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The last dive is a back three-and-a-half somersault.
Not an easy dive, but one Bojan has perfected over the years, the appropriate one to conclude his six routines.
To top his performance off.
This last dive must get Bojan at least 90,5 points, the minimum he needs to keep his lead over his direct adversary to the gold medal, who just got his own final score as second-to-last diver in the row of twelve.
But Kris knows that Bojan would never be satisfied with the bare minimum to get the gold. He wants what he deserves, what he suffered days and nights of training for, what has shaped his body and his mind since he was eleven years old, stepping on a diving platform for the first time: he will get the tens. He will get more than 100 points.
He will have the highest score he has ever registered in a competition, to take this Olympic gold home with pride, head held high.
Kris watches Bojan carefully stepping toward the edge of the 10 meters platform, turning around to position himself just right, his heels leaning off the black, ruvid surface of the floor, his arms slowly but steadily rising in a majestic spread.
“It’s like jumping from the third floor of a building,” Bojan had told him, many years ago, in one of their first conversations: “Backwards.”
“You are out of your fucking mind.” Kris had replied, unable to suppress a bewildered laugh.
Bojan had just grinned at that, basically agreeing with Kris’s statement.
After the referee’s whistle, silence falls heavily, all around.
The Olympic arena is full, but the audience is frozen in awe and anticipation, all eyes fixed on Bojan’s form, viewers from all over the world sitting at the edge of their seats, waiting.
Will Bojan succeed? Will Slovenia get its first diving gold medal?
It’s just a few seconds in that unreal stillness, up there in the air: they seem longer than eternity, an unbearably, unnerving stretch of time to Kris.
“When I compete, when I hit the water, there is a lot of noise.” Kris had tried to explain once, in between lazy kisses to Bojan’s nape and neck, holding the smaller boy in his arms: “The roar of the water, the bubbles, my breaths... that chaos keeps me focused.” he had said, slowly reaching for Bojan’s hand to spread his fingers between Bojan’s ones, closed in a grip around Kris’s wider palm.
Their hands, their bodies... they had somehow fit together from the very first moment they had tried to melt them.
“I get only silence. And my heartbeat.” Bojan had replied, slightly turning his neck to share a glance with him, gifting Kris with a glorious sight of his chocolate brown eyes, shining and sparkling with some kind of natural glow in the semi-darkness of the hotel room.
“I dive in emptiness.” he had said, while moving his bare legs against Kris’s, slowly stretching his back under their sheets, skin to skin with Kris’s own naked body.
Bojan needs this emptiness, this vacuum of time and air.
Kris holds his breath and, during this last fragment of time and space before the precipice, he thinks of them. He thinks of Bojan.
**
“Who’s that?” he asked, sitting at the edge of the pool, shocked still with his gaze frozen upward, toward the diving platform, where he had just seen the most mesmerizing sight ever: a sea bird, an angel, descending with a few body rotations and a nosedive into clear blue.
In the distracted first glance he had sent toward that side of the Slovenian aquatic training center’s main pool, he flashed a fluttering of wings.
But the white wings had been the two small, symmetric white splashes of water caused by the dive, Kris realized after a few blinks: his distracted mind had conjured plumes and feathers just to mess with him.
“That’s Bojan Cvjetićanin, a fellow Slovenian. Quite a sensation, around here.” replied Jan, his physiotherapist, standing at his side by the pool, arms crossed: “Won a bronze medal at the World Cup in Kazan when he was less than 15. Been collecting medals and trophies ever since. Never got an Olympic gold, tho.” he smirked in Kris’s direction.
“It’s...” Kris tried to comment, losing his train of thoughts while watching the Slovenian diver emerge from the diving pool, wing-less and now wet, but with the same determination and confidence with which he had soared the air.
*
“Van Mourik?” asked Bojan, a few days later, offering his hand with a curious gleam in his stunning brown eyes.
Rendered temporarily speechless by the sight, Kris had only managed to nod, reciprocating Bojan’s firm handshake.
“Congratulations on your gold, last year.” Bojan said, slowly and politely. His English was flawless, but his accent was noticeable and somehow added to the sudden weakness Kris was feeling in his traitorous knees.
“I’m sorry about your injury, but I’m sure you are getting back to perfect conditions, right?” Bojan added to their until then one-sided conversation, Kris unable to formulate an answer, thoughts clouded by Bojan’s easy smile, his voice, his perfect pointy nose. His eyes .
“We are working toward full recovery.” intervened Jan, side-glancing Kris with a shit-eating grin: “It’s the main reason why we have chosen this facility for his physio. The perfect center with the best technology to put him right back in the game.” he explained.
They were speaking in Slovene, thanks to Jan’s intervention. This way Bojan must have understood that Kris knew the language: even though he was Dutch on paper, using his mother’s last name in official competitions, he had lived in Slovenia, his father’s home country, for a long while during his childhood.
“Right.” Kris managed to choke: “I’m not even limping that much anymore.” he smiled while still blushing, waving his hand dismissively.
“I’m glad to hear that.” Bojan said, winking. He winked !
Kris had known then to be in trouble. So much trouble.
*
He met Jure, Bojan’s partner in the 3m synchro, not long after that.
He and Bojan were both trained by the same coach and had a perfect connection on the springboards and in private life.
“But we’re not together.” immediately specified the very blond Slovenian, taking advantage of a moment of distraction to have a private conversation with Kris, as the other athletes, gathered at a pub after a full day of training at the center, were deciding which board game they should play.
“Alright?” replied Kris, momentarily confused.
“It’s nice what you did for the community, by the way.” Jure said then, smiling openly and warmly.
Jure’s eyes were almost shining as he elaborated: “Being openly queer in sports. It’s not simple. I’ve admired you for so long, I’m happy I’ve got to meet you.” he looked like he was about to give Kris a hug, so the younger beat him to the punch and kindly embraced the shorter diver, who added against Kris’s shoulder: “What you did has helped me so much. And Bojan, too.”.
“Is he… I mean…” Kris, separating them to ask, interrupting himself after realizing his interest could easily make him look too nosy.
“Gay, yeah.” shrugged Jure: “He doesn’t mind me sharing it, don’t worry… as long as it stays between us. He’s not out out , yet.” he explained.
“Oh.” Kris had to exhale. Oh, indeed.
“And he’s also very single, you know?” added Jure to the conversation, after taking a long sip of his beer: “Which is such a shame, ‘cause he’s the nicest guy. Everyone is at least a bit in love with him, it’s his… ‘aura’, you get it?”.
And yes, Kris did very much get it.
*
The first time Kris had stepped on the 10 meters platform, he had felt faint.
“You are laughing!? I am right here, dying of fear and you are laughing!?” He cried in indignation, hands clutching the platform’s handrail for dear life as he stood next to Bojan, too many meters above the water for it to be safe.
“C’mon, Krisko!” Bojan tried to coax him closer to the center of the platform, in between sets of incredibly cute laughs and giggles.
If Kris wasn’t going to die of vertigo, he was surely gonna get killed by Bojan Cvjetićanin’s adorableness, he had thought then.
“I feel like you’re getting too much amusement from my misery, Boki. Your joy is in direct proportion to my humiliation.” he whined.
“Stop acting like a baby. Here,” Bojan said, holding his hands out for him, his smile turning to something kind, encouraging: “Hold on to me.” And how could Kris have refused that?
Standing near the edge, sweaty cold hands clasped in Bojan’s warm and steady ones, he took just a quick look down at the pool (“ like jumping from the third floor, remember? ”) and immediately lifted his gaze to lock it into Bojan’s open and earnest one.
“How are you not afraid?” Kris asked, sincerely bewildered.
Bojan chuckled once again, making Kris’s heart jump in his chest: “I have a secret.” he whispered then: “This is the only place where I’m not afraid.”
Kris frowned, confused for a second.
“I can be… me, this high up. For a few seconds, less than a minute, between the last step of those stairs and the jump… I’m alone and I’m just Bojan.” he confessed, his soulful eyes shining under the artificial lights above them.
“So it’s… freedom?” asked Kris.
“Liberation, more like.” Bojan nodded, pulling on Kris’s hands to get him one step closer: “Will you let me show you how that feels, Kris? Will you jump with me?” he asked, like they were sharing a secret.
Kris found out then that he couldn’t really say no to Bojan.
Especially not when Bojan was in his ridiculously tiny speedos, with water glistening on his soft, tanned skin and with such a happy, small smile on his perfect, perfect lips.
“With you, always.” he replied, too far gone.
They had turned to the edge together. Jumped.
And as Kris resurfaced from the water’s depth and heard Bojan’s cheers and laughs just a few strokes away from him, he thought I need to kiss this man. I need to let him know I’m crazy about him .
And he had, right there in the water of the deeper side of the pool, kissed Bojan Cvjetićanin’s smiling lips.
*
The first time Kris had seen Bojan practicing the handstand on the 10 meters platform, he lost his breath and sent a prayer to the heavens, asking for both blessing Bojan with a long life despite the idiotic sport he had chosen to practice and for himself to survive the sight of all those tense muscles in all that perfect body.
*
Bojan had been there for him when he started competing again.
Not physically there, since he had his own diving competitions to attend, but he had tried his best to support Kris from a distance, texting in between practices and matches, calling every evening and every morning right after breakfast.
It was Bojan, and not his own mother, father or siblings, the first he called after his devastatingly low placement in the first 100m freestyle semi-finals of the season, not even enough points to reach the finals.
Kris let himself sob uncontrollably against the flat screen of his phone, still in the blessedly empty changing room, back pressed against his locker while sitting on the floor in his uncomfortably wet swimming suit and bathrobe.
“ Bejbi , you’ve been fit for competition for how long? A month? You did enough already. Cherish the fact that you are back and that you can only get better, everyday.” said Bojan’s soothing voice.
“I know, I just... miss being able to swim like that.” he choked: “I miss being me.” and then, after a pause: “I miss you, so much.”.
“I know. I’m right here.” Bojan’s voice had come from the phone’s speaker: “And you are you, even now. From this you will raise and fly again, I promise.” he affirmed.
“You promise?” Kris asked back, in the smallest voice he had ever been able to produce.
“I promise.” had ringed, sure and clear, from his phone.
*
Bojan had been on the stands for Kris’s next competition.
Kris won first place and celebrated with his coach, his team, his family, his Bojan.
Since then, whenever they could, they had gone to each other’s matches.
*
Once, when asked by an annoying journalist what he thought about Bojan Cvjetićanin’s performance after a not very satisfying competition, Kris had looked right into the camera lens and declared: “Bojan doesn’t dive, he flies. He was born out of sea breeze and foam. He belongs in air and water, like the birds belong to the sky. I can have many doubts in my life but I will never have doubts about that.”
“Didn’t you go a bit too far with that reply, perhaps?” asked Jan when they were far enough from the crowd of journalists, on their way out of the arena.
“I don’t think so, no.” Kris replied, still upset by the journalist’s insinuation about his lover’s talent.
*
Bojan was stroking Kris’s collarbone, his fingers getting playfully tangled in the necklace’s chain over Kris’s warm skin.
“You keep it on during races,” Bojan said. Not a question.
The real question had come beforehand, when Bojan studied the Dutch inscription on the ring looped in the chain like he could decipher it and, after a while, asked Kris for the meaning of the word engraved in silver: ‘Perseverance’.
“Yeah, I never take it off. I can’t wear it on my fingers, but it can stay around my neck.” smiled Kris, bending down to kiss Bojan’s forehead, his long eyelashes, the tip of his nose.
His necklace swung in the small warm space between them before resting for a few moments on Bojan’s own naked skin.
“I couldn’t keep one on, it would get in my face when I spin or handstand.” Bojan said, a little disappointed.
“But you have these.” Kris commented, his fingers brushing Bojan’s muscular right thigh, the pretty tattoos inked on the front of it.
“Mmm. My first act of rebellion.” and a mischievous smile had blossomed on Bojan’s face: “Grandma was so angry when I got the first one…” he recalled.
“I love them.” said Kris, shifting down and down and down slowly, to grab Bojan’s waist in both hands, kiss a path on his warm body from lower stomach to hip to thigh. “I love you.” he whispers and then smiles with his eyes closed, his lips against Bojan’s trembling skin: “My little rebel angel.”.
*
He had been told that in some European countries, after one year together, two lovers often exchanged gifts. For their 12th month anniversary, he got Bojan a golden ring with a different Dutch engraving than his own.
“What does it mean?” Bojan asked, while sliding it on immediately, Kris not missing how the boy had right away elected his left hand’s ring finger as the designated spot.
“It’s two words.” Kris replied, voice almost choking up on the sudden emotion that seeing Bojan in his gifted jewelry had caused: “This one is ‘fall’ and this one is ‘fly’.” he added, pointing at the opposite words.
Bojan only ever took the ring off while competing.
*
“It’s bedtime!” yelled Nace, getting up from the common room’s couch at half past ten: “And when I say ‘bed’ I mean ‘sleep’: no sex before competitions, you two!” he had admonished, looking from Kris to Bojan.
“That has always been the rule.” Jure nodded solemnly from his spot on the floor, next to the turned off TV in the Slovenian delegation’s common room.
“Fine, we’ll wait for after the victories.” agreed Bojan, hiding his smile behind Kris’s neck from where they were sitting plastered together on an armchair.
Kris wasn’t exactly allowed to mingle with other delegations during the Olympic village stay, but no one was ever going to rat on him, especially considering his and his physiotherapist’s ties with the Slovenian team.
“Perfect, then I won’t have to hear anything about it. Bojan, that gold …” begged Nace, his voice turning from his authoritative coach-like tone to a softer, hopeful one.
“I know, Nacko. I know.” said the diver, smiling honestly at the man.
Nace huffed and ruffled his hair before heading out of the room, Jure in tow.
“Have you told them yet?” Kris had asked quietly in Bojan’s ear once they were left alone, sharing one last moment of rest in the circle of his lover’s arms before having to leave him for the night.
Next time he was going to see Bojan, the boy would be flying.
“Not yet. That too should wait until after the Olympics are over. Right, fiancé?” chuckled Bojan, his tone conspiratory.
“Alright, fiancé.” Kris had easily agreed, his fingers absentmindedly playing with Bojan’s ring.
**
Bojan stands there, his arms spread, his posture straight and perfect. Like a sacred effigy, a god, he’s a statue of power and beauty.
The silence, the emptiness, the tense atmosphere are his domain. Air and water.
Fly, my angel. Spread your wings and fly.
Kris stops breathing while Bojan flexes, bends, pushes, jumps.
He keeps holding his breath while he sees his Bojči fall and spin and dive into water, his white wings painting the air with twin splashes, small, perfect.
The audience roars like the blood in his ears, the frantic beating of his heart and there is chaos, all around.
Bojan resurfaces with the same confidence of that time, three years ago, when Kris had seen him dive for the first time and had known he was going to fall for this man, and spend the rest of his life loving him, promising him the world.
The scoreboard illuminates with the final scoring: four tens. More than 100 points.
Bojan Cvjetićanin is the Olympic champion.
Kris is engulfed by Jan and Jure’s embrace before he ever gets time to stand up completely from his seat on the stands, overwhelmed with emotions.
Bojan is running across the poolside into Nace’s awaiting arms and right after that there is a blur in Kris’s mind and memories: he almost completely misses the interviews, the award ceremony, the celebrations all over, all around.
He realizes he has been somehow draped in a Slovenian flag by someone (probably Jure) while frantically looking for the changing rooms when he finally spots Bojan, in his sweatpants and hoodie, running towards him in a very crowded corridor.
Kris laughs loudly and opens his arms wide to collide into the warmest, tightest embrace with the love of his life.
“You’re here!” cries Bojan, face pressed against Kris’s neck, where he belongs.
“I’m here.” he confirms, his hands reaching the back of Bojan’s head, his still wet locks.
“I love you.” declares the shorter boy, lifting his gaze to look into Kris’s eyes, glistening with tears.
“Forever.” he agrees again.
And Kris kisses his angel’s laughing mouth then, fiercely.
A few cameras click and flash, someone gasps, probably also noticing their matching rings for the first time.
But they don’t care. They spoke about it. It’s time.
“I promise.” Kris says and means it.