanly, and was bleeding profusely. “Why is there sheet metal in here?”

“I don’t know, this shed is where everything comes to die. You included, apparently.”

Don opened his mouth to protest that it wasn’t even that bad, but before he could say anything, Bobby had grabbed his other wrist and was dragging him out of the shed, into the boathouse, and up the stairs to the attic.

“Bud keeps a first aid kit up here,” he said, shoving Don into a rickety little chair.

He pulled another, somehow even more unstable chair next to Don’s (where the hell were he and Bud pilfering furniture from?), and grabbed what Don knew was the last clean rag in the utility closet. He sat very close to Don, carefully holding his upturned hand and examining it closely. He dabbed at it with the rag.

“It’s just gross to look at. I don’t think you need stitches.” Bobby ran his finger over the knuckles of Don’s hand, and set about cleaning the cut.

“That’ll stain,” Don said mildly, nodding his head at the rag.

“I’m taking all the rags home today to wash them tomorrow, Don. Jesus fucking Christ,” Bobby said, giving him an exasperated look. “I’ll soak this one extra if it’ll make you feel better. Pass me the kit.”

For all his gruffness, Bobby was very careful, gently cradling Don’s hand in his, rubbing soothing little circles into Don’s skin with his thumb as he applied antiseptic.

“What’s the prognosis, doc? Do we need to amputate?”

Bobby started slightly, his concentration broken, and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you’ll live, and maybe even keep the thumb.”

“That’s a relief,” Don said, nudging Bobby’s knee with his. “I don’t know that I have it in me to be the first collegiate rower to win at IRAs without a thumb.”

Bobby laughed in spite of himself. “You’re a real comedian, Donny. Your talents are wasted on rowing, you should do vaudeville.”

“Couldn’t do it — can’t reliably stay up past nine,” Don said with a put-upon sigh. Bobby snorted.

“Seriously, though, the last thing I need is you getting injured because of me. Ulbrickson may actually snap and murder me for real.”

Don was acutely aware that Bobby was still holding his hand, still absently running his pointer finger along Don’s knuckles and his thumb along the edge of the bandage. He didn’t want it to stop.

“He wouldn’t kill you, he likes you too much.”

Bobby made a face. “He tolerates me. He adores you.”

Don scoffed.

“No, it’s true!” Still holding his hand, Bobby leaned closer, their feet touching. “Bud thinks it’s because you’re basically Ulbrickson incarnate, the same as he was when he was an oarsman here. Which, sure, there’s merit in that, but I think he likes to have you around for morale.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Don said, gently tapping his foot against Bobby’s.

“Oh you know,” Bobby said, glancing up at him and briefly licking his lips, before refocusing on affixing gauze to Don’s hand with medical tape. “You’re the paragon of everything an oarsman should be. Tall, good-looking, naturally gifted, punctual—”

“‘Punctual’? My best quality is that I’m on time?” Don worried at his lip, heart racing, hoping that he sounded mildly offended at the insinuation, and not slightly manic that Bobby thought he was good-looking.

“You’re a good example for the frosh,” Bobby continued, hand still cradling Don’s. “They need to be on time to practice. You can’t develop a beautiful stroke if you get left on the dock. It’s remarkable how poor your time management is when you’re 18. It’s just one more quality of yours we want them to copy.”

Don could feel himself blushing furiously. “I wish you wouldn’t tell them to copy me.”

“No?” Bobby looked him in the eyes now, tilted his head ever so slightly.

“I don’t think I can live up to all that.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Bobby said, eyes flitting over his face like he was searching for something, only Don didn’t know what. He felt very warm, and intensely aware of how close Bobby was, of how their knees were touching, how intent Bobby’s eyes were.

“What time is it?” he said, blood rushing in his ears.

Bobby glanced down at his watch. “Quarter past nine.”

“I should get going,” Don said regretfully, standing up, putting a little space between him and Bobby. “I have a lab at 11, and I haven’t done the reading yet.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Bobby also made to stand, returning the first aid kit to the corner cabinet. “Feeling good about seat races tomorrow?”

“Hadn’t thought about it,” Don lied.

“Liar,” Bobby said, grinning. “I bet you’ve been thinking of nothing else for the past three days. We’ll talk it over at dinner, year?”

“Sure,” Don said, trying his best to sound casual. “I’ll see you later.”

҉

Ulbrickson ran the first real seat races of the season on a Saturday morning so clear and sunny, you’d have thought it was summer again were it not for the crimson and gold trees dotting the shoreline and how you could see your breath when you stepped outside.

It was good racing weather: no measurable wind, too cold to have any recreators out on the cut, and perfect glasslike water.

Ulbrickson had them racing in pairs. Morry and the other coxswains had been stuck down on the shoreline with stopwatches and flags

The frosh, however, were not to be trusted in pairs. Navigating the foot steering mechanism was far too much to ask of an 18-year-old still learning where to put his hands every stroke. So Bobby had them in the old stern-loader fours instead, no doubt to reduce the probability of a crash by some poor frosh coxswain.

Don idly tugged on his heel ties, and watched with interest as the frosh fours rowed into the piece. Bobby hadn’t wanted to confuse them with starting sequences just yet, though Don was willing to bet that was around the corner. He observed as Bobby corralled them into makeshift lanes, started his stopwatch, furiously took down notes as he watched them go.

He was so engrossed in the ritual of it all that he hardly even noticed Joe at his shoulder, eyes also on Bobby.

“Man, I’m still not used to him being Bolles.” Joe shook his head. “I expect him to come over here and get in the stern with us again half the time.”

“What? Oh yeah, I guess,” Don said, redirecting gaze literally anywhere but Bobby. “But the frosh probably need him more than we do. It’s why Ulbrickson offered him the job.”

“That’s a very unselfish attitude, Hume,” Joe laughed. Don glanced over at him, and was relieved to see that he wasn’t being made fun of. “I’m a little surprised. You two always had something special. It was always like you knew what he was going to call before he did it, and he knew exactly how to sync things up to your rhythm. You were a well-oiled machine. Never seen anything like it.”

Don felt his shoulders tense, then willed himself to relax. Joe had literally arrived at college with a fiancée. The thought of a queer person had probably scarcely crossed his mind, let alone that one of his teammates might be one. He wasn’t implying anything.

“I guess.”

Joe could be perceptive when he wanted to be, when he wasn’t in a mood of his own. Like he had done many times before, he picked up on Don’s discomfort and refused to let it deter him. He had a real knack for making everyone around him feel welcome, like they were in on the joke. Don, who had always been quiet by nature, felt it was one of his better qualities, along with his steadiness on the recovery.

“Aw, but we do okay, don’t we, Donny?” Joe threw an arm around his shoulders. “We hold it down all right up here, even without ole’ Bobby Moch breathing down our necks.”

Don smiled at that, a real smile. He did have it pretty good, with Joe Rantz at seven. He could certainly do much worse for a pair partner.

“A little better than okay, I think,” he said.

“Damn straight, Hume,” Joe said, ruffling his hair and pulling away. “Finest stern pair Washington’s ever seen, I’d wager.”

Ulbrickson pulled up to the dock then, and everyone quieted down.

“I’d like to run these pieces as efficiently as possible, if you don’t mind,” Ulbrickson said, like they had any say in the matter. “While the frosh are getting staged for their next pieces, I’d like you to do back end progression on the warm-up going upstream. I’ll be downstream, taking times. Moch will get you staged at the top.” He closed his eyes very briefly, like he was praying. “I need you to actually listen to him when he tells you to do something. Now is not the time for grab-assing or being smart. Selection is happening now, and I need these pieces to run smoothly to determine boating for the rest of the fall.”

“Well jeez, Coach,” Chuck said, only a little indignant. “We listened to Bobby every time we got in the boat last year, what makes you think we’re going to get smart with him now that he’s in the launch?”

Ulbrickson pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed heavily. “I just want to reiterate that the expectation is professionalism, here,” he said. “Treat anything that comes out of his mouth like I said it. I want you launched in 15 minutes.”

There was a collective mumble of assent before Ulbrickson put the launch back in drive and headed back downstream.

He and Joe launched just after Chuck and Roger, pushing off the dock. The pair was a strange sort of beast, and Don was unbelievably grateful, not for the first time, that he and Joe were pretty much the exact same height. Even before they’d gotten to know each other, they could at least take comfort in the fact that their strokes naturally matched up. He didn’t know how Stub and Shorty managed in the pair, what with the good four inches of height between the two of them.

“Okay boys, in heat one, looks like we have McMillin and Hunt closest to the boathouse, then Duffy and Lane, then Grant and Smith, and then Day and Morris on the opposite bank.” He looked up from his clipboard. “So we have quite a few pieces to run, and we want to keep things moving. I’m going to park the launch right where I want you, so just line up with me. I’ll tell you if you need to tap it or back it, but it would save us all a little time if you could get it right the first time.”

Don watched him carefully, not really absorbing where Ulbrickson wanted the lifts, which he already knew. Instead, he watched Bobby. He really should’ve worn a hat and a scarf, Don thought absently, he could see where the tips of his nose and ears were going red with the cold, his fingers twitching on the tiller to keep them moving.

It had been a constant fight, getting him to dress warmer when he had been their coxswain, Bobby always insisting that the extra weight wasn’t worth it and once they got going, he’d warm up quick as anything, and then Don would watch his shoulders shake with cold on the warm up. It was odd, Don had always thought, to see someone so in-control and so competent have little to no sense of self-preservation.

“...and remember, when Bud blows the whistle at the end, you need to paddle it out, you can’t just let it run down there, we have more boats coming. Once you’re on the paddle, get turned and come back upstream. There will be time for a rest once you’re back up here. Can I get hands to acknowledge all that?”

Hands went up, and the heat one pairs started tapping it into place.

“Say, Bobby, is there some reason Ulbrickson gave us the shittiest lane?” Chuck said, backing it down a stroke.

“Who can say for sure, Chuck,” Bobby said, tapping his pen on the gunwale. “Maybe he wants you, specifically, to face a little adversity.”

“True,” Chuck said. “He knew if I was top seed, I’d have an unfair advantage over all of these poor fuckers.”

“Can we please not swear in the shell?” Bobby said without missing a beat. “We could make it like a real race with real penalties, and I could have Ulbrickson add five seconds to your time, if you like.”

“Aw, come on, Bobby,” Chuck said plaintively. “Are officials seriously taking five seconds off for a little swearing now?”

“So they tell me,” Bobby said, raising an eyebrow. He glanced over at Don and winked. “And now look, with all your jawing, you’re out of position. Roger, can you yank his leash a little harder, get this guy back in his cage?”

Don could feel the shell shake ever so slightly, glanced over his shoulder and saw Joe laughing into his hand. He reached back and smacked his shin, though he couldn’t help grinning down at his foot stretchers either.

He looked up, and found that Bobby was already looking at him, tapping his pen consideringly against his mouth. When he made eye contact with Don, he looked away quickly, down at his watch.

“I’m starting this piece in one minute exactly, I need everyone lined up by then!”

There were probably ten other things Don should have been paying attention to as the first piece started: the current, the headwind, logs and sticks and weeds, potential corrections in the other pairs the coaches may make.

But as he and Joe tapped the pair into starting position, his mind was stuck on Bobby’s pink nose and cheeks, his pen tapping, an unreadable look on his face.

҉

If any of the boatings changed after the pairs seat races, Don would have been shocked. Ulbrickson hadn’t posted times, but he’d have been willing to bet money that he and Joe had the best times outright, with Shorty and Stub getting the better adjusted times due to height and weight.

Regardless, the mood of the varsity eight was good, even upbeat, at the townie bar just off campus they’d all been patronizing since they returned from Berlin. Don had got a beer, but his resting deadpan face had spurred Johnny into buying him another drink in a fit of good cheer, telling him to “lighten up for once, man,” and then Don had let Joe buy him a drink “for being the best pair partner.” It was more than Don ever drank usually, even on a weekend, and he was feeling loose-limbed and a little sentimental.

So naturally, it followed that Don wanted to spend the evening with Bobby, who made him more sentimental than anyone else. When he wandered over to where Bobby was sitting, he was a little surprised to find him lost in thought, contemplating his beer with an expression befitting, perhaps, a farmer making a difficult decision to euthanize livestock, rather than an assistant coach enjoying the satisfaction of a well-run seat race.

“Hey,” Don said, sliding into the seat next to Bobby.

“Hey, Don,” he said, smiling. “Looked pretty good out there today, had the old gal moving right along, even with the current.”

Don opened his mouth and Bobby cut him off before he could say anything. “And yes, I did factor the steering mishap at the beginning of piece two into my assessment. You guys recovered well. I hope you didn’t bite Joe’s head off too bad for that.”

Joe hadn’t adjusted the foot steering before the start of the second piece, and they’d nearly rowed straight into a weed patch that wasn’t especially dangerous to crew or shell, but made steering a bitch.

Don snorted. “I didn’t even say anything to him.” It was mostly true, he’d been too gassed from the piece to properly tell him off, but he had made Joe get the reeds off the rudder and clean the boat when it was back in slings.

“Hm. Right,” Bobby said, giving Don a skeptical look before turning and yawning into his hand.

Don leaned down to be heard over the chatter and the music. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bobby said. “I’m just a little tired, I guess.”

“Have you been sleeping okay?”

“No, I mean, it’s not really lack of sleep.” He rubbed his eyes and smiled. “I’m just a little… overwhelmed. Things are just harder than I thought they’d be this year.”

“What’s harder?”

“All of it,” Bobby said, his breath warm on Don’s cheek. “Coaching. Law school. Not being in the boat with you guys anymore.”

Don’s heart skipped a beat. “What’s hard about it?” he said softly.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing.” Bobby sighed heavily. “It feels like I’m making it up as I go, and someone could realize at any second that I‘m fudging it and they’re gonna tell me, ‘get the fuck outta here.’”

“Bobby…” Don put his hand at the small of Bobby’s back, rubbing gently up and down, the way his mother had when he was small and sick. “You’re the most competent person I’ve ever met.” You’re brilliant, you’re brave, you’re the best of men, you deserve to have whatever you want. “Ulbrickson kicked you off the team because you were too smart for your own good, not because you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“Yeah, but I’m still replaceable.” Bobby laughed humorlessly. “And I know it’s dumb to be upset about it, because that’s the nature of the beast, but it does eat at me. And what if I fuck it up and I’m out again?” Don kept moving his hand along Bobby’s back, slowly, rhythmically, trying to ground him in the moment.

“And Morry’s a great guy and a solid cox, I’m genuinely happy that it’s been going well for him so far. But every time I see you guys out on the water, there’s this selfish little piece of me that says, ‘no, that’s my boat, that’s my crew, that should be me out there.’ I just… didn’t account for how much I’d miss it.”

“Bobby. You have to know how much we miss you, too. How much I miss you.” Don felt his cheeks burning, half embarrassment and half liquor, but forged ahead. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“And you have to know how lucky we all feel that you’re still here, that you didn’t leave us to go to some crazy intense law school on the east coast. I can’t imagine this place without you, you’re… you’re like the heart of the team.”

Bobby’s eyes were shining when Don looked at him.

“We all see what a great job you’re doing with the frosh, they’re gonna win the Stewards Cup again, and it’ll all be because of you and Bud, but that’s all just gravy,” Don said, rubbing a small circle with his thumb at the nape of Bobby’s neck. “The trophy is just a bonus, you’re building the future of the team.”

Bobby sighed heavily, turned his body to Don’s and leaned against him, nose pressed against Don’s collarbone.

“You know how it is with this sport, Don,” he said quietly into the wool of his sweater. Don tilted his head down to hear him, his nose brushing against Bobby’s hair.

“What do you mean?” he said, matching Bobby’s tone and continuing the soothing little circles with his thumb along the ridges of Bobby’s spine.

“I mean. We’ve given everything for this sport, for this team, yeah?” Bobby said, tilting his head a little.

“Yeah.”

“I… I don’t regret that. In the grand scheme of things, four years and all of me is nothing. And I’m lucky, I know that. Not everyone gets a chance to compete, to win on this level.” His whole body heaved in another great sigh, only this one was shaky and shuddery. Don curled his fingers in Bobby’s shirt, heart pounding.

“Only, it breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” Bobby looked up at Don, smiling but a little teary-eyed. “Is that bad? Is it horrible and selfish of me to want more? It’s not enough to be a part of something bigger than me, to build something that’s going to last, it’s like I want this sport to love me back.”

Bobby wiped at his eyes furiously. “And I know it’s stupid, because I am lucky, I have a goddamn gold medal for Christ’s sake, and I get to stay on as a coach, pass this on to kids who’ll outlast me, break records. I just want to feel like it’s enough.”

Don thought about everything he had given to the team over the past few years: the blisters, the calluses, the aches and pains, the illnesses he’d pushed through and injuries he hadn’t let heal quite right, the heartbreak when he lost a seat race or made some stupid mistake, the early mornings and the late evenings, every waking moment of his life, essentially.

“I don’t think it’s bad, or it’s stupid,” he said slowly. “I mean, we’re all here, right? We keep coming back for more. So there’s something in all of us that makes it so we don’t know any better, that we can’t get enough.”

“God, when did you get so wise?” Bobby said. “You’re right, but I don’t like not knowing any better. Makes me feel like a kid again.”

“That’s alright,” Don said, letting Bobby lean heavily against him, his head resting on his shoulder. He kept rubbing Bobby’s back in long, smooth, gentle strokes, and gradually felt Bobby’s breath even out.

“Hey, Don, have you— Oh, there he is.” Chuck squinted down at Bobby. “Is he asleep?”

“Was just resting my eyes, Day,” Bobby murmured blearily, not making any moves to get off Don. “M’tired.”

“Why don’t you go home, then, instead of using Don as a pillow?” Chuck said, teasing but mostly fond.

“Don doesn’t mind,” Bobby said. Don swallowed.

“No, I don’t,” he agreed softly.

Chuck laughed. “Alright, Hume, if you’re sure. Make sure he gets home okay.”

“Don’t need Don to get home,” Bobby said, glaring at Chuck, even as Don nodded obligingly.

“I know he means well, but Chuck needs to mind his own business,” Bobby said, mostly into Don’s shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bobby said, adjusting his head so his hair tickled Don’s neck. “He thinks he’s gotta look out for me, but he doesn’t.”

“He doesn’t do it ‘cause he has to, he does it ‘cause he wants to,” Don said, tracing his fingers along the knobs of Bobby’s spine through his shirt. “You’re his friend.”

“I know.” Don felt, rather than heard Bobby’s frustrated little exhale. “I just don’t want to be a burden on anyone.”

Don rested his cheek on Bobby’s head. “Not a burden. No one thinks that.” I don’t think that, I could never think that. I’d do just about anything for you and it’d be my privilege.

Don was reminded of an evening he and Bobby had shared that summer. It had been during the few glorious, sun-drenched weeks where the rowing team and a few other athletic teams had the campus entirely to themselves, and the memory was cast in the warm glow of a Seattle summer spent out on the water and in and out of each other's pockets.

That evening, Bobby had taken Don down to the boathouse, opened it with his own set of keys, handed down from Bolles. He was clearly pleased with himself, grinning like the cat who got the cream the whole time.

“You’ve ridden in the launch before, right, Donny?”

“Only a couple times, when Bolles swapped me in during practice my frosh year.”

“Well, it’s a pretty nice view of the cut,” Bobby said knowingly, though Don knew he would have only ridden in the launch a few more times, also to be swapped in or out during a practice.
“Wanna go for a ride?”

Don had, indeed, wanted to go for a ride.

They’d taken the hand tiller launch, Bobby claiming that Ulbrickson might kick his ass for real if they took the steering wheel launch and something happened to it.

The sun wasn’t quite setting yet, but it hung low enough in the sky that it felt pleasantly warm rather than oppressively hot. The breeze was light enough that it didn’t even ripple the water, but felt unreasonably good on Don’s face as he sat in the bow.

“How’s the view, Donny?” Bobby was grinning when Don looked back.

“Pretty good.”

Bobby steered them towards the banks, careful to avoid any logs, and let the engine stall in the shade.

“I’m really glad I get to be here a little longer, get to keep doing this,” Bobby said in a moment of unprompted sincerity. “I think it might’ve broken my heart if I’d had to leave.”

Don looked over at him. He looked mostly content, if a little wistful. He was gazing over the cut with the fondness of someone returning to their childhood backyard after they’d been away for years. Don turned back to the water as well.

“Me too,” he said. “Wouldn’t have been Washington rowing without you.”

“I guess I have been on the team the whole time you’ve been here,” Bobby mused. “What’d you think of me when you were a frosh?”

“Was terrified of you,” Don said honestly. “Thought if I looked at you wrong you’d bite my head off.”

Bobby laughed delightedly. “I might have just, I didn’t have a handle on my temper at all as a junior.” Don looked at him skeptically. “Shut up, you have to admit, I’m way better now, otherwise Ulbrickson wouldn’t have offered me the job.” Don rolled his eyes, but didn’t disagree.

“Last year, did you want me in the boat? Even though you thought I’d bite your head off?”

Don turned back to Bobby, slightly surprised. Surely he already knew the answer to that.

“Obviously.”

“I didn’t think it was obvious. I thought Ulbrickson was playing mind games with me.”

Don nearly laughed at Bobby’s grim expression. “Bobby, we all knew you were the best coxswain. Ulbrickson included.”

“What do you know about coxing, Donny?” Bobby smiled wryly. Don was being teased, but it was good-natured. “What set me apart?” Don knew he was mostly joking, maybe fishing for a compliment, but he considered the question carefully.

“You were always giving us extra inches, that other coxswains weren’t even looking for.”

“What?” Bobby had tilted his head, the way he sometimes did when he disagreed with something Bolles or Ulbrickson said, but didn’t care enough to argue the point.

“When you’d take a competitive line, make some small correction about hand height or backing it in half a second late, every single one of those choices gave us that inch of water we needed to win. You were looking for those inches, and you always found them.”

Bobby looked a little taken aback, but not displeased.

“The coxswain’s job is in the inches, Donny.”

“Well, you’re damn good at it.”

“Thanks for saying that, I didn’t even realize you guys noticed,” Bobby said softly, looking back out over the water. “I think I was too risky with it, sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes I got too clever with my lines, got a little too caught up in finding the advantage,” Bobby said. “Now that I’m about to coach a bunch of kids, some of the shit I did, thinking about it, it stresses me out. The safety of the athletes is the coxswain’s first priority, and I think sometimes I rode that line a little too hard, trying to get the edge.”

He had a contemplative look on his face when Don looked over at him. Bobby’s moments of stillness were few and far between, and Don held them like a piece of chocolate in his mouth whenever Bobby shared them with him.

“That shit I pulled with Syracuse at Poughkeepsie?” Bobby snorted. “Jesus H. Christ. No wonder Ulbrickson kicked me off the team the year before, I probably gave him an ulcer.”

Don shook his head. “It’s the reason Ulbrickson put you back in the boat. You wanted it more than any other cox on the water.”

“The wanting’s the easy part, Donny,” Bobby grinned wryly. “It’s the getting that’s tough.”

Don didn’t think they were talking about rowing anymore.

“I can’t imagine you not getting exactly what you want out of any situation.” You deserve to have everything you want.

Bobby affixed him with an inscrutable look. “Yeah, Donny? What makes you say that?”

Don shrugged. “You just… go for it. The top boat, the best line, law school. It’s like nothing is an obstacle to you.” He bit his lip. “I really admire that.”

Bobby said nothing for a moment, tapping his fingers on the tiller.

“You know how I have asthma, right? I’ve always had health issues,” he finally said. Don nodded. “I had surgery as a kid on my appendix, but it went badly. My parents say I almost died. That’s why there’s always something wrong with me.” Don didn’t say anything, but inclined his head to show he was listening.

“I don’t really remember it all that much, but my mom always gets really upset talking about it. Makes her cry. My dad doesn’t like to talk about it, either, says it was the worst day of his life when he thought he had held me for the last time.” Bobby’s tapping continued in a gentle rhythm.

“It really pissed me off when I was a kid, that I couldn’t just do stuff without someone fussing over me or worrying that I was gonna break on the spot. So I kind of just started doing anything, went out for every sport, joined every club, climbed trees, picked stupid fights, you know how it is. I guess I wanted to show my parents that I was okay, that I could be a normal kid, and they didn’t have to see me dying every time I got even a little bit sick.”

He grinned ruefully. “Then it became about proving a point, ‘cause everyone thought I was a runt. And I just never stopped.” He looked at Don thoughtfully. “I definitely don’t get everything I want, but if I don’t try, then it’s my loss.”

Don hadn’t really known what to say to that, feeling a little out of his depth, like they were having two different conversations.

“Well,” he said, stretching his arm over the side of the boat to dip his hand in the water. “Guess it’s a good thing it led you here.”

Bobby had smiled at him, and that had been that, they’d watched the sun set over Lake Washington and gotten horrendously bitten by mosquitos.

It was the sun pouring over the water through the trees and the heavy summer air that Don usually remembered when he thought back to that evening, especially now that the nights were earlier and colder. Now, though, with Bobby’s head on his shoulder, Don thought about the warmth in Bobby’s eyes, how soft and earnest his voice was, how contemplative he’d been. How he’d shared all that with Don.

He watched Johnny leave with a very pretty girl, but not before telling Don not to expect him back in their room that night. Shortly after, he gently jostled Bobby where he’d been leaning against Don’s shoulder.

“Hey. We should get going,” he said softly in Bobby’s ear.

“Sure thing, Donny,” Bobby said with a yawn.

Bobby had moved into graduate student housing before the semester started, and Don still wasn’t quite used to not beginning and ending their days in the same place, not catching him in the common areas between classes, knowing that he wasn’t up the stairs and down the hall.

He and Bobby walked mostly in silence, but close together to keep some of the chill at bay. There had already been a few mornings in October where Don had woken up to frost on his window panes. Tomorrow was going to be another one of those mornings, he thought, regretting not wearing a warmer jacket. That thought was immediately discarded when he felt Bobby shiver next to him. Without thinking, Don took his jacket off and put it over Bobby’s shoulders.

Bobby looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Aren’t you cold?”

“It’s not so bad,” Don lied, sticking his hands in his pockets. “But you gotta stop leaving your coat at the boathouse with how cold it’s getting.” Bobby rolled his eyes but didn’t contradict him.

“Well, this is me,” Bobby said as they arrived at the block of old brick buildings the university used for grad student housing.

Don nodded, wanting to say something, but knowing he’d fumble the words.

“Y’know, you can let us know—let me know—if you need anything.”

Bobby turned to him, his cheeks pink. “Like what?”

Don already regretted saying anything. “Just, like— if you’re overwhelmed or whatever. I want to help if I can.”

It felt juvenile, inadequate, even as he said it. He wished—not for the first time—that he was like Joe, always knowing what to say and when to say it. If he looked at Bobby, he was sure he’d see proof that he’d been weighed and found wanting, that Bobby would laugh at him, or worse, pity him.

And Don had spent the better part of nine months staring at Bobby’s face for hours every day, and he liked to think he knew his facial expressions pretty well. Of course, Bobby had a pretty good poker face when he tried, but if you knew what to look for, there were tells. The line between his brows that lasted only half a second when he didn’t like something a race official said, how he blinked quickly when he was caught off guard, the way his the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly when he was about to make a call he knew Ulbrickson wouldn’t like.

But now, Don couldn’t quite put his finger on the expression on Bobby’s face, which unsettled him. He was looking at Don intently, with something in the tilt of his head and the set of his mouth that was somehow both achingly familiar and completely new.

“That means a lot, Don,” Bobby said quietly. “And thanks for walking me home.” His tone was casual, but his eyes were full of that inscrutable thing that Don desperately wanted to know.

It was not lost on Don that if Bobby was a girl, wearing his coat, no less, this is where he’d kiss him goodnight. They were standing so close together already, it would be so easy to fit his hand along the curve of Bobby’s skull, pull him close, see if his mouth and neck were as soft as they looked. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked down at Bobby.

“No problem,” he said, his tongue heavy in his mouth. The right corner of Bobby’s mouth tilted up in a wry smile, and he bumped his hip against Don’s.

“Good night,” he said quietly, unlocked the front door and disappeared inside.

Don walked back to his building, heart racing, mind full of Bobby’s blue eyes and his pink mouth.

In the privacy of his room—which he had to himself, thank God—he thought about Bobby’s jaw and his mouth and what his thighs would look like spread over Don’s lap. It wasn’t too different from other times he’d given in and gotten off thinking about Bobby, but it felt different, more dangerous tonight.

Because, Don realized, there had been a split second, maybe more, where it had seemed like, to his hopeful, unreliable eyes that Bobby had wanted Don to kiss him goodnight.

It was only compounded by the horrible and wonderful thing about Bobby, which was that he was always there.

He somehow always knew when to prod Don into talking, and when to leave him alone and carry the conversation himself. He studied with Don at the library, somehow managing his 1L classes while also making sure Don didn’t lose his eligibility because of a dropped test. He wasn’t in Don’s stern anymore, but he was still omnipresent in his launch during practices. He was so focused on his frosh, but somehow always knew exactly when to catch Don’s eye and give him a wink or a smile or a raised eyebrow that would lift his mood, give him the last bit of push he needed to finish the drill cleanly. He bought Don sheet music when he saw it discounted in bookstores and asked him what he thought about different pieces, seemed to really care what Don had to say about each and every one.

In the dark of night under his blankets in that hazy place between awake and asleep when the world seemed a little unreal, it was enough for Don to imagine that maybe Bobby wanted him back.

Which was fucking stupid. He needed to snap out of it.

Friday afternoon brought the first really nasty storm of the season into Seattle, and Ulbrickson delayed practice four times before giving in and canceling it altogether. Don took Joe up on his offer to study together, both because he did have a quiz coming up that he wasn’t feeling so great about, and to see if maybe Joe would give him the reality check he needed.

“What would you have done if you and Joyce hadn’t gotten together?” he asked, voice quiet enough for the library but loud enough to be heard over the rain coming down in sheets against the windows. Joe blinked at him, visibly taken aback.

“Well jeez, Don, I don’t really know,” he said plainly. “She’s pretty much the center of my world. Her family’s my family, my family’s her family. I probably wouldn’t be here at all, to be honest with you.”

“Right,” Don said, and picked at a hangnail. Joe was going to be no help, and he instantly regretted having started the conversation.

“Why do you ask?” Joe said, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“I don’t know,” Don said, looking back down at his geomorphology textbook. “Making conversation.”

“Don, is there… someone in your life?” Joe asked slowly, his eyes widening almost comically.

“No,” he said, and snorted. That, at least, was pathetically true.

“Did you want there to be?” Joe said.

“Fuck, Joe, I don’t know,” Don snapped. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Joe closed his notebook, abandoning the pretense of studying entirely, and looking at Don with great interest. “Well, it’s not like you’ve ever given anyone the impression that you’d be interested in… that sort of thing.”

Don squinted at Joe. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come on, you know,” Joe said, laughing slightly. “I’ve never seen you talk to a girl willingly and without looking utterly miserable, you never talk about anyone you’re seeing or anyone you’re interested in, you always look uncomfortable whenever we do.” He paused, considering. “The only time I see you smile when you’re not rowing or talking about rowing is when you play the piano.”

“Oh.” The regret Don felt at having started the conversation only intensified.

But, he supposed, he had come to Joe to get him to snap out of his flights of fancy. It was delusional to think that there might ever be anything between him and Bobby, because one, Bobby wasn’t queer. And two, as Joe had just devastatingly outlined in more detail than Don cared to examine, there was no way that anyone, let alone someone as vibrant and electric as Bobby, might ever look at him twice. He was weird and awkward and didn’t know how to have a normal conversation about anything but rowing. And apparently, all his teammates saw him as some kind of machine, incapable of any real depth of feeling.

His distress must’ve shown on his face, because Joe’s face softened, and he leaned across the table.

“I’m sorry, Don, that was unfair. I shouldn’t have assumed anything, you probably talk about this stuff with other people, I know the guys can be real obnoxious about that stuff.”

Don nodded, content to let the conversation die there, and tapped his pencil on his notebook.

Of course, he had no such luck, because Joe continued. “Well, what about Bobby?”

Don promptly choked on his own spit. Joe pounded his back, which didn’t help, but it did save him from having to respond immediately.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Bobby? What’d he say when you told him about it?”

“Oh. I, uh, haven’t talked with him. About this.”

Joe opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then immediately closed it as though he’d thought better of it.

“What?”

“Nothing, that’s just surprising, is all!” Joe put his hands up.

“Why?”

“Well, you two are best friends, I thought. And he’s just about the only person who can ever get you to crack a damn smile. If you were gonna talk to anyone about this stuff, it’d be with him, right?”

Don’s face was on fire, and he willed an earthquake or a flood or some other natural disaster to occur, and save him from this waking nightmare. But alas, Joe continued.

“I figured you must have, ah—” Joe grinned. “Confided your woes in him.”

Don put his face in his hands. This was worse than disastrous. If there was a merciful God, He would have struck Don down right then and there.

“No,” he said, muffled into his hands. “I haven’t.”

“Can I ask why not?” Joe peered at him like Don was a particularly interesting bug and he was a kid with a magnifying glass. “Are you both interested in the same girl?”

“Wha— Jesus Christ, no!” Don made to get up. “This was stupid, I should’ve—”

“No, no, wait a minute, I’m sorry, Don, I was mostly teasing, sit back down,” Joe protested, grabbing Don’s sleeve and pulling him back down. Don gave him a baleful look.

“I do genuinely want to know, why haven’t you talked to Bobby? Why come to me?”

“Aren’t you the expert on being in love?” Don said, knowing he sounded snippy and petulant but unable to care. “It’s like you said, I clearly don’t know anything about anything.”

Joe grimaced. “I really am sorry, Don, I know that was shitty of me, I was just surprised you were asking.”

Don pursed his lips. “Besides, I don’t want to bother Bobby with this. He’s so busy this year.”

“Sure, maybe, but Bobby always has time for you. He’s good like that.”

Don wanted to bang his head against a wall, but Joe looked so earnest and apologetic that he just shrugged.

“Anyways, I don’t think I’m your guy. I’m really only the expert on being in love with one person,” Joe said wisely. “So unless you’re also in love with Joyce, you’re shit out of luck. Sorry if you were expecting good advice.”

“Yeah, well.” Don pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Would it help if you talked to Joyce?” Joe said, after a moment of thought.

“Wha— why?”

“I mean, you two get along well enough. And she understands women, what with her being one and all. Maybe you just need a different perspective.”

“I don’t think that’ll help.” Don didn’t know whether to be touched by the offer, or vaguely offended on Joyce’s behalf that Joe expected her to be the spokeswoman for every young woman on UW’s campus. He decided on the former. “But thanks. I do appreciate it.”

“Let me know if you change your mind, Don,” Joe said. “And hopefully your mystery girl changes her mind, too. It wouldn’t hurt anyone to see you a little more cheerful every now and then.”

“Yeah, well.” Don shrugged and turned his attention to his textbook.

After morning practice the next day, Joe pulled him aside.

“Listen, Joyce and I are going out this evening, get a drink, take in some music. You should come with us. It’ll take your mind off things.”

Don looked at Joe, deadpan. “Third-wheeling with you and your fiancée is meant to make me feel better?” he said blandly.

“Joyce and I are excellent company,” Joe replied, unbothered.

And it was true, Joyce and Joe were good company, considerate in a way that other couples weren’t, making sure no one felt like they were left out of a joke. It helped, too, that Joyce knew a thing or two about rowing, and Don never felt like an asshole for talking about the boat around her the way he did with some other girls.

And so, he found that he was genuinely pretty pleased to see her when she met him and Joe outside the girls’ dorms after practice.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you longer than five minutes since the semester started,” she said, kissing his cheek.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” he said.

“It was Joyce’s idea to invite you,” Joe said, smiling at her fondly.

Don narrowed his eyes. That meant that Joe had said enough about Don’s moodiness in conversation with Joyce that even she was concerned. He had, perhaps, even recounted their conversation in the library yesterday to her. He made a mental note to leave the laundry bag of wet and dirty rags in Joe’s locker on Monday.

“So,” she said, fixing her friendly smile on Don. “You’re taking upper level courses now. How’s the workload been treating you?”

Joyce was an easy conversationalist who didn’t let Don’s taciturn nature get in her way, which Don appreciated. She had a knack for making you want to open up without feeling like you were being pushed into sharing things you didn’t want to.

They stopped outside a bar that Don knew by reputation only. The problem being, its reputation was that it was for queers, something he had been given to understand based on whispers he’d heard around campus.

“Have you been here before, Don?” she said, smiling so genuinely that there was no way she was being snide or dropping hints.

“Uh, no,” he said haltingly.

“It’s a trip!” she said excitedly. “The music is always good and the performers are even better.”

It seemed to Don that Joyce had most of the taste in the relationship, was the one who had opinions about music and food and where a nice place to spend an evening might be. It’s not that Joe had bad or even no taste, but he was an agreeable guy, and trusted Joyce implicitly. It also, most likely, had to do with the fact that he knew he’d have a nice time anywhere, as long as he was with Joyce.

If he hadn’t been in a state of abject terror, Don might’ve found it sweet enough to hurt his teeth, and make him think bitterly on his own romantic prospects. But as it was, he was actively panicking, and desperately trying to hold onto some illusion of nonchalance, and had no time to be maudlin.

“You’ve been?” he said, hoping his tone conveyed casual curiosity, and not someone choking on his own spit.

“Sure, a few times now,” Joe said, casting him a look that was only mildly concerned.

Every reassurance that Don had given himself over the past weeks that Joe would never suspect him of being queer, a guy like Joe wouldn’t know a queer if he'd been staring at the back of his head for a year, was suddenly thrown into question. He’d been in a queer bar multiple times, apparently. Had presumably even talked to other queer people. Don wanted to drop dead.

Any hopes Don had been holding onto for a low-stakes social evening with friends suddenly looked very small. He certainly couldn’t object to the choice in venue now, partly because he didn’t have a backup option in mind, and partly because it might look like he was overcompensating for something. Besides, Don Hume wasn’t the kind of guy who made a fuss.

So, he nodded and said “Alright,” hoped his expression looked unbothered, and followed the pair of them through the door.

The bar itself was unremarkable, the tables crowded with patrons, as he might’ve expected on a Friday night. If you weren’t looking—and Don was—you might not have even noticed that the people at the bar, packed into booths, and clustered around tables were dressed unusually, or paired off with other people of their same gender.

As promised, the band was good, clearly talented and playing songs Don hadn’t heard before. Consumed by his own anxiety and mild paranoia, however, Don couldn’t appreciate it the way he normally might. After a few songs, he ducked outside to get some air.

Not for the first time in his collegiate career, Don wished he smoked cigarettes, just so he’d have a built-in excuse to step outside for a few minutes, and have something to do with his hands instead of just sticking his hands in his pockets and watching passersby.

But he never liked cigarettes much, they always irritated his lungs, so he did what he usually did when he found himself in these situations, overwhelmed and overstimulated: he did a race walkthrough in his head.

Don had taken to the act of rowing like a duck to water, due to its inherent physicality and the way he saw immediate results in the movement and efficiency of the boat. His introduction to the sport crystallized his appreciation: there was a structure to everything, a choreography, an exact way to move his body and an exact time to do it. It had become second nature to reach for that structure in moments of panic.

The three quarters-half-lengthen-full at the start, the stride down after the high ten, the build in intensity, the shift with the heels at the thousand-meter mark: it was meditative, in a way. Don would never say anything to his teammates about it, sure he’d come across as insufferable, but he did believe that it helped him when it came time for a seat race or an actual race, having visualized the process so many times over in his head.

His reverie was interrupted by a small crush of people leaving the bar, and he moved away from the entrance to let people by, slipping around the corner, into a dimly-lit alley, just a few paces, and then promptly collided with someone—or rather, someones.

“Oh.”

Like something out of a dream, or rather, a nightmare, there was Bobby. Not just Bobby, but Bobby and another man, on the tall side but still shorter than Don, whose features Don didn’t care to distinguish, mostly because his hands were in the back pockets of Bobby’s pants. There were all the signs of a recent embrace, tousled hair and red lips and collars askew, leaving no question as to what Bobby had been doing with his Saturday evening.

“Sorry,” Don said, unable to say anything else. He felt sick to his stomach, felt unbelievably stupid, like the world’s biggest fool. Of course Bobby would never want him back, he was so bright and magnetic and handsome, of course he had so many other people who were interested. Even if he was interested in men, of course he’d never want Don, who was weird and awkward and could only ever talk about rowing, who was childish and clumsy and wholly inadequate.

Don wanted to cry. He wanted to be able to look anywhere but Bobby’s face, which bore an expression of abject horror.

Don was used to Bobby always being pleased to see him, could always count on a smile, a joke, Bobby’s shoulder reassuring against his arm. Seeing Bobby looking at him like Don was maybe the last person in the world he wanted to see made him want to throw up. It almost hurt more than watching him kiss someone else.

“Sorry,” Don said again, turned on his heel, and walked as quickly as he could down the block, sucking in as deep of breaths as he could manage over the frantic beating of his heart. He rubbed his eyes, sat on the curb and took stock of his miserable situation. Bobby also, apparently, liked men, but not Don. In fact, not only did he not care for Don, but the sight of him during an intimate encounter was enough to disgust him. Don needed a drink, and possibly, to drop dead.

His thoughts of hurling himself in front of a streetcar were abruptly interrupted, then intensified at the sight of Joyce, brow slightly quizzical, rounding the corner.

“Oh, Don, I was just coming to look for you!” she said cheerfully, her smile dropping off her face suddenly as she saw Don’s expression. “Are you okay? You look awful.”

Abruptly, he felt his face crumple and his eyes well with tears. Jesus Christ. He felt out of place and out of his depth, had just seen the love of his young life kissing someone else, and now his friend and teammate’s fiancée was about to watch him cry. Death would have been preferable. Don furiously rubbed at his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, hoping his voice wasn’t shaking too much. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Honey, what’s wrong?” she said, visibly concerned now. She delicately sat next to him, gently put her hand on his arm. “You’re obviously not fine. Did something happen?”

Don didn’t even know what to say to that, didn’t know how to stop himself from hiccupping.

“I… I…”

“Shh, shh… deep breaths, huh?” Joyce put her hand on his arm, patted it gently, the way she probably did for one of her or Joe’s siblings. It somehow only made him feel more miserable, like he was a child again, in need of comfort and reassurance. “Don, it’s going to be okay, but I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”

He took a deep breath.

“I just… it was nothing. I overreacted. I’ll be fine, I just need a minute.”

“But what happened?”

“I— I saw something I wasn’t meant to see. It was my fault.”

Joyce tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Is this about the g— person? The one you’re in love with, but you can’t be with for whatever reason?”

Don groaned and put his head in his hands. “Why did Joe tell you about that?” Don moaned through his fingers. “That’s also not what I said. I’m gonna kill him.”

“He’s worried about you,” Joyce said, smile evident in her voice, Don could tell, even without looking. “You know how he is.”

Don sighed heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“...well. Is it a, ah— a matter of the heart?”

In spite of himself, Don nearly laughed at how similar in cadence she and Joe were. Is that what love is, he wondered? To be so in sync with someone that it’s like rowing a pair with your verbal cues? He felt his heart break all over again.

He scrubbed a hand over his face roughly. “It uh, doesn’t matter. It’s— there’s no way.”

Joyce scrunched her eyebrows even further. “‘No way?’ What do you mean?”

“He didn’t—” Don stopped himself, his heart pounding. Joyce tilted her head but didn’t say anything. “This person is with someone else. I’m, uh… not a consideration. That’s it.”

Her eyes widened in understanding. “Oh honey.” Don’s heart sank even further. “I’m so, so sorry. That’s absolutely rotten. ”

He felt even more like a little kid, but it felt nice to be seen, understood, even just for a few minutes, so he let Joyce gently stroke his arm as he sucked in deep breaths, willing himself to calm down.

Finally, after a few excruciatingly long moments, he said to Joyce, “Can you… can you not tell Joe?”

“Don, honey…”

“I don’t want him to know.”

She paused, regarded him carefully. “I won’t. But he is worried about you. He’d never say anything, but I think he’s been feeling a little sentimental about this being his senior year. Even if he does end up needing to take a fifth year, he’s thinking about the future, and I think he wants to make sure everyone’s okay before he graduates.”

Don snorted. “I wish he wouldn’t.”

“He can’t help it. That’s just how he is.”

“Yeah, I know.” Don smiled despite himself. “Your kids are never gonna get a moment’s peace between the two of you.”

Joyce laughed. “I don’t know about all that.” She looked at him consideringly. “For what it’s worth, you’re a really great guy. That… person is an idiot for passing you by. I hope you won’t let this get you down.”

“Thanks.” Don smiled wryly. “Even if you’re just saying that because I’m having a nervous breakdown.”

“Not at all!” Joyce grinned conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re my favorite of Joe’s teammates.”

Don raised his eyebrows. “Not Roger?”

“Oh, I like Roger just fine, but he’s not serious about anything. You always take me seriously, never talk down to me or anyone else. I know you don’t think so, but you’re very easy to be around.”

“Thanks, Joyce. That means a lot.” Don let her soothingly pat his arm once more. “Sorry for panicking like that.”

“I won’t mention it,” she said graciously. “Shall we head back inside?”

Don nodded, taking one last deep, bracing breath.

Joe grinned at the pair of them as they returned to the table. “Everything okay?”

“Yes! Don ran into someone he knew. Someone in your geology lab?”

He shot Joyce another grateful look. “Yeah.”

He let Joyce and Joe carry on as usual, looping him in whenever they could, and desperately worked to keep his mind from wandering, as it often did, to Bobby, knowing it would only make him more miserable.

҉

Monday morning at practice, Bobby didn’t look at him. Not on the dock as everyone got launched, not on the water, not afterwards. Don had gone up to him, hoping to maybe—apologize? Act like nothing had happened and ask if Bobby wanted to go to the library? — he didn’t know. But Bobby had looked past him like he wasn’t even there, hustled out of the boathouse and back to campus, complaining about a quiz he needed to make up.

Don gave Bobby his space at practice after that. Didn’t make faces at him from the boat over Morry’s shoulder, didn’t ask how the frosh did with their drills, certainly didn’t walk back to campus with him or try to study with him. He hoped, maybe foolishly, that Bobby would remember that he and Don were friends before anything else, and carry on as though nothing had happened, if he gave him enough time.

A few weeks ago, Bobby had explained the frosh training plan to Don: he wanted to build up the frosh crew’s athleticism and conditioning before he began drilling too hard on technique. It was, of course, Ulbrickson’s plan, but Bobby had ideas about which workouts would work best to build up the aerobic base and push the anaerobic threshold.

“Yeah, the blade placement and wrist motion is important, and it’ll win them seconds against Cal,” he had explained during a meandering walk around Lake Washington on a crisp, sunny morning. “But by being the most in-shape crew on the water, they’ll get open water. They have to be the crew that still has gas in the tank between 1300 and 1500 meters.”

Only, Don hadn’t counted on Bobby completely avoiding him by the time he got to see it in action. He felt a twitch of frustration behind his left eye every time he heard Bobby call for another piece as the frosh oarsmen sat panting.

If things had been normal, he’d have gotten the full rundown from Bobby at dinner after practice, about how Jenkins spent it all on the first piece, how he didn’t like how Cooper went too easy too early, how Davies started to pull with his arms when the rate picked up. And then Don would’ve bitched about how Bobby was making him learn frosh names before New Year’s and Bobby would’ve laughed and said something about how he had known Don’s name since tryouts because he had an eye for greatness and Don better learn quicker or a particularly talented frosh would take his seat, no questions asked.

“Selection happens every day, Hume, keep up or your ass will be in the bow of the JV boat quicker than Ulbrickson can throw a fit.”

But no, he was in this fucking mess, so he had to walk back to campus with Johnny and Joe every day, listening to them discuss their engineering coursework and whatever new movie Johnny wanted to go see on the weekend.

Which was fine, he liked them both just fine, but his whole rhythm was off, and he felt set adrift, lost in space without the easy social buffer Bobby effortlessly provided.

Then on Wednesday he bit some poor frosh’s head off who’d made an off-handed remark about how sore he was after a drill Bobby called “20 minutes of hell.”

“No one’s making you be here,” Don snapped. “Quit if you hate it so much, and someone who actually wants to work will take your seat.”

Johnny had made him apologize, and had asked him with uncharacteristic concern later that evening if he was feeling okay.

“I know Ulbrickson is insane and I know you’ve rowed through worse, but you can’t be taking shit out on the frosh, man,” he said, peering at Don like he might have evidence of some mysterious illness plastered on his face. “Maybe you should ask Bud or Bobby if they can put in a good word for you, see if you can take a practice off.

“I’m fine,” Don said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t need practice off, and Ulbrickson wouldn’t give it to me if I asked.”

“Well, if it was serious enough,” Johnny said. “And if one of the assistant coaches said something…”

“It’s nothing.” Don pulled his notes out of his school bag, determined to wrap this conversation up quickly. “I haven’t been sleeping well, and this lab is kicking my ass.”

“Okay,” Johnny said slowly. “It would be fine if something were wrong, though. We’re all worried about you.”

“‘All’? Jesus fucking— has this been affecting the boat?”

“Well no, of course not,” Johnny said, eyebrows scrunched. “But you’re our friend, and you’ve just been a little… intense, lately. I mean, more so than usual.”

“It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

Johnny looked like he wanted to say something more, but mercifully dropped it.

On Friday, Don decided he’d had enough. He hadn’t counted on how bereft he’d feel without Bobby in his life, like leaning against a wall only to find it had disappeared, only the wall was Bobby’s shoulder, his smile, his quickness with a joke.

Bobby was supposed to be his best friend, goddamn it. Even if he didn’t want Don like that, it shouldn’t matter, they’d won a fucking gold medal together, for Christ’s sake. That had to be worth something.

Friday’s workout was three ten minute pieces, plus an additional 8 minute piece. Ulbrickson wanted them at head race intensity, and had the coxswains calling the leg drive with something bordering on sadism.

“Okay boys, last two minutes, we’re going up two in two,” Morry called, tapping his stroke counter. “That’s one… and two! 32, right here.”

Morry gave him an alarmed look as Don slammed the legs.

“Steady on, boys, maintain the recovery here!”

Don didn’t look at him, but muttered, “Am I on rate?” Morry glanced down at his stroke counter, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yeah, you’re on, but Don—”

“Then we’re fine.”

Morry pursed his lips briefly, but carried on as usual.

“That’s it, boys, legs, send… starboards, hands up…”

He let the calls wash over him, but his eyes were fixed on Bobby in the coaches’ launch, cheerfully calling out corrections at the second frosh eight.

He was quick on the dock, getting his and Joe’s oars back up quick and antsy for Morry’s “hands on” call. But Bobby was quicker, darting out of the coaches’ launch and into the boathouse lickety split.

Don lingered in the locker room, pretending to deflate, treat, and wash a blister with exceptional care. Joe gave him a look of concern, as he shouldered his bag.

“You alright, Donny?”

“Yeah, Joe, I’m fine.” He did his best to give Joe a reassuring smile, but based on Joe’s bemused reaction, he probably just looked unhinged.

“Is everything okay with Bobby?”

“Wha— why wouldn’t it be?”

“You two are just usually somewhat attached at the hip, but I haven’t seen him at all this week,” Joe said slowly.

Don didn’t really know what to say to that, so he just shrugged.

“You know if you need anything, I’m here, right?” Joe said. “Even if you don’t want to talk about it, I’m here.”

Don’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah, I know. Thanks, Joe.”

After everyone left, Don made his way up the rickety wooden stairs to the attic, hoping that he was right, that Bobby had gotten distracted by singles times to have left yet.

Sure enough, there he was, poring over numbers at the desk he’d dragged into the boathouse and up into the attic over the summer to function as his “office.”

Well, Bobby hadn’t moved the desk, Don had. Bobby had wheedled him into dragging it over from campus, and then had “helped” Don push it up the attic stairs. It had been a fairly mild September evening, but Don had been sweating from the effort. Bobby had bought his beers afterwards in the townie bar near campus. He had sat close to him at the bar, their thighs bumping each other. It had made Don’s ears go bright red.

“It’s really no trouble,” Don had muttered into his beer, cheeks no doubt tomato red. “It wasn’t even that heavy.” It had been heavy, and Don wasn’t entirely sure how Bobby had even managed to get it out of the campus building he’d pilfered it from and onto the sidewalk to begin with.

“Aw, maybe not to you, but it was trouble for me,” Bobby had insisted, taking the empty glass out of Don’s hands. “It’s nice to know I can still rely on large men to move heavy wooden objects for me in their spare time.”

“What else would I be doing with my Friday night?” Don said, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t know, literally anything but moving big, heavy furniture around for little old me.” Bobby was grinning, but his eyes were serious. “Maybe Morry’s got furniture he needs you to move. I’m not your cox anymore, bud. You don’t actually need to do me any favors.”

“Well, I lend the operation a sense of legitimacy,” Don had said. “The last thing we need is you getting in trouble for stealing furniture from the university. Someone’s gotta have your back, might as well be me.”

“Don’t make me blush,” Bobby laughed. “Besides, it’s not stolen. It’s secondhand. But seriously. Thank you.” He had pressed another pint into Don’s hands, his shoulders brushing against Don’s arm, and his fingers white hot against Don’s.

Don had desperately wanted to believe he was doing it on purpose, that Bobby had wanted his fingers to brush up against Don’s, that he was meticulously logging every glance, every touch, every kind word and fond smile sent his way, the way Don had been for the past nine months.

Now, though, he couldn’t have felt further away from Bobby if he was on the goddamn moon. He desperately wished Bobby was still his coxswain, because then he’d have Bobby’s eyes back on him, for at least the time they were on the water. He cleared his throat loudly as he walked over to the desk, and Bobby looked up, then immediately over Don’s shoulder.

“Hey Don, I’m kind of busy right now, can we—”

“Can you cut the bullshit, Bobby?” Don said sharply, then immediately regretted his tone as Bobby gave a tiny, minuscule flinch, jaw clenching. “Look, I’m sorry, but you keep giving me the goddamn runaround. I just want to talk to you.”

Don’s heart ached as he watched Bobby close his eyes, and breathe deeply through his nose. He gave a little shake of his arms, willing his shoulders to relax, then leaned his elbows on the desk heavily.

“Okay, fine, we can cut the bullshit.” Bobby rubbed a hand over his face. “Have you told anyone?”

Don blinked, surprised. That was what Bobby was worried about? “Uh, no.”

“Wha— and why not?” Bobby sputtered, making eye contact with Don for the first time in a week. It nearly knocked the wind out of him, getting an up close reminder of how blue his eyes were.

“It’s none of my business who you, uh. You know.”

“It doesn’t concern you at all that you’ve spent most of your time for the past year with an invert?” Bobby spat the last word.

“No,” Don said, feeling, not for the first time, as though they were having two different conversations. “Should it?”

“Common knowledge says yes,” Bobby replied. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m a degenerate, a pervert. What if I’d tried to take liberties with one of the guys? With you?”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Don said softly. Though I wish you would have. But you don’t feel that way about me. And even if you did, you’d have never put anything ahead of the crew.

“You don’t know that,” Bobby snapped.

“Yes, I do,” Don said. “The boat was always the most important thing to you. Nothing would have ever come before that, even if you did…” he trailed off, unable to voice the thought. “But you didn’t.” Want me like that.

Bobby laughed, but it wasn’t right. He didn’t sound joyful, or pleased, or charming; he sounded like he’d reached down his throat and ripped his laugh from it as some kind of awful penance. Don hated it. He reached out to do something, anything—put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder, his neck, comfort him—before Bobby put his head in his hands.

“But I did, Don,” he said, muffled by his hands.

“What? What are you talki—”

“I did take liberties,” Bobby said, looking at Don again.

“Wha— with who?” Don felt his blood run cold. So not only did Bobby not want him, he had wanted someone else in the boat. Or worse, someone in the boat he coxed when he was a junior. He fixed his eyes on a callus on his right palm, wishing Lake Washington would swallow him up and drown him on the spot.

“With you, you fucking idiot!” Bobby stood up abruptly, his chair skidding loudly against the floor. Don looked up. Bobby’s eyes were shining, and Don could tell he was refusing to let any tears fall. He felt a wave of fondness crash over him, because of course Bobby would be too stubborn to cry, even in a moment like this. “I took liberties with you all goddamn season, like the fucking asshole I am.”

“Bobby, wha— you never… I think I would’ve noticed,” Don said softly, unable to muster up anything more than a whisper. Of course I would’ve noticed, it would’ve only been the best goddamn thing to ever happen to me.

“Don,” Bobby breathed, eyes still shining. “I couldn’t help myself. Every chance I could, I had to touch you, had to be close to you.

“Oh.” Oh. Don couldn’t breathe. He hadn’t been imagining it. Bobby had wanted it just as much as he had, he’d meant all the closeness, the touches, the smiles that maybe, just maybe, had been only for Don.

“Yeah, oh,“ Bobby spat. “Still not gonna report me? You might as well, I’ve gone and blown up my whole life already—“

“Bobby—”

“—but Donny, please don’t hate me, I didn’t mean any harm, and I promise, I hate myself for this more than you ever could—”

“Bobby—”

“—swear to God, I never would’ve done anything I thought you didn’t want—”

“Bobby!“ Don raised his voice, finally. Bobby went red and shut his mouth. “Bobby, I could never hate you, and I’m definitely not going to report you.” He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. “I… I wanted it all to mean something. I thought you were just being friendly, trying to get me out of my shell. I never thought you’d want me back.”

“Want you back?” Bobby’s eyes were still shining with unshed tears. “What do you mean?”

“Bobby, I think I’ve been gone on you since you first sat in the stern and told me to fix my damn shoulders.” Don willed himself to keep talking over the panic rising in his throat, counting on adrenaline to push him over the finish line. “But I didn’t know, not until Poughkeepsie. I thought I just… just wanted to win for you because you were such a good cox, took such good care of us. But I kept wanting you to touch me, wanted you to tell me how good I was, wanted to be near you all the time. I…” He paused, swallowing thickly, and fixed his eyes on the utility closet over Bobby’s shoulder. “I thought about what it might be like to get my hands on you, for real. If I could get my mouth on you.” He exhaled, squaring his shoulders.

“I thought maybe when I saw you last week, that you knew how I felt, and you didn’t want to be around me because you didn’t feel the same.”

He finally looked back at Bobby. Bobby was staring at him, mouth slightly agape. He looked so completely thunderstruck Don couldn’t help but laugh.

“I thought you were a man of few words, Don, what the hell?” Bobby shook his head. His eyes were still shining, but he didn’t look anguished anymore. He looked like he’d been reminded all over again that he had won a gold medal.

“Yeah, well.” Don rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, willing his hands to stop shaking.

“What are you doing?” Bobby said. Don started, unsure how he’d already managed to fuck this up, but Bobby’s face was pleased and incredulous. “Come here.”

Don laughed shakily, and made his way around to the cramped space between the desk and the wall. Bobby hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, pulling him close so their bodies were neatly slotted together against the desk.

“You could put your hands on me now, Donny,” he said, looking at him with undisguised want. This look was new, the open desire. Don decided he liked it. Bobby brought his hands up to smooth down Don’s collar, then rested them on his chest. “Only if you want.”

“I never did find out, was this desk actually secondhand? Or did I help you steal it?” Don said, tapping his knuckles gently on the wood on either side of Bobby’s hips, before putting one hand on the small of his back.

Bobby laughed, surprised. “No, it really was secondhand. One of my poli sci profs was trying to get rid of it. Did you think I had actually stolen university property?”

“I never know with you,” Don said. “You can be tough to pin down.”

“Well,” Bobby said, and looked down at where their bodies were pressed together, Bobby wedged firmly against his desk. “Not that tough, it looks like.”

Before Bobby could look too pleased with himself, Don leaned down and pressed his lips to Bobby’s. He could feel the curve of Bobby’s smile against his mouth, and was overcome by how much he liked Bobby. Of course, he wanted Bobby so bad it hurt, and was almost certainly in love with him, but he liked him, too, liked everything about him. Liked his stupid jokes and how easily he laughed, liked to sit with him on the dock or in a campus dining hall, liked to hear what he had to say. Just liked him.

Bobby’s lips were soft and sure on his. He pulled back, just an inch, his breath still warm on Don’s face.

“Relax a little, Don, you’re doing good. Just follow my lead, nice and easy.”

He brought his hand up to the back of Don’s head and kissed him again. Don tried to relax into it this time, letting Bobby set the pace. It wasn’t so different from feeling out the rhythm of a boat, seeing how long to stretch the recovery before the catch, knowing when to snap the heels down on the drive; tilting his head to the right when Bobby went left, opening his mouth when Bobby’s tongued at his lip, gasping at the feel of Bobby’s tongue in his mouth, letting Bobby gently tug on his hair to move him where he wanted him.

It was warm and wet, and the rhythm was so, so good. It was like hot butter on toast, the first sunny day in spring, watching his puddles extend far down the cut after a perfectly timed stroke. Bobby moved his hand down from Don’s hair to cup his neck, his thumb lined up just below the hinge of Don’s jaw. He pressed down and Don’s mouth opened even wider, gasping as Bobby licked at the roof of his mouth.

He hadn’t known kissing could be like this.

Don couldn’t stop his hands from wandering, along Bobby’s sides and all over his back, pulling him closer, feeling the line of him pressed against Don.

Then Bobby pulled away, breathing hard.

“Hold on, Donny — we shouldn’t do this here.”

Don leaned his forehead against Bobby’s, breathing just as heavily. He nudged his nose against the side of Bobby’s.

“Sorry, got carried away.”

“It’s fine, it’s just that Ulbrickson and Pocock come here after hours sometimes. We don’t want anyone walking in on us.” Bobby said, cheeks pink. “I learned that lesson the hard way, eh?”

“Worked out okay, I think.” Don nosed at Bobby’s jaw, pressed a quick kiss there.

“Sure did, though I don’t really want to push my luck,” Bobby said, though he tilted his head like he wanted Don to kiss down the column of his neck.

“Could push your luck a little,” Don said, leaning in to kiss him again, high on the feeling of Bobby’s teeth catching his lower lip.

Bobby indulged him for a few exhilarating moments before he pulled back, grinning as Don moved to follow him.

“I was being serious, though, we should get going,” Bobby said ruefully, gently pushing Don away from him, straightening his own collar and smoothing his hair down. “Fix yourself, you look a complete mess. Like you’ve been necking for the past 15 minutes.”

“Whose fault is that,” Don muttered, but nevertheless, wiped his mouth and made his best effort at straightening his hair and clothes.

“Walk me back to mine?” Bobby asked.

Don nodded, bumping his arm against Bobby’s shoulder. Now that he knew Bobby wanted it, he couldn’t stop himself from getting closer, letting their fingers brush as they walked. Bobby wasn’t as chatty as usual, but when Don glanced over at him, his cheeks were a very appealing shade of pink, he looked quietly pleased with himself.

They walked in companionable silence to the block of grad student housing. The oak tree near the entrance was already well past the height of its fall beauty, but brown leaves still clung to the branches, not quite ready to fall just yet. Don reached out and grabbed one off a low hanging branch, quietly ripping it into little pieces in his hands and lingering near the doorway as Bobby fumbled with his keys.

“Are you coming up, or what?”

Don was relieved at first, then he saw Bobby’s face. Whatever he’d been thinking on the walk home had soured his expression a little, his smile more a grimace. Don’s heart sank.

“Only if you want me to,” he said. If he went up there Bobby was going to want to talk. And Don didn’t really talk anymore, already felt raw and sensitive from their conversation at the boathouse.

Bobby scoffed.

“Obviously I do.”

Don followed him up the stairs, kicked off his shoes at the door to Bobby’s room, where all of Bobby’s shoes were neatly lined up. His shoes were three or four sizes bigger than Bobby’s, and he thought about how it might look if they both had their shoes lined up together at the door. If visitors might know they were together, that this was their home, not just Bobby’s.

Bobby turned to him, and at whatever look he saw on Don’s face, his expression softened.

“Hey, it’s okay, Don. Give me your jacket, and sit down. We should probably talk, just make sure we’re on the same page.”

“Okay,” Don said. He wasn’t sure how they could be on different pages. What had Bobby thought on the walk home that had caused him to second guess this? Was Don that bad a kisser? Nevertheless, he handed Bobby his jacket, and he hung it next to his on a hook by the door.

Bobby sat down on his sofa — another heavy item Don had helped him haul up a flight of stairs. He knew it wasn’t stolen, had watched Bobby haggle for it with a graduating senior who’d been leaving town and was trying to get rid of it quickly. Don sat next to him, unsure what he should do with his hands, where to look.

“I… I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” Bobby said. “I really, really care for you, Don. If all you want to be is friends, that’s fine. You’re one of the best men I know, and the best friend I’ve ever had. I want you in my life, always. But I think it’d kill me if we did this and you turned around and realized this was a fluke, or you don’t like me like that at all, and you never want to speak to me again.”

“Bobby—”

“No, I’m serious, Donny, I want you to be sure about this before we do anything else.” He smiled, and again, it looked a little pained. “You’re the most important person in my life, and I really can’t bear to lose you.”

“You won’t,” Don said simply.

“It’s not that easy, Donny,” Bobby said, scrubbing his hands over his face. “It’s illegal, for one. If we do this, and keep doing this, no one can know, ever. It’s gotta be a secret. And even then, you might get looks if you hang around with me. I’m discreet, but you know how it is, some guys just have a queer look about ‘em, and I’ve definitely got it. People like to pick fights, say nasty shit, and you gotta keep your mouth shut.”

Don opened his mouth to reply to that, and Bobby rolled his eyes and cut him off before he could say anything.

“I know I don’t keep my mouth shut, but I’m a grown up, and I can handle my own business. You can’t get upset if some jagoff calls me a fairy, it'll look weird if you do.”

Don rolled his eyes but let Bobby continue. Was usually best to when he picked up steam like this.

“And it really fucking eats at you when you can’t tell anyone about who you’re seeing. We can't be like Joe and Joyce, you can't bring me home and introduce me to your family as the person you're seeing, you can't even tell your friends. I don't want to be a source of resentment."

“And none of that is even mentioning how I’m not an easy person to be with! No one can stand rooming with me because I don’t shut up, and I’m always sick and I’m a picky eater and I have trouble sleeping sometimes. And I think it would kill me if we did this and you woke up one day and realized that I’m not worth all that misery.”

Bobby was refusing to look at him, eyes resolutely at a spot on his carpet and his jaw clenched almost painfully. Don gently nudged his arm.

“You’re worth it,” Don said.

Bobby’s head snapped to look at him so fast Don thought he might’ve got whiplash.

“Did you listen to anything I just said?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think you did, Donny, because I don’t know how you could possibly come to that conclusion.” Bobby’s eyebrows were furrowed, that wrinkle between them appearing the way it did when he was trying to figure out why the boat wasn’t set, and hand adjustments weren’t working.

“Bobby,” Don said firmly. “I know all of this already. I know you’re always sick and I know you eat like a bird, you think I haven’t noticed that? And I’ve been listening to you talk for well over a year now, and I haven’t told you to shut up yet. You think I’m being polite? If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t hang around. And I’m not exactly a fucking peach, either. Everyone on the team thinks I’m some kind of freak that can’t do anything but push a boat—”

“Oh, come on, Don, that’s not true, everyone loves you—”

“—besides, did we not literally cross a damn ocean and win a gold medal together? Even if I didn’t—” Don stumbled here, wanting to convey the depth of his feeling without scaring Bobby off. “—care for you like that, I’d still want to spend time with you.”

“Okay, but you were sick and delirious for half of that,” Bobby said stubbornly.

“I remember the important bits,” Don said, undeterred.

Bobby pursed his lips. He looked a little wary, still, but his shoulders were no longer up around his ears.

“Look, Bobby.” Don reached over and took his hand. Bobby’s fingers were smooth where he had calluses, and callused where his were smooth. It felt so right, Don wanted to kick himself for not having tried to hold Bobby’s hand sooner. He ran his thumb along Bobby’s knuckles in what he hoped was a soothing fashion.

“I’m all in on this, okay? I’ve wanted you just about since I met you. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking I’d never get to have you, and I thought I was fine with that. Now you’re telling me you feel the same, and I’m just supposed to go on with business as usual? Not a fucking chance. I’m a grown up, too, and I know what I’m about. Do you trust me?”

Bobby’s eyes were shining now. He nodded, speechless for the second time that evening.

“Good,” Don said. He scooched closer to Don so their legs were pressed together, and cupped Bobby’s cheek in his hand. He ran a thumb along Bobby’s cheekbone, and kissed him gently. “I can’t believe you made me say all that.”

“Aw, shut up, Donny,” Bobby smiled. “You should give speeches more often, I didn’t know you could be so sweet.”

“Only for you.”

Bobby laughed at that, a real, fond laugh, then kissed Don again, hot and wet and open-mouthed.

Don had never really liked kissing — not that he’d gotten around to doing a lot of it. The couple of girls he’d taken to the movies (bad) or dancing (worse) when he hadn’t been too busy with work, crew, and school had been great. They were smart, funny girls that Don knew he ought to have liked a lot more than he actually did. The kissing had been lackluster at best, his heart not in it. It wasn’t those girls’ fault he didn’t know what he wanted then.

Now, though, Don knew exactly what he wanted, and it was more of Bobby all over him. Bobby knew exactly what he was doing, licking into Don’s mouth and sucking on his tongue like his life depended on it. All Don could do was try and keep up with Bobby’s rhythm, same as he always did. His whole body was hot with it, burning everywhere Bobby put his hands — his knee, up the side of his thigh, the back of his neck.

Bobby pulled away and grinned at Don.

“Hey, sit back a little, Donny,” he said as he stood up, gently pushing Don so he was sitting against the back of the sofa instead of perched on the edge. Bobby put one knee next to Don’s and swung the other over his thighs, making himself comfortable in Don’s lap. His eyes must have gone wide because Bobby laughed.

“Comfortable?” Don could only nod at that, couldn’t stop himself from putting his hands on Bobby’s hips and pulling him even closer, so he was one warm line pressed entirely up against Don.

It was an extremely pleasant shock to feel Bobby hard against him, and Don couldn’t help but gasp a little. Bobby just grinned and scooted closer, putting his arms around Don’s neck.

Overwhelmed, Don buried his face in Bobby’s neck, pressing his lips to the unbearably soft skin there. He felt rather than heard Bobby’s little exhale at the contact.

He opened his mouth on Bobby’s neck, letting himself taste his skin. Bobby moaned softly, cupping the back of his head and threading his fingers through Don’s hair. Don kissed and licked along the column of Bobby’s neck, running his hands along his sides. Bobby swore when Don took his earlobe in his mouth and gently bit.

“Christ, Donny, you feel so good, who taught you to do that?” He said breathlessly, hips jerking in Don’s hands. “You done this before?”

Don shook his head against Bobby’s neck. “No one but you, Bobby,” he murmured, mouthing gently at the sensitive skin behind Bobby’s ear.

Bobby’s hips jerked forward again, grinding against Don, his grip in Don’s hair tightening. And that was so good, so perfect, Don shivered and felt his own hips twitch.

“Fuck, Bobby,” he whispered. “Feels so good.”

“I know, baby,” Bobby said, and Don felt his face go hot. Baby. Jesus Christ. He’d never been this hard in his goddamn life.

He had to feel Bobby’s skin in that moment, he wanted it more than anything, wanted to see if it all felt as smooth as his lips and his neck. He moved his hands around Bobby’s hips, untucking his shirt, worked his hands under it, ran his hands all along Bobby’s back. His skin was warm and soft, felt unbelievable under Don’s hands, solid and real.

Bobby gently tugged on his hair again, moved Don’s head back where he wanted it, and kissed him again. They had the rhythm now, had swing, mouths moving together as easy as anything.

He ran his hands along Bobby’s sides, relishing the texture of his ribs and his pecs, bringing one hand forward to thumb at Bobby’s nipple. Bobby moaned into his mouth, then pulled away to lean his forehead against Don’s.

“Holy— Jesus Christ, fuck, Donny, hold on a sec,” Bobby panted. “Let’s move, I want you in my bed.”

Don nodded enthusiastically, extracting his hands from under Bobby’s shirt to let him clamber off his lap. Bobby stood up, a little unsteady, just like when he hauled himself out of the shell and onto the dock after a tough practice. He reached his hand out, tugged Don to his feet, then pulled him by the hand through the doorway to the tiny bedroom.

Bobby looked completely disheveled, his face and neck pink and hair mussed and his shirt untucked and all out of sorts. Don could barely breathe with how bad he wanted him.

“Here, get undressed—“ Bobby tugged at his sweater, trying to pull it over Don’s head for him.

“What— Bobby, just take your shirt off, I can do that—”

“Yeah, but I wanna.” Don relented, putting his arms up and letting Bobby tug it over his head. “Your shirt, too.”

Don tugged Bobby back towards him as soon as his shirt was off, and started working on the buttons of his mussed up shirt. He pushed it off Bobby’s slim shoulders, tossing it on the floor, then tugged his undershirt off in similar short order. Bobby would no doubt berate him for wrinkling his nice shirt later, but he couldn’t bring himself to care right now.

He worked at Bobby’s belt, sneaking kisses wherever he could, Bobby’s neck, his cheeks, his nose, his lips. Bobby batted Don’s hands away, though he was smiling, and undid his own belt and pants himself.

Don stood idly, transfixed as more and more of Bobby’s skin was exposed, his pale thighs and perfect calves, the little line of dark hair that disappeared beneath his underwear.

“What the fuck, Don, you gotta get undressed, too,” Bobby said, turning pink under Don’s gaze.

Don rolled his eyes but nevertheless, pushed his pants down with very little fanfare and stepped out of them, nudging them to the side with his foot.

“Socks on, Donny, that’s bold,” Bobby said, grinning.

“Should I take ‘em off?” Don was suddenly very, very aware of his body, his socked feet, his dick visibly hard in his shorts. He’d always thought of his body as a tool, something built for practicality rather than aesthetics. It didn’t matter how he looked, he could push a boat further for longer than just about anyone on the team, maybe even in the country. Now, though, the only thing that mattered was that Bobby liked what he saw.

“It doesn’t matter, I’m just talking out of my ass,” Bobby said, eyes wide. “You’re ridiculously attractive, Jesus Christ. Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Um. Yeah. You too,” he said. You’re only the best thing I’ve ever had my hands on, you’re even better than when I dreamed about you, I can’t ever believe I thought I was going to be happy never knowing what your mouth tasted like and how your body felt in my hands.

Bobby smiled indulgently, like he knew Don was tongue-tied. He probably did, Bobby always could read Don like the inside line on the cut with a tailwind and current.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Bobby said softly, coming closer and putting his hand on Don’s neck. “We can just keep kissing, if you want. Or we can stop, that’s fine, too.”

Don put his hands on Bobby’s hips. “No, I definitely don’t want to stop.”

Bobby smiled, moved his hand to Don’s cheek, rubbed a gentle thumb across his cheekbone. He lowered Don’s head to kiss him again, crowding close. Don gasped into the kiss, unused to the feeling of so much bare skin on his. Bobby licked into his mouth again, before pulling back an inch.

“What do you want, Don?” he said softly. “Tell me what you want.”

Don wanted everything, he wanted every inch of Bobby’s skin on his, he wanted to swallow Bobby whole, he didn’t know how to ask for what he wanted, but he’d know when Bobby did it, he was sure.

He settled for sitting down on the bed, pulling Bobby in between his knees. He ran his hands up and down Bobby’s sides, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear. Bobby’s cock was also hard, thank God, and Don wanted to touch it, touch him, but he didn’t know what to say.

Bobby hummed encouragingly.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Want me to take these off?”

Sweetheart. Don was going to pass out, possibly. His face was beet red and his dick was so hard. He nodded vigorously.

Bobby wiggled out of his underwear, but before Don could get a hand on his dick, he pushed him all the way back onto the bed with one hand, and crawled on top of him. Bobby looked utterly debauched, breathing heavily and pink all over.

Don put a hand between Bobby’s shoulder blades and pressed him closer to his body, feeling his cock pressed up against his abs. It felt good enough to drive him crazy, actual, real proof that Bobby wanted him back. Bobby moved one of his hands to cradle the back of Don’s head, threading his fingers in his hair. He angled his head and kissed Don again, less coordinated, but still blindingly hot, mouth open and tongue and teeth everywhere.

He kissed back best he could, trying to taste more of the inside of Bobby’s mouth, grabbed Bobby’s ass with both hands to press him closer. Bobby’s breath hitched and he ground his cock against Don’s abs with intent. Jesus Christ, that felt good. Don ran his hands up Bobby’s ass, rubbed his thumb into the skin where his hip met his thigh.

Bobby was whining into his mouth, tiny little moans that went straight to Don’s dick, his hips jerking against Bobby frantically.

“Don, Donny, baby—” Bobby whined. “Hold on just a second.”

He sat up and leaned back on his knees, working Don’s underwear off. Don shifted with him, using his legs to kick them all the way off and onto the floor.

“There we go,” Bobby said, still short of breath and utterly pleased with himself. “Now we’re racing, Donny.”

Don snorted, couldn’t hold back his grin. “Yeah?”

“Oh yeah, baby, this elite athleticism,” Bobby said, rubbing his hands along Don’s abs, just narrowly avoiding his dick. “You’re something else, Donny.”

“Is that— is that good?” Don said, couldn’t help how breathless he sounded. He wanted Bobby to put his hands on him so bad.

“Is that good, he asks,” Bobby said with a sweet smile that Don had never seen before. Hoped maybe it was just for him. “Don, you’re so perfect it’s not fair. How does one guy end up with all the luck?”

Don was hardly processing anything Bobby was saying, letting it wash over him as Bobby leaned down to whisper right in his ear.

“Not fair at all, perfect smile, perfect hair, perfect arms, perfect legs— but I knew all that already.” Don shivered. “Now I know you have a perfect cock, too.”

Bobby spat into his palm, took Don in hand, slid the foreskin back and gave a few experimental strokes. Don made a sound in the back of his throat that would have been truly mortifying had he not been perhaps the most turned on he’d ever been. Bobby grinned at him, inordinately pleased.

“Jesus Christ,” Don whispered, gasping as Bobby leaned down to mouth at his neck.

“Just Bobby, actually,” Bobby laughed breathily. “Does that feel good, Donny?”

Don nodded, unable to do much else.

“Tell me how it feels, baby,” Bobby whispered between kisses along the line of Don’s neck.

Don moaned softly. “So good,” he managed to say breathlessly.

“That’s right sweetheart, you’re so good for me.”

Don dragged Bobby’s head down to kiss him again, moaning into his mouth. Bobby then did something truly revelatory, and took the both of them in his hand. It was so much hot skin on skin, so unbearably intimate that Don couldn’t breathe.

Like a lot of athletes, Don prided himself on his discipline and bodily awareness. He knew exactly how the boat would move if he rotated his arms and shoulders just so, the exact position his shins and heels needed to reach to set himself up for the perfect drive, what muscles he’d have to work to achieve the ideal swing in his layback. It was, he was finding, another thing entirely to understand how your body moved with someone else’s.

He’d certainly spent his fair share of time imagining what it might be like to be this close to Bobby, but it was heady to know concretely how sure his hands were, how the soft hair on his calves felt against Don’s legs, how nice Bobby smelled; soft and clean and like some kind of fancy aftershave. His skin felt hot all over, something singing just underneath the surface, unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

“Oh my god, Bobby, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“You should do it, Don, I want to see you come, go on, baby, come for me,” Bobby said breathlessly, nonsensically in his ear.

Even though he knew it was coming, Don’s orgasm still surprised him, his hips jerking wildly, feeling out of control in the best way possible, all raw sensation.

As he came, he was overcome with the urge to be as close to Bobby as physically possible, wanting to burrow under his skin and stay there. He pressed his face to the crook of Bobby’s neck, making sounds he would surely be mortified by in his right mind, but how could he be embarrassed now? He liked Bobby more than just about anything, and Bobby liked him back. It felt like such a miracle that nothing could’ve embarrassed Don at that moment.

Bobby kissed him softly, before moving away slightly. Before Don could protest, Bobby took his sticky hand off Don’s dick, brought it up to his mouth and licked it clean. Don’s eyes widened, his body doing its very best to express its continued arousal at the situation.

“My other option is to wipe it off on my shirt,” Bobby said, smiling at Don’s gobsmacked expression. “And you know how much I hate doing laundry.”

In spite of himself, Don laughed.

“C’mere,” he said, putting his hand on Bobby’s hip and pushing him down onto the pillow.

Bobby was still smiling, but his pupils were blown and his mouth was red and bitten. He was pink and blotchy all the way down to his chest, and his cock was still hard against his stomach. Don kissed him again, for good measure, tasting his own come on Bobby’s tongue.

“Can I…”

“Don, you can do whatever your little heart desires,” Bobby said, rubbing his thumb against Don’s collarbone affectionately. Don smiled, and slid down the bed to rest between Bobby’s legs.

Before he could overthink it, Don gave into temptation and put his mouth on the pale inside of Bobby’s thigh.

God, every inch of Bobby’s skin was so soft, Don thought as he wrapped his hand around Bobby’s thigh to keep it where he wanted and pressed openmouthed kisses to the thin skin there. He licked and sucked and bit, hoping that maybe he’d leave marks as he worked his way up Bobby’s thigh. Bobby wasn’t getting changed in the boathouse locker room anymore, but some part of his brain liked the idea that if he were, their teammates would see the little bruises on Bobby’s thighs and know he belonged to someone. Bobby seemed to like it too, if his little moans and the twitches of his hips were anything to go off.

He bit down gently at the place where Bobby’s hip met his thigh, which earned him a high little whine. Don pulled back to look up at Bobby, who looked like something straight out of a dream. His eyes were wide, he was breathing like he’d just sprinted 500 meters, and his cock was hard, red and wet at the tip. He wrapped his hand around the base. It was odd, but not unpleasant, he thought, to have someone else’s dick in his hand.

“You don’t have to,” Bobby said breathlessly.

“No, I want to,” Don said. “Just getting my race plan together.”

Bobby laughed at that, loud and surprised. “Way to take initiative, Don. You know what they say: selection happens every day. ”

Don smacked gently at Bobby’s hip, chastising. He felt how he did before a race, nerves and eagerness and the knowledge that once he was off the line, there was nothing but open water and everything to gain.

He looked Bobby in the eye. “You’re not allowed to make fun of me,” he said reproachfully. “But tell me if it’s bad.”

“Does it look like I’m making fun, Donny? When do I ever— Jesus Christ.” Bobby swore enthusiastically as Don put his mouth on the head of Bobby’s cock.

This was pretty much just like learning a new workout, Don realized. Rowing was all give and take: you could push your body to its limits in both strength and form, but ultimately, you were beholden to the shell and its whims, how it was held by the water. Figuring out what to do with his tongue, how to hold his jaw, keeping his teeth out of the way; what was he doing if not relearning his limits in pursuit of a higher goal?

Don carefully tracked his own movements as they related to Bobby. If he dug his thumbs into the jut of Bobby’s hips, he’d whine, if he put his tongue just below the head of Bobby’s cock, he’d tug on Don’s hair, if Bobby’s cock hit the back of his throat he’d moan. When he brought his hands around to palm at the meat of Bobby’s ass, Bobby’s hips jerked wildly like he couldn’t help it, and that was— well. That was something.

“Don, holy shit, baby, you feel so good, can’t believe it—” Bobby’s hand was heavy and warm like summer sun on the back of his neck and Don wanted to burn.

Don hadn’t done anything like this before, though he’d spent enough time thinking about it. No amount of imagining, however, could’ve prepared him for how Bobby felt under him, in his hands, in his mouth, the sounds he made, how he moved. It was maybe the hottest thing Don had ever experienced, eclipsing a few minutes earlier when he’d come all over Bobby’s hand. He was getting hard again, absorbed in the way Bobby was moving, his own hips twitching against the mattress.

He slung an arm over Bobby’s hips to hold him still, and pulled off to give his jaw a break, instead mouthing wetly along the shaft.

“Don, that’s so hot, oh my god.” Bobby moved his hand to thread in Don’s hair, the other opening and closing in the sheets. “Where’d you learn to use your mouth like that?”

“Natural talent, I guess,” Don replied before licking at the just below the crown.

“Fuck, fuck, Jesus Christ, Don, I’m gonna come if you keep that up,” Bobby said, pitch nearly a whine, his hips twitching.

Don miscalculated, not putting his mouth back on the head quickly enough, and ended up with Don’s come across his chin, cheek, and in his mouth.

It was gross, but also stupidly hot, and Don was definitely hard again.

Bobby’s chest was heaving. He eagerly tugged at Don’s shoulder.

“Come up here.” Don let Bobby grab his chin, let him tilt his head so he could see. “God, you’re something else.”

He leaned into kiss Don, clearly not caring about the mess, maybe even enjoying it, based on how enthusiastically he licked into Don’s mouth. Don pressed his whole body up against Bobby’s, looking for as many points of contact as physically possible.

Bobby put his hand on the small of Don’s back, pressing him closer, and sucked a kiss lazily at the base of Don’s neck. Don whined, and Bobby just grinned, kept worrying at that spot with his teeth.

“Jesus Christ, look at you,” he said senselessly in Don’s ear. “You’re so, so perfect, so hot, feel so good never thought I’d get you like this, can’t believe you’re letting me touch you, wanted you for so long…”

It was dirty, but Bobby’s tone was so sweet, so genuine in his ear, Don felt warmth bloom behind his ribs. He gasped wetly against Bobby’s neck, grinding up against him without rhythm. His hips jerked once, twice against the bowl of Bobby’s hip and came for the second time that evening, with Bobby’s hands on his hip and back and his lovely voice in his ear.

Bobby stroked up and down his back, over his shoulder blades, held him close. Don hummed appreciatively, kissing absently at Bobby’s collar bone.

“Yeah? Feel nice?” Bobby was grinning at him when Don lazily moved his head to look at him. He nodded and kissed Bobby again.

“Hey, don’t fall asleep, bud,” Bobby said softly, scraping his nails gently over Don’s scalp. “You need to eat something, or you’re gonna be out of it at practice tomorrow, and then Ulbrickson will kill me for real.”

“When does the dining hall close?” Don said drowsily, running a lazy hand along Bobby’s ribs.

Bobby shivered. “That tickles,” he said, gently moving Don’s hand down to his hip. He reached over Don and grabbed his watch off the bedside table. “About an hour.”

Don groaned, but rolled away from Bobby reluctantly. He picked his discarded clothes, did his best to shake the wrinkles out of them, and got dressed unenthusiastically. He was buttoning his shirt up when he realized that Bobby hadn’t moved, was looking at Don consideringly from the bed, looking all too comfortable.

Don tossed Bobby’s shirt at him. “Come on, get moving.”

Bobby blinked. “What?”

“If we’re gonna make it to the dining hall and eat before it closes, you gotta get dressed.”

“I’m not that hungry, Don, and I’m not the one who’s going to have to do a two by 6k tomorrow morning.”

Don looked at him in mild exasperation. “You gave me the cold shoulder for a week, and now you’re gonna make me eat dinner alone again?”

Bobby had the grace to look a little abashed. “I thought you hated me, and were going to tell someone I was committing felony offenses.”

“No one told you to do that.”

“Extremely funny, Don,” Bobby said sarcastically, but nevertheless, hauled himself out of bed and began getting dressed. Don was quietly pleased to see that he had been successful in leaving a number of hickeys on Bobby’s pale thighs.

Bobby, though, was busy admiring his own handiwork, letting out a low whistle. “I got you pretty good,” he said, poking gently at the junction of Don’s neck and shoulder. He offered Don the back of his watch, and in the tiny, distorted reflection, he saw a bruise in the shape of Bobby’s mouth. Don’s face went hot in an instant.

“Johnny’s not gonna let me hear the end of it,” he muttered, tugging his collar up. Bobby grinned impishly for a moment, then paused, contemplating.

“You could… you could come back here if you wanted.” Bobby was suddenly very focused on putting his watch back on, taking extra care with the buckle. “Like, after dinner, you could spend the night here. Maybe it will have faded a little by tomorrow.”

Don smiled, excessively pleased. Bobby wanted him to stay, hadn’t gotten tired of Don yet. He leaned down and kissed Bobby again, swallowing the surprised little noise he made.

“You can’t leave any more, though. Not where people can see.”

Bobby laughed. “I’ll do my best. It’s a good look on you, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Definitely.” Bobby rubbed his thumb over the mark, pressing down ever so slightly. He tugged Don down by the back of his neck, kissed the hinge of his jaw, the spot right behind his ear. “It’s kind of dumb, but I like the idea that you’re mine.”

Don’t heart turned over in his chest. He put his arms around Bobby’s waist, tugging him close.

“All yours,” he said quietly. Bobby squeezed him, resting his head against Don’s chest briefly before pulling away.

“We’re losing daylight here,” he said, business as usual. He tugged Don back into the sitting area by his sleeve. “If you want, and Johnny won’t say anything, we could stop by your dorm before we come back here. You’re gonna want clean trou for tomorrow. And I know some guys think it’s bad luck to wash ‘em but I think it’s bad form to subject everyone else in the boat to that. And I don’t want the frosh getting in the habit…”

Don let Bobby’s rambling wash over him, familiar and comfortable, but also new and exciting, laced with the knowledge that Bobby liked him back, wanted him in his life, in his bed. It felt domestic when Bobby handed him his jacket, looked up at him expectantly.

“Ready to go?”

Don leaned down for one last, lingering kiss. It was funny how only an hour or so after he’d done it for the first time, he couldn’t get enough.

“Yeah, ready,” he said as he pulled away.

Bobby smiled at him, that sweet little smile that Don could already tell was going to be one of his favorites, and tugged him out the door by his sleeve, locking up behind them.

Though campus was dark and cold, Don felt cozy and settled for the first time in a long time, every brush of Bobby’s shoulder against his arm warming him from the inside out.

҉
5 months later

March of 1937 was one of the most miserable in recent memory, weather-wise. April was not shaping up to be much better. The morning of UW’s dual with Stanford was particularly nasty, all rain and hail and sleet.

Don woke up warm and well-rested in Bobby Moch’s bed, which, in his opinion, was the best way to wake up.

Don had discovered that Bobby was not a morning person, no matter how hard he tried. He would set early alarms, drink cups and cups of coffee, wash his face with cold water in the hopes of sparking the illusion of alertness before 9. Left to his own devices on a Sunday, Bobby would have been content to lay in bed until noon doing very little of anything, save for dozing and sex.

Don, who had always been a natural early riser, had spent many a Sunday at this point with Bobby’s head in his lap, with a cup of tea and a book or homework, fingers running gently through Bobby’s hair.

So it was odd that Bobby was already awake when Don opened his eyes, still in bed but sitting up and tracing his finger along the shell of Don’s ear. Don leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his wrist.

“You okay?” Don asked through a yawn.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Bobby said, bending down to kiss Don’s forehead. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno, I guess it’s stage fright.” He laughed unconvincingly. “First regatta with the frosh, I just want things to run smoothly.”

Don squinted at him. Just the other day, Bobby had been telling him that this group of frosh might put his class to shame, that’s how confident he was in their ability to beat Cal. And now he was worried about Stanford?

“I’m going to start coffee, do you want a cup?” Bobby said, pulling himself up out of bed.

“Sure,” Don said.

He reached over the side of his bed and grabbed his pants off the floor, pulled them on, and followed Bobby into the kitchen.

He wanted him putter about, taking extra care to scoop the grounds into the filter, measuring perfect little spoonfuls of grinds instead of eyeballing it the way he usually did.

“You know your boys are going to be fine, right?” Don said, putting a hand on the small of Bobby’s back.

“I know that,” Bobby huffed. “Obviously they’ll be fine.”

The unspoken words, of course, being “but what if I’m not fine? What if I fuck it all up and it all comes crashing down around me?”

“Whatever you think you have to do today, you’ve already proved it,” Don said, wrapping his arms around Bobby, rested his chin on the top of his head. “No one doubts you. We all know how damn good you are at what you do. These frosh are as good as they are because of you. They’re the future of the team, and a damn good one at that. Anything else, any trophies or accolades or whatever else, is just gravy.”

Bobby turned around in his arms and looked up at him, eyes shining. “You’re sweet, Donny. Thank you for saying that, but it’s fucking Stanford. If we can’t beat them, we’re toast against Cal, forget the east coast teams. If we can’t manage a win, I may actually off myself.”

Don said nothing, but made sure Bobby saw him roll his eyes before he reached around him to pour a cup of coffee.

The mood at the boathouse was upbeat, everyone (even Ulbrickson, though he’d never verbalize it) feeling good about their chances against Stanford. The varsity and JV crews—Don included—were curious to see how the Stanford crew stacked up, having only recently breathed life back into their crew team a few years prior. The frosh were buzzing with their first taste of competition. By the time anyone was ready to launch, the rain had mostly cleared into a thick mist, which didn’t bode well for visibility, and the white caps on the water had settled into a light chop.

The frosh coxswains were Bobby’s shadows that morning, as they were most days, taking notes as he went over the race plan on the chalkboard, walked them out to the dock to show them where about on the cut they should call the lifts and the sprint. His demeanor was confident, but Don could see in the line of his neck and shoulders that he was stressed. The lack of sleep the night before probably hadn’t helped, and the lack of visibility on the water was maybe going to give him a heart attack.

“Hey, Moch!” Don called. Bobby turned from Frank and Paul, eyebrows furrowing slightly. “When you’re done over there, come here for a sec. I need a second opinion on my foot stretchers.”

Bobby rolled his eyes but put his hand up, acknowledging he’d heard. Five minutes later, he hurried up to Don’s side, already mid complaint.

“—and Pocock is literally right in the boathouse, you could’ve asked him about your damn foot stretchers—”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who’s spent the most time looking at ‘em,” Don interrupted, undeterred. He lowered his voice. “Besides, I don’t want to talk to you about the damn foot stretchers, I just wanted you to come here.”

Bobby looked at him like he had grown a third arm.

“What? Don, we’re launching in ten minutes, I don’t have time for this—”

“Hey,” Don said, ducking down to put his mouth nearly on the shell of Bobby’s ear. “I love you.”

It had the intended effect, which was shutting Bobby up. He looked up at Don, face a little stupid. “What?”

“That was it. Now go ahead, get the frosh launched, I’ll see you later.”

Don could hardly keep a straight face, he wanted to smirk so bad, but that would give up the game. He walked back up to the boathouse under the guise of looking for a wrench, and watched from the workbench as Bobby and Bud got into the launch, setting off down the course with their stopwatches.

It hadn’t been the first time Don had told Bobby he loved him — that had been during the first time Bobby had let Don fuck him, both of them overwhelmed and caught up in the moment. Bobby had been unbelievably sweet about it, taking Don’s face in his hands and whispering “hey, me too, yeah?” in his ear, but Don had been so mortified by his own lack of self control that he hadn’t said it since, hoping that Bobby understood the depth of his feelings by his actions.

Saying it now, during a moment of peak anxiety and insecurity, was maybe not terribly fair. But Bobby needed to be taken out of his own head sometimes, and Don had privately resolved some time ago to himself that he ought to be telling Bobby just how loved he was more often.

And naturally, there had been no reason for Bobby to worry whatsoever. As anyone with working eyes might have predicted, the frosh made mincemeat of Cal, walking away from them with a mile to go. They finished with open water between their boats. Don could see the kids hooting and hollering, smacking the water with unadulterated glee, even from the dock.

Bobby, on the other hand, was white knuckling the gunwales of his and Bud’s launch, looked completely exhausted, if relieved, and looked a little shell-shocked when Bud pulled him in for a hug.

By the time the Husky Clipper and Stanford’s varsity eight lined up at start, Don had pretty much entered his race state. He was locked in, focused on the physical sensation of the oar in the water, the pull on his lat as he rotated out over the catch, the snap of his heels on the drive. He willed his mind to go blank, but for those physical sensations, and the hum of Morry’s calls in his ears.

Sitting at three quarters length at the start, Don took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders. He focused his gaze over Morry’s shoulder, breathing through his nose, listening for the race official’s call.

Only, his gaze got caught, as it usually did, on Bobby, watching the proceedings from the coach’s launch with Bud. His face was, in a rare moment, completely unguarded, looking hungrily between the two crews. His expression was the same as it had been before nearly every race Don had ever rowed with him. It was almost like nothing had changed at all. Don’s heart ached for how fond he felt.

Then, Bobby looked at him, looking the way he did every time they were in a boat together, trusting and determined and so alive Don could hardly stand it. Then, he smiled, big and genuine, and Don knew it was just for him, felt it warm him from the inside out. Without thinking, he smiled back.

Then, Morry put his hand down, and Don snapped back in, flexed his fingers on the handle of the oar, exhaled, and let instinct and experience take over as they were off the line.

Even though he knew logically what the boat could do, it was another feeling entirely to feel everything come together from the first strokes, to feel the power build in the half-three quarters-lengthen-full, to feel the synch and swing with the rate at a 32. And it was a rush seeing each member of Stanford’s varsity eight in his periphery as they took seat after seat.

Every race in the Clipper with the ‘36 crew up to that point had been electric, and this one was no different. And after spring training, Don had decided that Morry had grown on him. Sure, he wasn’t Bobby, but he was more than capable and had near unbreakable composure. He had a way of controlling lifts and strides that Don found very effective, and didn’t like to rely on the rudder too much, which Chuck and Roger appreciated back in the bow.

Another one of Morry’s excellent qualities was his dedication to keeping their heads in the boat. The engine room, Don knew, liked to know where other crews were in relation to the Husky Clipper, whereas Don found it a little distracting. Morry struck a good balance, throwing a bone to the engine room every now and then while keeping the boat largely very internal.

Now, had it been stupidly hot when Bobby had mouthed off to other crews? Well, yes. Had it given Don a heart attack nearly every time he’d done it? Also yes. He was more than content with the occasional “sitting on Stanford’s six seat, three seat, I have bow ball,” trusting that Morry had it all well in hand.

“Okay boys, it’s time to go, let’s hit that final lift in two… that’s one… and two… 36 right here, let me see you push,” Morry called at the 1500 meter mark. Don saw him glance out of the corner of his eyes and nod nearly imperceptibly. This would be the final lift, the nail in the coffin. No need to jack it up once every 100 meters to sprint. They’d done it.

Possibly the only thing more satisfying than finishing the first race of the season with open water had been knowing Bobby’s eyes had been on him in the launch the whole time.

The mood was jubilant as they returned to the boathouse from the medals dock. Clipper back in slings, Don went back down to the dock to start bringing the oars up. Just then, Bobby’s launch pulled up to the dock.

Bobby tied it to the dock, swung himself out, and strode towards Don as fast as his legs could carry him. He threw his arms around Don, buried his face in his neck.

“Yeah?” Don said, smiling, arms around Bobby’s waist. “Good race?”

“You know it was, you asshole,” Bobby said into Don’s neck.

“Where’s Bud?” he said, running a hand down Bobby’s spine.

“He’s with Ulbrickson, they’re getting the buoys at the finish line,” he said, pulling back to look at Don, breathless.

“They didn’t make you help?”

“I’m meant to be supervising the frosh,” Bobby said, standing on his tiptoes to whisper in Don’s ear. “That was dirty, Donny, saying that to me when you knew very well I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Still can’t, looks like,” Don said, smiling at Bobby for real as he pulled away. “Bud’ll be back with the buoys any minute.”

“Yeah, your timing really is something—”

“But it worked, didn’t it?”

Bobby furrowed his eyebrows, the little line appearing between them. Don had to restrain himself from rubbing his thumb over it to smooth it back out. “What? What worked, what are you talking about?”

“Took your mind off things for half a second,” Don said, glancing around quickly. He decided it was safe enough to rub at Bobby’s collar bone through his shirt. “You didn’t need to be so worried about today. Your boys gave Stanford’s frosh a three boat length-shellacking, and Frank’s line looked pretty damn good to me. Congrats, by the way.”

Bobby’s face softened, and Don wanted to kiss him right then and there.

“But you already knew, didn’t you?” Don restrained himself from kissing Bobby, but couldn’t resist taking his hand.

“Yeah, I had a pretty good feeling,” Bobby said softly, looking up at Don. He rubbed his thumb over Don’s knuckles. Bobby looked nearly the same as he had the day Ulbrickson first stuck him in Don’s boat: all blue eyes, pink cheeks, windswept hair, and clever hands. “You know I love you too, right?”

“Yeah,” Don said, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. “Yeah, I know.”