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Your name is Lena Oxton, and you’re good at running. You make everyone call you Tracer. You say it sounds cool, and you think it kinda does, but if you’re being honest with yourself you know you’re a nerd. But that’s alright—your best friends are nerds, too; Lúcio about music, Hana about games. You suppose a nerd isn’t a bad thing to be.
So what are you a nerd about? Sports, mostly—hence your Track & Field scholarship. There are other things though: pop punk, sci-fi flicks and, most importantly, girls . You’re a nerd for girls. In other words, you’re gay.
A big, humongous dyke. And you couldn’t be happier.
You talk to Lúcio about music and Hana about sci-fi and both of them about girls. It’s one of the advantages of having BFFs (bisexual friends forever). There’s a joke they make at your expense that makes you bashful everytime it comes up. “She shoots, she scores.”
You suppose it would make more sense if you played basketball, or football or field hockey. As is there’s not much shooting or scoring in Track—but they’re talking about something else. Every woman you’ve made an effort to bed, you’ve ended up sleeping with.
With one particular exception.
Now, you don’t have game because you’re suave. Quite the contrary! Every time you approach some smart, talented, well-dressed, beautiful woman at a party or after class you get anxious—like, stammering, clumsy, blushing anxious. You make an absolute fool of yourself.
You want to come off like a female James Bond, but unfortunately you’re a useless lesbian whose accent is less “posh” and more “cockney.” In short, you’re a mess.
Still, women find your nervous displays invariably charming. You guess by coming pre-disarmed, you make it easier for them to feel safe. For the most part you wear your heart blood-red on your sleeve, your anxieties, passions, hopes and dreams spilling out of you like rays of light. Though there are a few things you keep close to your chest.
Hana always says, “You make people feel so comfortable, Lena!” She never calls you ‘Tracer,’ but then you never call her ‘D. Va’ either.
You think vulnerability comes pretty easy, and you make it come easy to others. You do your best to honor it when it’s received—and you never kiss and tell. So, somehow, despite stumbling over yourself hopelessly, you’ve shared a lot of beds.
You slept with Angie, the clever pre-med student who helps you with biology. You slept with Zarya (or, as you call her, ‘Zarzipan’), your work-out partner with the bright pink hair. You even bonded with Satya over being a terrible, awkward, nervous flirt, before sharing a couple drinks and ending up handcuffed to her bed.
It’s nice, it’s fun, it makes you happy and it’s the best vent for your nerves outside of running or weed. But you’ve never shared a bed for more than one night at a time. You’re not even certain how you landed in bed with half the women you sleep with—it just happens.
You don’t know why you’ve never actually had a girlfriend. Sometimes you feel like a passive observer of your own sex life. It’s weird, and sometimes when you’re sleeping alone at night it makes you sad.
You guess appearing open is easy enough, but being really, truly vulnerable is another, scarier thing. That’s why you’ve never done commitment. Opening up to someone for a night is simple. You and another woman share in each other’s beautiful, intimate facets—and then you leave before you can get hurt. Or hurt her.
It’s no wonder you love Track. You sure are good at running.
You took Shakespeare: The Late Plays because you needed a Humanities class and you figured, being British yourself, you’d have the homefield advantage. You quickly discovered that that is not how the study of literature actually works.
Lúcio is on your left hastily transcribing a melody into his notebook while the inspiration is fresh, foot tapping along to a beat in his head. Hana is on your right, her notes neat and detailed except for the margins, which are filled with doodles of rabbits and giant robots.
Your notebook is open in front of you, turned to a page pull of clever ideas to bring up in class. English was never your strong suit, but there’s someone you’re motivated to impress. You flick your eyes up, gazing across the lecture hall at the trio of students directly across from you.
If you could get a B.A. in an Air of Aloof Superiority, they’d be head of the student association. Their wardrobes seem to be almost entirely monochrome, and the three of them sit in class, radiating smugness, smirking to each other at every question they deem insufficiently intelligent.
What’s infuriating is they’ve all earned it. Every time they raise their hands, you know it’s going to be a bombshell of jargon-filled brilliance. None of them are English majors, but they’re all clearly geniuses.
Gabriel Reyes is getting is B.F.A. in Fashion & Design. He was on the cover of the school’s periodical, under the header 20 Under 20: A Look at Our Best and Brightest. His fashion sense is impeccable, his glare is withering and he always seems to have a half-empty travel mug of black coffee with him.
Sombra—no one seems to know her real name—is getting her B.S. in Computer Science. Despite seeming, at best, uninterested in academics, she has a 4.0 CGPA and has won the collegiate Hackathon two years running. Hana has considered her a bitter rival ever since she became the first competitor to defeat Hana in their robot combat league.
Then there’s Amélie, Amélie Lacroix. The name alone is enough to fill you with equal parts dread and longing. She’s quite appropriately getting her B.A. in Drama. She’s brilliant and mean and beautiful and Absolutely The Worst, and you are absolutely in love with her.
Like Gabriel, her style is flawless, and she’s always wrapped tip-to-toe in black and purple. Even in the summer, her legs and arms are always covered—as if showing a little skin would, in itself, be revealing too much. She’s statuesque in every sense of the word: tall, beautiful, dignified and utterly impenetrable.
You would give your left leg just to kiss the back of Amélie’s hand.
You first met in the one girl’s-only dorm on campus. You’d been visiting your friend Fareeha when you literally bumped into the grave looking woman in the floor’s shared kitchen. You knocked her flat on her ass.
“Oi, luv, so sorry!” you blurted. The buckle on one of her pumps had popped loose and the shoe was half off her left foot. “Lemme help you with that,” you offered, kneeling down beside her.
“De rien!” she hissed, in a tone that tells you it was almost certainly something. Even contorted with anger, her face was beautiful. She slapped your hand away and adjusted her heel herself.
You stood there like an idiot, trying to figure out how to make it better. “Can I—I mean… I’m so sorry.”
“Haven’t you caused me enough trouble?” The anger was gone from her face as quickly as it came, replaced by a haughty coolness. In her shoes you would have been bright red, but she simply stood in one graceful movement, adjusted her legging and brushed off her skirt with a dignity you found otherwordly.
You wanted to apologize again, but you couldn’t even speak.
She breezed by you like royalty might, and you realize you’d stopped breathing. It was like that time you met the queen when you were a girl, only this time ‘round the queen was a beautiful young woman and you were a mess of raging hormones.
“I see you’ve met Amélie,” Fareeha said as she entered the kitchen.
You just stared at your friend helplessly, mouth agape. Fareeha placed one finger under your chin and pressed up, closing your mouth. “You’ll catch flies, Tracer.”
“Amélie, eh? Pretty name, innit?” You peered down the hall as her figure rapidly receded
“Lena, dear,” Fareeha said, spinning you around to face her. “She would eat you alive. She’s the floor’s bête noire . No one likes her and she likes, like, two people.”
“Wot’s a bête noire?”
“You really ought to read more, habibti,” Fareeha says with a chuckle. “Now come back to bed.”
You realize that as you were reminiscing, you were staring directly at Amélie, and she is staring back. You blush and quickly look down at your notes to avoid her piercing gaze.
Ever since your first chance encounter, you’ve been absolutely infatuated, but she has remained impervious to your utter lack of charm. She’s like a wall of ice—thick, cold, still and opaque. You’re not sure what draws you to her, but whatever it is it’s got a Hell of a pull.
Despite attempts at parties, after classes, around campus or at dorms, you have had zero luck attracting anything from her but withering disdain. It hasn’t stopped you from trying, but something about her makes you feel like you shouldn’t. She’s brilliant, and she makes you feel like an idiot whose only talent is running very fast for short periods of time.
Which is why you’ve decided on a new strategy—say something so smart in class, she’ll take notice. As much as she has a passion for anything, she has a passion for Shakespeare, so this might be the in you need.
There’s a lull in the discussion, and then an opening falls into your lap. “Can anyone tell me what avant-garde means?” the professor asks.
You know this! You read the wikipedia page on Dada one time! It’s a simple question, but it might be the traction you need to really start impressing Amélie. Your hand shoots up so quickly it startles Hana.
The professor arches an eyebrow. “Yes, Ms. Oxton?”
As you open your mouth you realize Amélie (and Gabriel, and Sombra and everyone) is looking straight at you. Your eyes catch hers, and you see what you think is a look of expectation in her eyes.
Your mind goes blank instantly. “Um. It means … before the guard?” you ask more than answer.
The entire room erupts in laughter, and you flick the hood of your sweatshirt over your head in shame.
“Quiet down, everyone,” the professor says, but his lips too have curled into a grin. “Yes, it literally translates to ‘fore-guard,’ but can anyone tell me what it means ?”
Amélie’s hand rises up, and she reclines back in her seat, a smirk painted across her face. The professor points to her and she answers without a moment’s hesitation.
“In theatre, avant-garde denotes works of a unorthodox style. It may exhibit nontraditional form or content, or experiment with narrative or multi-modal presentation. The avant-garde is that which pushes the boundaries of the status quo, and challenges bourgeois sensibilities.”
“Very good, Ms. Lacroix,” says the professor.
The entire time she is speaking, her eyes are locked on you.
You and Hana walk into the semester’s last major house party to the thumping sound of Lúcio’s DJ set. He’s run it by you half a dozen times, and it’s excellent. You know he’s gonna earn his music degree and do great things with it.
“Selfie!” Hana exclaims excitedly and hooks her arm around your neck. Snap! She looks cute, you look nonplussed.
“Give a girl a warnin’!” you say with a laugh.
Hana grins. “You look fine. Now then,” she says rubbing her hands together, “I wanna see if Mei’s here.”
“Mei-Ling Zhou? The juniour climate sciences student?”
“Yeah!” Hana chirps as she checks her hair with her phone’s camera app. “She seems cute, and she runs one of my favorite science blogs.”
“She is cute.”
“Lena! You haven’t!” A pout crosses Hana’s face as she looks at you askance.
“Even if I had, I wouldn’t say I word,” you say, crossing your arms across your chest. You had, but Hana doesn’t need to know the details.
“I never kiss ‘n’ tell,” the two of you say in unison, Hana mimicking you as speak. She gives you a sly wink.
“Jinx, you’re buyin’ me a beer, Lena!” She giggles. “Now then, I’m gonna find Mei. I wanna kiss her beautiful face and ask her about glaciation.”
“Fine, I’ll treat ya after exams. Good luck, luv!”
“I play to win, Lena!” she shouts over her shoulder as she disappears into the crowd.
You wander aimlessly for a bit. You grab a drink, say hello to friends and absolutely school Zarya at beer pong. At one point you step outside with Fareeha and give her a pep talk. Satya is upstairs, in a quiet area chatting with a few others, and Fareeha is finally going to approach her.
It makes you happy to see your friends pairing off. Even if you’ve slept with like half of them. You rarely admit it, but you adore a good love story.
As you return to the party, you hear a conspicuous bird call. You look around, wondering what drunk idiot smuggled a sparrow into the party, when you catch Sombra’s eye. She whistles again and beckons you over.
She and Gabriel are leaning against the wall, looking too cool for everything around them. “Buenas noches, amiga,” she says with a nod of her head.
“Can I help you?” you ask, stuffing your hands in your pockets defensively.
“No, but you can help a friend,” she says with a mercurial smile. “Second floor. Backyard balcony.”
You eye her cautiously. “Who?”
“Amélie,” Gabriel says, rolling his eyes at you, before returning his gaze to the milling partygoers.
“She could use some company,” Sombra adds.
“Then go keep ‘er company,” you say. Ever since you embarrassed yourself in your Shakespeare lecture, you’ve stopped trying.
“She’d be happier to see you,” Sombra says, exasperation leaking into her voice. “Now go, rápido.”
You can’t say you’re not curious. You climb the stairs and find the balcony, then let yourself out into the cool Spring air. Amélie is sitting alone with a bottle of wine clutched in her fist, staring at the moon.
“H-hey,” you say, announcing your presence.
She spins suddenly, wine sloshing in the bottle, and she sighs when she recognizes your face.
“If I’m not welcome, I’ll leave,” you huff and turn on your heel. This was a terrible idea.
“Attendez!” she shouts after you, and you stop. “S’il vous plaît. Keep me company, Lena? …Tracer?”
You turn back around tentatively, and when she pats the chair beside hers you take a seat.
“The Tracer things…” she begins, taking another swig of wine. “It’s very stupid, n’est-ce pas?”
“You’re a real charmer, Amélie,” you reply. You’re not even nervous—you guess overexposure has cured you of it where she’s concerned.
She passes you the bottle, and you take a swig.
“My personal e-mail handle is ‘widowmaker,’” she says suddenly, and you spray red wine over the balcony railing.
“Wot?” You can’t help but laugh, it’s appropriately dramatic, but far more scene than you expected.
“Mhm,” she hums and nods. “It is also very stupid.”
You take another, successful swig and pass her the bottle. “You’re a mystery, Amélie Lacroix.”
“I am full of secrets.” She smiles and drains the bottle. “How would you like to discover a few?”
As usual, you have no idea how you did it. But it seems like you've cracked the ice.
You don’t even get the door of your dorm room closed before Amélie presses you against the wall and gives you another hungry kiss. Her teeth rake your lower lip as she pulls back, and she kicks the door shut with one foot.
“Le lit, immédiatement!”
You’re pretty sure she ordered you into bed, and you’re inclined to listen. Before you can so much as sit, she pushes you clear onto the mattress and straddles you. You’re pretty certain you’re about to have the best sex of your life.
She pins your arms over your head and continues kissing you. She transfers both of your wrists to one hand, then starts roughly hiking up your shirt. You release a helpless moan right into her mouth.
Then she rears back and burps. You stare up at her, and she stares down at you, then hiccups.
“How much did you drink, luv?” you ask.
“Just a few bottles of wine,” she says. “It’s nothing.” But you can tell it almost certainly is something.
“A few bottles?” you repeat. “Nope. You are way too drunk to consent.”
“Don’t be a … Comment dit-on? Don’t be a damp towel, Lena! I see the way you look at me, just fuck me, mon Dieu!”
“Oh my God,” you say. You probably shouldn’t have let things get this far, but it’s hard for you to keep your head straight around her. “I think y’mean ‘wet blanket,’ and the answer is still no. I like you, I’m not gonna take advantage!”
Meanwhile, Amélie is attempting to undress, but is simply fumbling helplessly with the buttons of her blouse. “It’s not advantage if I want it, you foolish girl.”
“No! Y’can’t even work a button.” You reach for her hands but she slaps you away—talk about déjà-vu.
“I just want company, Lena!” she exclaims. “Merde! I just don’t want to be alo—”
She stops suddenly, and you stare at her in nervous expectation. She looks… kinda funny. You finish the sentence for her. “…alone?” Then you barely manage to dodge as she vomits all over herself, and your bed sheets.
You hit the floor with a hard thump, then fumble for your bedside lamp. A warm light fills the room, and you fumble to your feet. Once you’re up, you realize Amélie is kneeling in a pool of her own sick and crying.
“Ey, luv, let’s get you cleaned up,” you offer, tentatively reaching out a hand to her. You expect her to slap it away, but she doesn’t. She just slumps on to her side.
“Désolée, désolée,” murmurs into her hands.
“Here, let’s get these off…” You begin to unlace her boots, carefully avoiding where they’re speckled with vomit.
“Don’t,” she says numbly.
“You gotta take ‘em off,” you say softly. “Your leggings are… gross, right now. Y’should shower.”
She doesn’t say another word. You carefully remove her shoes, then begin to lower her leggings. She tenses, and you slow, but you continue. As you remove the leggings past the knee, you see why she was so unwilling.
She’s missing her left leg below the knee. The prosthesis looks convincing enough in leggings or pants, but it’s unmistakably artificial when bare. “Oh, luv.” You’re not quite sure what else to say.
“You have a private shower, oui ?” she asks, her voice barely audible.
“Yeah, this dorm’s got private bathrooms. Can I help y’undress and get in?”
“I’ll do it myself.” She shifts, and carefully sets herself up right.
“Slowly now,” you say as you help her stand.
She shuffles into your bathroom, and you begin collecting her leggings and the soiled bedding in a garbage bag. You hear a call from the bathroom the door opens a crack. Amélie’s hand shoots out, clutching a ball of dirtied clothes and you add them to the bag.
“I’m gonna run these through the wash!” you tell her through the door. You think you hear her vomiting again, but you leave her be.
When you return from the laundry room, she’s curled up on your bed, wrapped in your towel. She gives you a glum look.
“How ya feelin’?” you ask.
She sighs. “A bit better.” She clutches her prosthetic nervously.
You get her some sweatpants and a t-shirt. They’re small on her, but they’ll work for one night. You retrieve your spare bedding, and begin remaking the bed. She sits in your desk chair and watches.
There’s silence in the room for a moment, then words start to spill out of her. “It happened a few years ago,” she begins. “I… something…” Her voice quivers and she takes a ragged breath.
“Y’don’t have to tell me anythin’ you’re not ready to, luv,” you say softly.
She nods. “Something … bad … happened to me when I was une lycéenne. In high school. I was distraught, I… did not behave well after the fact. I…” She sniffles, and tears begin to pour down her cheeks. “I killed my boyfriend,” she finishes and begins sobbing.
You’ve just finished making the bed, and are sitting across from her. “You wot?” You stare at her dumbly.
“Not murder,” she continues through her tears. “Just… I was upset all the time. We fought constantly, even though he … Gérard just wanted to help. We got into an argument while he was driving—and… And…”
You stand and pull her into a tight hug, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “Sssh, luv,” you whisper. “It’s alright, it’s alright.”
“I wanted to be a dancer,” she says, crying harder. “I lost my leg… He lost…”
“There, there,” you whisper.
“I-I miss him s-so much,” she manages.
When you took Amélie to your room, you weren't expecting to hold her while she cries over her dead boyfriend. But you care for her, and if this is what she needs them you'll give it. “That's so much, luv,” you coo.
“I was always ugly on the inside,” she sobs, “now I’m ugly outside, aussi."
You shush her again, and gently stroke her hair. “No, luv,” you say, “you’re beautiful.”
She cries and cries, but eventually relaxes. You don't let go, keeping her quivering form tucked tight against the warmth of your breast.
Finally she pulls away, and looks up at you with eyes red from crying. “I’ve never told anyone here.”
“Not even Gabe or Sombra?”
“No, they… have their own troubles. I don’t want… to be a burden.”
You sit back on the bed and take a deep breath. Sharing isn’t an easy thing, but chances to be really, truly open like this are few and far between. No running, you tell yourself. Not now.
“When I was around the same age,” you say, “I got into an accident too. It was my first car. I called ‘er The Slipstream.”
“Very stupid,” Amélie says, smiling a bit.
You smile back and continue. “Anyway, I… I almost died. I was in a coma for a bit. I recovered but, after that… Just… My anxiety got worse, and I dunno… I feel like it cut my life in two. There's before 'n’ after. I'm not the same.”
“It's scary, non?” she asks. “To know someone you love … or you yourself could just … die.”
“Yeah.”
“I have a fear of getting close to anyone now.” Her eyes catch yours for a moment and then flick away. “Like I was with Gérard.”
“Huh,” you say. You'd never thought of it like that. “Never put two 'n’ two together but… Maybe that's why I've never dated. Like, gone steady for real.”
Amélie reaches across and places a hand on your knee.
“Yeah,” you say with a nervous laugh. “It’s scary to get attached to anyone, or anythin’. You can lose ‘em in a heartbeat.”
“I understand,” she says, looking you in the eyes. You look back and know she does.
“It’s good to talk about, though, innit?” You run a hand through your hair—an anxious tick of yours. “It’s important t’get it out. Gabe and Sombra care about you, they’ll be there. I’m sure you’d be there for them.”
Amélie averts her eyes. “I’ll consider it.”
An awkward silence passes between you, and you sit in the lamplight starting at your laps. Finally you decide to break it. “Amélie?”
“Yes, Lena?” she looks up at you expectantly.
“Take my bed for the night.”
She smiles again, wider this time. “Do you have an ibuprofen?”
“Sure do!” You rush to your bathroom and get her a glass of water and a couple of Advil. When you return she's snuggling into your covers.
“Here y’go,” you say, placing them on your bedside table.
She swallows the pills then takes a sip of water. “Merci.”
You try to remember the French for ‘you're welcome.’ “De rien,” you say uncertainly.
“Your accent is terrible,” she whispers.
“Sure is,” you say and lean down to kiss her forehead. As you pull away her hand reaches after you. You let her grab your hair, and she groggily pulls you back down for a kiss.
Her lips still taste a little like bile, but you don't say a word. You accept the intimate moment, then tuck the rapidly fading woman in snuggly.
On your way back to the laundry room, you stop to brush your teeth.
You spend the next hour or so in the laundry room, waiting for the load to finish. Once everything is clean and dry, you haul it back upstairs.
Amélie is sleeping soundly in your bed, her shoulders rising and falling with the delicate billow of her breath. You can't help but smile at the sight—you've never seen her look peaceful like that. You carefully fold her clothes and set them on your desk, then throw your freshly cleaned bedding in a pile on the floor and curl up in it.
When you wake up, light is pouring in through your windows, so bright it makes your head split. You stumble to your feet, nearly tripping over the tangle of blankets wrapped around you, and close the curtains. When you turn around, you find your bed empty and Amélie’s clothes gone.
You were hoping she’d stay.
You’re parched and hungry, but checking the clock you see it’s past breakfast and an hour ‘til lunch. You’ll need something to tide yourself over until the cafeteria reopens, so you shuffle over to your mini-fridge and rummage around for your chocolate soy milk.
You pluck it from the fridge, and notice it feels unusually light. You open it to find it empty, right before noticing that Amélie apparently finished off your bag of beef jerky while she was at it. You grumble and shuffle into the bathroom.
You don’t notice the post-it until you’re out of the shower. Its purple paper is curling in the steamy air, and you pluck it from the mirror to read it. It takes a moment for you to parse the cursive, but then you make out what those elegant lines are saying.
Merci.
It doesn’t take long for the night to register in your heart as shame. You basically made her cry, and your sharing about the car crash was obviously wildly inappropriate. She lost someone she loved, and part of her leg—and you came to her with that lame story. Then you realize ‘lame’ is probably an inappropriate word to use in this context, and feel worse.
This is why I don’t really share, you say to yourself. No wonder she left in the morning. You keep her thank you note in your desk, but can’t help but feel she wrote it out of pity. So you bottle it up and don’t say a word.
“Was my set as good live?” Lúcio asks over dinner that night.
“I loved it!” you say around a mouthful of mac ‘n’ cheese. You quickly cover your mouth with your hand and swallow. “Sorry, mate. Anyway, it was great. Y’could DJ professionally, y’know!”
Lúcio blushes and gives your shin a light kick under the table. “C’mon, T!”
“Don’t be bashful!” you say with a laugh. “You did great.”
“Thanks, Lena,” he says, his face blossoming into a sunny grin. “I really feel like I can touch people with my music, make a difference with it.” He leans in and whispers. “Guess who came up to me after to say she loved my set.”
You shrug. “I ‘unno, Fareeha?”
“Satya!” he says. “Though Fareeha was there. She and Satya were looking real friendly.”
You snort some of your root beer in surprise. “What? ” you say. “You ‘n’ Satya hate each other!”
“She’s not so bad,” he says with a shrug of his own. “She said something like, ‘I must admit that the scale progressions in your music are quite pleasing.’ Once we got talking, we had more in common than I thought.”
“That’s great,” you say with a smile. You’re glad your friends, at least, had a good night.
Then Lúcio shifts fears. “Speaking of ‘not so bad…’” he begins.
“Hm?”
…and real friendly…”
“Oh my God.”
“…and doing things.”
“Bloody Hell.”
“Did I see you leaving with Amélie?” he asks.
“Naw,” you lie. “Not in this lifetime.”
“Coulda sworn… That’s a shame, though, T,” he says. “You really like her, eh?”
“Yeah,” you say, “I do.”
The last time you see Amélie that semester, it’s after your Shakespeare exam. You both finish at the same time, and walk awkwardly into the hall side by side.
“You finished quickly,” she remarks.
“Yeah, well. I finished fast ‘cause I got no clue what I’m doin’,” you reply with a self-deprecating shrug. “You finished fast for the opposite reason, I gather.”
She gives you a slight smile and a non-committal hum as the pair of you walk down the hall. You reach a branch in the hall and begin to move in opposite directions, when the pair of you stop and look at each other expectantly.
As usual Amélie is hard to read, and you can’t tell if she wants to talk about the night you’d spent together, or is hoping you won’t mention it. You open your lips to speak and hesitate.
You’re really brave, you want to say. I hope you’re okay, you want to say. If you ever wanna talk again, I’ll try to do better, you want to say. I’m sorry, you want to say. Instead you just say, “Have a good summer, Amélie.”
“You as well,” she says.
You think maybe she’s disappointed, and the two of you linger for another moment before turning your backs on each other and continuing on your separate ways. You’re walking, but in your heart it feels like running. You’re good at that.
You’re almost out of the building when you hear the frantic click of heels behind you. You turn and Amélie trots to a halt in front of you.
You stop. “H-Hey,” you say nervously as she catches her breath.
She takes a moment to right herself, tucking her long black hair behind one ear and carefully adjusting her blouse. She refuses to speak until she looks perfect again, and then remains silent for a little longer, her lips parted, whatever she wants to say evidently hovering on her tongue.
“I’m going to talk to Gabe and Sombra,” she says. “About… what I carry with me.”
“Tha’s great,” you say. “I’m glad.”
The pair of you pause again, staring at each other in discomforting silence as other students filter in and out around you.
“I was worried I’d done more harm than good,” you say suddenly, knitting your fingers together anxiously.
“Non, ne t'inquiète pas,” Amélie replies. “Don’t worry—you were very kind when I was an absolute mess.”
“You were fine,” you say. “Really I… thought you were very brave. I don’t think less of you. Dunno if you think much o’ me.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Merci, chérie,” she says. The affectionate makes you blush—harder, at least. “I think highly of you… Though I never understood why you think highly of me.”
She looks away, and you can read her nerves in the twisted lines of her face. It’s still so strange to see someone so composed and cool look so fragile, but what strikes you most is how she could be so vulnerable with you a second time.
The things you want to admit stick in your throat, hot and tangled, and your heart races at the thought of letting them out. But if she can be brave, so can you. You take a deep breath, and let the words out.
“Jus’, I think I liked ya ‘cause it seemed impossible. It’s safe, like, ‘cause I never thought you’d give me the time o’ day,” you explain. You’re speaking far too quickly and you know it, but momentum is the only thing keeping you going. “Yer right. Gettin’ close is scary, innit? An’ bein’ attached t’you seemed like it wouldn’t matter.”
For a moment Amélie looks hurt and angry. She clutches at the straps of her purse defensively and bites her lower lip. You imagine the barely held back vitriol she might want to throw at you in reply.
“But,” you continue, “I think I like y’now ‘cause yer so damn brave.”
Her frustrated, wounded look gives way to one of complete surprise. “Quoi?”
“Jus’, sharin’ that at all—I mean I bet y’really needed to get that out, but that don’t mean it’s easy, eh? Sharin’ was brave, ‘n’ so was catchin’ up with me just now. I wasn’t brave enough to say somethin’… but you were. I wish I were more like you, really,” you say with a chuckle.
“You don’t,” she says. “You’re so warm and kind. En fait, I envy you.”
“I’ve heard folks call you heartless, but y’have a warm ‘n’ tender heart, don’cha luv? That’s why you’re always keepin’ it safe.” Your cadence is calmer now and you give her a big grin, suddenly realizing how safe she makes you feel. “You’re really somethin’, Amélie Lacroix.”
She smiles back and it’s the most genuine, easy smile you’ve ever seen cross her lips. You think it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. “You’re quite something yourself, Tracer,” she says. “I do hope you’re well this summer.”
You can’t help but giggle. “Thanks, luv. An’ Amélie? Don’t be a stranger.”
She leans down and gives you a kiss on the cheek—you can feel yourself turning red as a tomato. “I won’t,” she says. “À la prochaine.”
All you can do as she walks away is stare.
You are well that summer. Being back in England means catching up with old friends, and revisiting your old stomping grounds. Lúcio and Hana even manage to fly half-way across the world to visit you at the same time. Your phone’s new lock screen is the three of you piled in for a selfie outside Buckingham Palace.
You keep up with other schoolmates online. You even muster up the nerve to send Amélie a friend request, which she accepts after two agonizing weeks. You never talk, but you're happy to see photos of her smiling on Santa Monica pier next to Gabe and Sombra.
Sometimes she even likes your selfies.
Summer finally begins to give way to the crispness of Fall, and inevitably you return to campus. Vacation was grand, but really, you missed it here.
You’re lying in the middle of the quad, back cushioned by soft grass, enjoying the last vestiges of Summer when you see Amélie again. Your eyes are closed as you soak up the sun, when you hear someone sit down next to you.
You open your eyes and glance over to see her easing into a comfortable position beside you. She’s wearing a purple dress and a floppy sunhat, but what excites you most is her leg. It’s not covered, and the smooth black outside of her prosthetic is embossed with gold filigree.
“Good look on you, Amélie,” you say with a grin.
She smiles back, delicate but warm, and traces her fingers along its patterns. “Gabriel designed it for me,” she says. “They—he and Sombra—always knew about my leg, but I finally told them how. You were right, chérie. They were happy to be there for me, and since then they’ve opened up more about themselves.”
You giggle. “I’m so happy to hear! I actually started therapy this summer, ‘n’ my anxiety’s been better. Don’t think I’da done that without you,” you say with a wink. “Lookin’ open’s one thing, but y’make me wanna really be open. No more runnin’.”
“Don’t tell your team that,” she says with a laugh. She pauses, glancing down at you, and hugs her legs to her chest. “I started dancing again,” she says finally. “I’m… comment dit-on? …rusty, as you say. But I’m enjoying it. I saw the gym is offering lessons… Would you care to join me?”
“I’d like that,” you say, “but only if ya lemme buy you a drink after.”
“Such a charmer,” she replies. “I could be convinced.”
“Just don’t puke in my bed again, eh?”
“I can think of other things I’d rather do in your bed,” she says with a smirk.
You blush and stammer helplessly, until she finally leans down and shuts you up with a kiss. As she pulls away, you stare up at her in helpless wonder.
“You know, Lena,” she says, lips curled in smug satisfaction, “You’re quite cute when you’re flustered.”
“So I’ve heard,” you say as you hide your face in your hands.
She lets out a low, throaty chuckle and gets to her feet. “Dance lessons starts Friday evening,” she says. “Sign up and meet me there. Adieu, ma chere.”
“B-bye,” you stutter. You watch her walk away across the quad and let out an exasperated yet contented sigh. Dance lessons with Amélie Lacroix, you wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Your name is Lena Oxton, and you’re good at running. This time, though, you think you’ll give falling a try.