Archive of Our Own ^beta

Josh can’t help it—he watches the video again. 

He’s got it almost memorized, all thirty-six seconds. The tweet’s been sitting at the top of his bookmarks folder for a week now, ever since he got the first call from his coach—he can hear the whip of the splash, the gasp of the spectators, before they play out in miniature.

Holding the phone up to his face, Josh drags his thumb along the bottom of the screen, cycling back to the moment of impact with the water—the ten, fifteen seconds where it seems like nothing’s wrong. 

And then, the divers surfacing, first one, then the other, delayed. It’s not until they reach the side of the pool, until the second diver is hunched on the steps, that the crowd realizes what’s going on. It’s a shaky phone video, but the blood down his chin—the slick, sickening shine of it—is perfectly visible. 

“That can’t be healthy,” Josh’s sister says from her perch at the kitchen table.

Josh pauses the video in the middle of the crowd’s gasp, cutting off the concerned crescendo of voices. 

“No, broken ribs generally aren’t.”

“I meant,” says his sister, “that you watching that over and over is not healthy.”

Josh ignores her, and unpauses the video. 

This is the part that he waits for, every time. Here, the unsuspecting videographer, realizing the gravity of what they’re filming, attempts to zoom in on the doubled-over athlete, clutching at his abdomen as coaches and staff surround him—but the shaky, blurry image lands to his left, on the other athlete, the partner; on his blank, expressionless face. 

With a thumb and a forefinger, Josh takes a screenshot. 

In his camera roll, there’s another screenshot of the partner’s stark, pixelated face, and then another, from several days before. He deletes them one by one, keeping the one from today. 

His sister speaks with the tone of someone who’s concerned, but not sure if they’re allowed to be. “Josh.” 

It’s been two hours since his arrival in Columbus, in this slice of his sister’s life. Despite growing up here, despite visiting numerous times since, Josh is a stranger in a strange land. He’s not sure if he’s changed, or if everything else has.

It’s five weeks, he reminds himself, and then, realistically, he’ll be gone. 

“I’m going on a grocery run,” Josh announces. “If you wanna lecture me about healthy, I need—I have things I’ve gotta stock up on, if I’m doing this.” 

He’s doing this. He’s here, isn’t he? 

“I’ll drive,” his sister is saying before Josh can stop her, already standing, dropping her dishes in the sink and searching for her keys. 

Josh follows her out of the apartment to the sound of the watery impact playing on a loop in his head. 

*

The tweet itself, from @osudiving, was short.  

Devastating injury for Buckeye and two-time olympian Zack Joseph at the American Cup 10m synchro event. 7 weeks out from olympic trials, it’s unclear what this will mean for partner and brother Tyler Joseph’s shot at Paris 2024.

The few dozen replies underneath the video are a mixed bag, concern and well wishes interspersed with would-be critics, and critics of the critics. For every user finding fault with Zack’s over-rotation, the angle of his approach, there are three more below them— my dude, i think he knows, and the guy broke a rib, is this really the time to nitpick his dive? and let’s be respectful—Paris was basically gonna be these guys’ last chance to medal. 

Josh likes the last reply. 

*

On his sister’s couch that night, he sets his alarm for 6:30 AM. Tomorrow, he’ll ride his bike to the OSU aquatics center; but tonight, he will watch the video, just one more time. 

Not for the first time, Josh pulls up a web browser and types Tyler Joseph diver into the search bar. A modest Wikipedia page tells him what he already knows: diving since the age of eight, homeschooled to accommodate a life of training eight hours a day, ranking internationally in 10m synchro with his brother since 2016. 

The images page yields photo after photo of the brothers, as well as Tyler alone, in the air or on the platform, or staring unsmiling at a camera. 

Utterly unreadable. 

Josh sends off a text to his coach. Are we sure this isn’t a terrible idea? 

Despite the late hour, his reply comes quickly. Deep breaths, Josh. You are ready for this, and you’re in good hands. 

And then, a second later: One day at a time. 

*

Tyler Joseph’s coach meets him inside the aquatic center’s long row of double doors. Josh recognizes him from pictures, standing tall and smug between Tyler and his brother, or on the sidelines, teeth and fist clenched in triumph.

He extends a long-fingered hand. 

“Josh Dun,” the coach says, gripping his hand and touching Josh’s shoulder with the other, before gesturing to himself. “Paul Meany.” 

Josh inclines his head. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise.” Paul’s voice is a lilting rasp. Coupled with his height, his sinewed arms, everything about him oozes ego. 

He gestures for Josh to follow him down the wide, high-ceilinged hallway. It’s far from Josh’s first time in this building, technically—but the interior is nothing like what he remembers from high school meets.

Paul must see him looking around. “They did a major remodel of the facilities two, three years ago. Amazing the kind of money the University will throw at you when you start sending athletes to the Olympics.” 

Something settles heavy in Josh’s stomach. “Yeah.” 

They come to a stop outside a door that reads men’s locker room. One hand braced against the door frame, Paul hesitates, turning to look at him. 

“This is a big thing that you’re doing,” he says. “And since you probably won’t hear it from him, I wanted to get out ahead of it and thank you, Dun. Five weeks isn’t a long time, but it’s a shot—and a shot is all we’re asking for.” 

Josh nods, unsure what to say. 

Paul runs his tongue along his lower lip before speaking. “You’re young, but you’re impressive as hell—at least from what I saw in Fukuoka last year. Your execution on that level of DD, at your age…” 

He trails off, inclining his head towards the closed locker room door. 

“If anyone else can keep up with him, it’s you.” 

Like he did when they first met, Paul touches the side of Josh’s arm. And maybe it should be weird, but it isn’t; it feels like a natural extension of the coach’s way of communicating. 

Self conscious, Josh shrugs. “I’ll do my best.” 

Paul smiles, and moves to push the door open.

“Wait,” Josh rushes. “His brother—is he alright?”  

“Oh!” Paul says, surprised. “Yeah, Zack’s alright. He won’t be back on the tower for awhile yet, but he’s healing up at home. Nothing that rest can’t fix.” 

Paul looks at him another moment, as if to ask anything else? When Josh doesn’t reply, he pushes open the door. 

The first thing Josh notices is the wave of chlorine and sweat. He’s unabashedly comforted by it—the universal smell of pool locker rooms, the same anywhere you go—from his childhood Y, to his own university’s aquatics center back in LA, to here, now. 

The second thing he notices is the boy on the bench. 

No, it’s not just that—what Josh notices is the way the boy’s attention snaps to him, like a bird of prey. His eyes land on Josh, with talons; they search him, head to toe, and Josh has stood in front of hundreds of spectators in a speedo more times than he can count, but that’s nothing compared to the nakedness he feels under Tyler Joseph’s gaze. 

But then, Tyler rises from the bench and moves towards him, and everything in Josh’s perception shifts a little. 

Tyler Joseph, Josh realizes, looks different from his pictures, somehow. He’s built, of course, powerful and compact—the softness is confined to the small things that the camera can’t detect. The curve of his jaw. The swell of his lips. The gentle tops of his fingers as he reaches out a closed fist to Josh. 

“Hey,” Tyler says. 

Pretty, Josh realizes. Tyler is soft and pretty. The athlete he’s only seen from afar, in passing or in pixel form, is a whole other being standing here in front of him, radiating intensity. 

Josh bumps his fist. “Hey.” 

“Alright,” comes Paul’s voice from behind him. “Finally. Josh, this is Tyler. Or—I don’t know, have you two ever actually met face to face?” 

Tyler’s eyes don’t leave Josh the whole time his coach is speaking. 

“Not officially,” he says. The way he speaks—it’s like he’s measured out the exact amount of weight for each word in advance, leveled and intense. “But we’ve crossed paths. My brother and I were there during your qualifying dives in Japan. You’re extremely talented.” 

He says it like someone else might point out the weather. You’re extremely talented—a statement of fact, like it’s raining. 

Josh stuffs his hands back in his pockets. “I—thank you. It’s good to officially meet.” 

The next several minutes are an overwhelming flurry of information; after Josh is shown to a locker and deposits his bag, Paul talks them through the plan for their first few days of training. No water today, Josh learns; they’ll be starting with conditioning, and then moving on to dryland after lunch. Tomorrow they’ll get worked on by the training team, and then finally—if everything is looking good—begin to train in the diving well. 

“Essentially,” Paul finishes, “we’re starting back at the basics. These first few days are about getting to know each other. It’s unquestionable that you both have the skills, but the trust—that’s something you can’t fake. We have five weeks to make it look like you’ve been diving together for five years.”

So basically, Josh thinks, to pull off a miracle. 

*

Paul has them start off in the weight room, just the two of them. To get to know each other, Paul says, but also so that Tyler can take him through a typical conditioning routine. Josh is relieved; strength is second nature to him, something he can excel at without even thinking. 

What isn’t second nature is doing all of this under the scrutinizing gaze of a seasoned olympian. He’s used to the poorly-concealed, impressed glances of his college teammates, which he pretends not to notice, though secretly enjoys—but this is different. Tyler appears neither impressed, nor concerned that Josh can see him staring. 

He’s also not making any signs of initiating the getting to know each other part of Paul’s instructions. 

“So,” Josh says, carefully avoiding Tyler’s eyes on him, “I um—I don’t know if you know this, but I actually grew up here. In Columbus.”

Tyler reaches for his water bottle, and takes a long swig before responding. They’re in between sets of lat pull-downs, and Josh would be lying if he said he hasn’t been sneaking glances at what Tyler’s lifting each time they move from machine to machine—out of competitiveness (well, mostly not), but in an attempt to prove to himself that he’s good enough, strong enough, to keep up. 

He is. 

Tyler’s eyes give nothing away. “I did know that.” 

Josh flounders for small talk, coming up empty. All the obvious questions—when did you start diving? How long has Paul been your coach? are things he knows already; at the same time, he can’t ask the things he really wants to ask—how do you get so close to the podium twice and still have the drive to keep going? Do you resent me already because I’m not your brother? 

Are the rumors about you true? 

“I’m really sorry about your brother’s injury,” is what Josh settles on. 

For the first time all day, Tyler’s eyes betray a flicker of something pained, and Josh immediately feels like an ass for bringing it up. But just as quickly as it slipped, Tyler is carefully replacing his mask of composure, and he’s once again two-time Olympian Tyler Joseph. 

“We should go again,” Tyler says, reaching up for the bar. “Two more sets.” 

Silently, Josh follows suit. 

He’s starting to understand it—why Paul is Tyler’s coach. Only someone entirely confident, entirely sure of themselves, could match Tyler’s intensity. 

They work, hard, for another hour and a half. Josh begins to wish that he paced himself more at the beginning of their workout, instead of trying to showboat; he’s in shape, but he’s not in competition shape—and it’s hitting him how long it’s been since he’s truly pushed his body to that point. 

On a water break, Josh checks his bank balance. He’s going to need more groceries. 

*

For today, though, Josh eats at the cafe in the lobby. After the weight room, they spent an additional 90 minutes on cardio before finishing until the afternoon, and more than anything else, Josh is grateful for the mental break it offers. 

With his food laid out in front of him, Josh carefully places his Air Pods in his ears, and calls his coach. 

He answers midway through the second ring. “Uh oh. Should I be worried that you’re calling me already?” 

Josh huffs a laugh. “No, no. Everything’s fine.”

He unwraps his sandwich, and takes a bite.

“Good,” his coach goes on, “because I want to know everything.

Josh catches him up, leaving out the part about the intensity of Tyler’s eyes. When he describes Paul as intimidating but nice, his coach laughs. 

“I know you already know this, but he and King were synchro gods back in our day. There’s a reason that kid’s so confident, with Meany behind him.” 

“Not exactly a kid,” Josh reminds him. If anything, he’s the kid here.

Josh endures (but deep down, appreciates) a few minutes of being quizzed on his meal planning, whether he’s getting enough sleep, a big enough breakfast; whether he’s taking his meds. He is, and he tells him so. 

“You have the talent and the discipline to do this, Josh,” his coach finishes. 

Josh tries to believe him. 

*

It takes everything in Josh not to collapse onto his sister’s couch the minute he gets back to her apartment. It’s physical exhaustion, yes—but Josh is quickly learning that synchro requires another level of concentration entirely, and he can’t remember the last time he worked his brain this hard. 

He feels silly, now, for imagining that they’d be starting in the water right away, learning to execute Tyler and Zack’s technical dives. Instead, dryland this afternoon was entirely about synchronization—learning to mirror each other, follow each other’s cues. Paul spent multiple hours drilling them just on approaches: when to breathe, when to step, how to watch the other out of the corner of their eye. Josh can’t escape the thought that for Tyler, this must feel like going back to Kindergarten; starting at square one is purely for Josh’s benefit. 

He also can’t escape the thought that if they keep going at this rate, there’s no chance in hell that they’ll be ready in five weeks. 

“You look destroyed,” Josh’s sister points out from the kitchen, where she’s been chopping vegetables since he got home. 

“Hmm,” he says, head tipped back and eyes heavy. 

She eyes him from across the counter. 

“Reddit has a lot to say about Tyler Joseph.” 

This gets Josh’s attention. He tries to sound neutral. “Why are you reading about my synchro partner on Reddit?” 

Ashley shrugs, slicing into a zucchini. “I just think it’s rude to speculate about someone’s sexual preferences on the internet.

“And yet,” Josh says, “here you are.” 

It earns him a tongue out in his direction. 

Josh gestures towards her cutting board. “You don’t have to do that, Ash.” 

“Like you know how to cook for yourself?” 

He sulks. 

“Shut up,” Ashley says, “and let me take care of you.” 

*

This time, Tyler and Paul aren’t waiting for Josh when he arrives. He finds them in the training room, where Tyler is already installed on one of the tables, two sets of hands on him. One of the trainers is pressing Tyler’s leg back toward his chest, exposing an expanse of tanned muscles. 

Automatically, Josh looks away. 

“Josh.” Paul sounds distracted, perched behind a laptop on the long counter that runs through the center of the room. 

“Yeah—hi.” 

“Gonna have you work with Michael today. Grab a seat anywhere—he should be in any minute now.” 

He chooses a table three down from Tyler.

Michael, it turns out, can’t be much older than Tyler. He’s instantly warm, making small talk with Josh while he helps him lie back on the table. Within five minutes, he learns that Michael, like Josh, has two sisters and a brother; that he’s been working with Zack and Tyler since their early days at OSU, and that he has gentler hands than any trainer Josh has met. 

The conversation eventually turns to Josh; somehow, the how did you start diving question seems so full of genuine interest coming out of Michael’s mouth that Josh fumbles any attempt to cleverly dodge it. 

“I, uh—I started late. Sixteen.” 

Michael nods, indicating for Josh to bend his knees and prop his feet up on the table. “Start out in something else? Gymnastics?” 

“Yep,” Josh says. “I was never too serious about it, but the diving coach at my high school saw me compete and let me know I could have a path to college with diving, so…”

Josh flicks his eyes in Tyler’s direction; if the other boy could hear their conversation, he didn’t show any sign of it. 

“And you’re what—nineteen now? Twenty?” 

“Twenty. Twenty-one, actually, next month.” 

Michael nods, and lowers himself to a rolling stool. 

“And you’ve really never done synchro?” Josh must look taken aback, because Michael goes on. “Paul told me about the petition he had to submit, to get approval. I guess he must think you’re really worth the effort.” 

“Oh,” Josh nods. “I guess so. And no—synchro was never my thing. It’s—I don’t know, I guess I didn’t think it would work for me.” 

Michael nods, and lowers himself to a rolling stool. 

“Injuries?” 

Josh blows out through parted lips. “Right wrist has been broken twice, and I had surgery on my left ACL at uh—the beginning of last year.” 

“That’s not such a bad track record.” Michael moves around the table to bend and unbend Josh’s left knee. “Let’s try to keep it that way. 

In his periphery, he can see Tyler sitting up. 

“How’s that feeling?” 

Josh blinks. “Fine.”

He wonders if Michael can look at his body and tell that he hasn’t competed in almost six months. He wonders if this is something Michael already knows. 

Either way, it doesn’t come up, and Josh is grateful. 

*

For conditioning, Michael is joined by one of the trainers who was working on Tyler—Mark, Josh learns. The two other men are a welcome buffer, drawing Tyler’s attention toward stretches and questions, and away from Josh. 

Josh eats alone in the cafe again, and wonders where Tyler disappears to for lunch. 

It’s dryland again in the afternoon. This time, Paul moves them on to simple front flips; if approaching in sync was hard, then flipping in sync feels—unattainable. Superhuman. Tyler is placid through it all, showing no sign of frustration as over and over, Josh releases too early, launches too high, rotates too fast or too slow.

Paul’s calls are patient but demanding—again. Again. Again. 

Approach. Flip. Land on the mat. Get back up. Avoid Tyler’s eyes. 

Josh digs deep. He gathers every ounce of mental energy not being used on his own body, and focuses it on Tyler’s, on where he is in time and space. He wills himself to mirror him, like they’re one person, moving in slow motion—

He lands at least a foot in front of Tyler on the mat. 

“Okay,” Paul calls. “Josh—once again, your approach is strong, but we need control, not just power. The breath Tyler’s taking before he explodes up—are you seeing that? Tyler, can you—yes.”

A perfect pupil, Tyler demonstrates once, then again, the burst of air he sucks into his lungs, abdomen contracting as his lips form around the staccato whhfff. Josh places a hand on his stomach and mirrors the motion, once, twice.

Paul points a long finger at him. “That’s it. We’re going to drill breathing tomorrow. And Tyler—”

He moves into Tyler’s space, lowering his voice, but not so much that Josh can’t make out what he says. 

“Your brother is not in this gym.”

His hand is on Tyler’s shoulder, close. 

“You’ve got a new partner,” he goes on, “who hasn’t known you since he was born. This is a two way street. Act like it.”

Anxiety rinses over Josh secondhand, but Tyler is a mirrored lake of calm. He holds the coach’s gaze longer than necessary, chin tilted up in the whisper of a challenge. Paul doesn’t waver, eyes locked with Tyler’s until, improbably, Tyler’s expression resolves into the smallest smirk. 

Josh can’t make sense of it. 

He’s caught off guard when—quickly as it arrived—the tide of anxiety recedes, leaving an odd prickle of jealousy in its wake. Whatever silent language Tyler is speaking in, it’s something that Paul is privy to, and Josh is not. 

“Again,” Paul calls. 

*

His sister removes the staple from Josh’s training schedule, and hangs the pages on her fridge, held up by a magnet in the shape of a cartoonish french chef holding a baguette.

“You should go see mom, you know,” Ashley says over the pasta she cooked. 

Josh politely ignores her. 

*

As promised, a large portion of the next day’s dryland is spent drilling their breathing. 

They’re making progress, finally. Paul has them close their eyes, forcing them to focus only on the sound of the other’s breath, and the sensation of their bodies moving through space together. By the end of ninety minutes, Josh has memorized the sound of Tyler’s feet lifting from the platform, and the hissing intake of his breaths. With his eyes shut, Josh lands awkwardly, a little off kilter—but they nearly land together. 

It’s as close as they’ve come to synchronization, and it’s clear that Paul agrees. 

And yet all their progress washes away that afternoon, when they finally get in the water. 

At first, it’s okay. Josh is relieved to be back on the pool deck again, chlorine in his nostrils, humid air clinging to his bare skin, and to Tyler’s. 

Years of diving have long since removed any trace of awkwardness when it comes to being around guys in speedos; no—what strikes him about seeing this much of Tyler for the first time has nothing to do with that, and everything to do with getting his first glimpse of the geometric tattoos that frame Tyler’s pecs and shoulders—the ones he’s only ever seen in pictures. 

Josh searches for the olympic rings tattoo that’s a near given for almost every Olympian he’s ever met, diver or otherwise—but on Tyler, he doesn’t find one. Just the strange, black symbols. 

They start out with simple dives from the one meter platform, focusing on form before progressing in height—but even a meter’s worth of air rushing past Josh’s skin is enough to awaken his adrenaline. 

The ten meter is where it all falls apart. 

“Dammit, Josh—” Paul calls to him, as soon as his head crests above the water—again, again, again. “Just because you can do three and a half like it’s nothing—”

“I know,” Josh says, pulling himself out of the water. “Sorry, sorry, I got mixed up. I’ll do it right.” 

“Yeah, you will, because you’re going to do it five times in a row for me, solo. Tyler, go swim some laps.” 

Eyebrow raised and shammy over one shoulder, Tyler turns in the direction of the swimming lanes without comment. He doesn’t need to say anything for Josh to feel the frustration radiating off of him. 

One after another, Josh dives five near-flawless forward two and a half pikes. 

Paul’s shaking his head when Josh reemerges. 

“Explain to me what’s stopping you from doing exactly that with Tyler next to you,” he says. 

Josh can’t. 

He doesn’t know. 

*

Tyler is already done showering by the time Josh turns on the water; already pulling on clothes before Josh can even wrap himself in a towel. 

He’s quiet—too quiet—and Josh can’t stand it anymore. 

“Do you, uh…” he starts without looking up. “I guess—do you want to tell me what you’re thinking?” 

Quietly, he hears Tyler close his locker door; the creak of the hinge, the gentle click of the latch, giving nothing away. 

“What do you mean?” 

Josh wrenches his own locker open noisily. He still doesn’t look at Tyler. 

“I mean… I mean that you’ve barely said two words to me this week,” Josh says, pulling on his shorts. “I don’t know if you can’t stand me, or you’re just pissed off that I’m not your brother or what, but like… you’ve gotta give me something if this has even a chance of working out.” 

Shoes in his hand, Tyler pauses. He sets them down on a bench, and rotates slowly to look Josh in the eye. 

“Okay,” Tyler says icily. “I think you’re arrogant, if you really want to know.” 

Josh is stunned, open-mouthed. 

“I’m—wait,” he splutters. “I’m arrogant?” 

“You’ve somehow come in here with this reputation as a hotshot, what—because you can execute big dives that look good to the layperson? Is that supposed to impress me?”

Josh doesn’t know what a layperson is, and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t fucking care. 

Everything is frozen except his blood, which rushes violently past his ears on the way to his head. He can tell that he’s red without seeing his reflection, but a glance to the mirror behind Tyler confirms it. 

And Tyler isn’t done. 

“Looking impressive is about 5% of what gets you anywhere in this sport. The other 95% is slow, boring, agonizingly hard work. It’s getting the basics right, and building a strong foundation before you even try executing the difficult stuff.” 

He takes two slow steps towards Josh, and it takes everything in him not to shrink back. 

“I know Paul thinks you’re good for your age and how late you started, or that you’re some kind of prodigy. But in synchro—god, in general—talent is meaningless if it isn’t backed up by technique and… and mental acuity. And honestly, I’m not even saying it’s your fault,” Tyler says, retrieving his shoes from the bench where he dropped them. “I don’t know who your coach was, but they sure skipped a few steps with you.” 

Josh lets a long breath fill his lungs, and then lets it release. He tries to inhabit every bit of himself, every inch of muscle, as he moves into Tyler’s personal space. 

“If I ever hear you mention my coach again,” Josh says, “we’re going to have a fucking problem.” 

Tyler’s eyes are matching daggers—sheathed, but ready to deploy. 

“I see,” he says meaningfully. “So. It’s like that.” 

Josh shakes his head, lost. They’re speaking two different languages, and Josh doesn’t know how to translate. His head is full of cotton, and it’s pounding, pounding…

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, actually,” he manages. 

He pulls on his shirt and stuffs sockless feet into his shoes, suddenly desperate to leave. Josh is halfway out the door when Tyler’s voice rings behind him. 

“Hey.” 

Not Josh—not even Dun—just that. Hey. 

Josh half turns. 

Whatever version of Tyler slipped out before is gone, once again replaced with the polished, careful, two-time-Olympian-Tyler-Joseph façade.

“Why did you even say yes to this?” 

Josh lets his anger settle enough to consider the question, as barbed as it feels. 

Because this feels like my last chance too? he thinks. Because against my better judgment, I keep picturing myself in Paris? Because I can’t stop looking at your face when your brother got hurt and thinking there has to be more to you than what you show the cameras? 

Josh doesn’t say any of this.

“I have no fucking idea,” he says, and lets the door swing closed behind him. 

*

He’s not going back. 

He tells himself this over and over while he bikes home, while he climbs the stairs to his sister’s apartment, while he eats the dinner she prepared. 

“I’m not going back,” he tells her. “I’m done.” 

“Like fuck you are,” she says. 

Josh deletes the video of Zack’s injury from his bookmarks, and then deletes the Twitter app off his phone. 

I’m not going back, he thinks. 

He goes back.

*

Paul intercepts them in the locker room first thing.

“New plan,” Paul says. “We’re going back to the basics.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Josh sees Tyler frown. 

“Dryland?” he says. “One meter?” 

Paul shakes his head. “More basic than that. You two have a lot of ground to make up in your partnership. I want you to start eating lunch together, between training blocks. You know—consciously, intentionally spending time together.” 

Tyler blinks at his coach. 

“What, like… like every day?” 

Surely not, Josh thinks. 

“Every day.” 

The look on Tyler’s face says, surely not. 

Paul doesn’t miss their reluctance. “Look,” he says. “Can either of you actually look me in the eyes and tell me that this partnership is working right now? Or that you genuinely have a chance in hell of doing well in Knoxville at this rate? Can you?”

They cannot, and all three of them know it. 

“Right,” Paul says.

Tyler’s scowl stays plastered on his face for the rest of the morning. 

*

At lunch, they trek to the lobby in silence. Tyler selects a table near the windows, out of the way of the main thoroughfare. 

Josh has started packing his own lunch, the cafe becoming impractical both for its limited options, and its high price tag. They unpack their lunch bags, spreading the contents in front of them, and Josh can feel each of them eyeing what the other pulls out. Don’t make other people’s food choices your business, his sister is always saying—but in a sport like theirs, it’s practically second nature. 

“Okay,” Josh says, “how do you want to start?” 

Tyler purses his lips, popping open a tupperware container. “By apologizing,” he says briskly. 

It’s so directly opposite of what Josh was expecting, that he doesn’t know what to say. 

“I realize that I may have judged you too harshly,” Tyler continues. “As you probably know, this feels very high-stakes for me, and I took that pressure out on you. I’m sorry for that.” 

For the first time, Josh can feel the difference in their ages like a tangible thing. It’s not like the gap is so big—not even five years—but Josh feels childish, guileless, for assuming that Tyler would be too self-important to apologize for yesterday’s tyranny. 

“Okay,” Josh says again, lamely. 

Whatever Tyler has in his tupperware smells good; distinctly homemade, like someone packaged it with care. 

“I’d love to know about your background, or… or yeah,” Tyler says. “This is… this is awkward, sorry. But I’m listening.” 

It strikes him as a little comical, hearing Tyler stumble over his words, and it’s enough to ease the tension. Josh takes a bite of his apple, and chews. 

“I started out in gymnastics,” he says. “I had all this, I don’t know… pent up energy, as a kid. My mom thought it would be a good outlet, but I never really got serious.” He recounts the same sparknotes version he gave Michael: the high school diving coach, the scholarship, the move to California.

Tyler looks at him expectantly. 

“That’s kind of it, as far as my diving background,” he falters.

“What about your background background?” 

“What do you want to know?” 

Tyler shrugs. “You tell me. What is there to know about you?” 

Josh unwraps his turkey sandwich, contemplating. What is there to know? 

“I have three siblings,” he says, reaching for the first thing that comes to mind. “All younger. Same as, uh, same as you, right?” 

Tyler raises an eyebrow, nodding. “Yeah, actually. Okay, brothers or sisters?” 

“Two sisters, one brother. I’m actually… I’m staying with my oldest sister right now. She goes to OSU, and… yeah, crashing on her couch, lap of luxury and all that.” Josh hides his self consciousness behind his bottle of Gatorade, chugging. 

“Not with your parents?” Tyler asks. 

It’s an innocent question, and one that Josh should have seen coming. He lets a moment of silence pass, and Tyler seems to pick up on his stalling, lifting his eyes to catch Josh’s. 

“Ehhh…” Josh says, the universal noise of can we not? Tyler echoes the noise—not a mimic, just an acknowledgement, shouldering some of the awkwardness that Josh feels. And yet, Tyler is unyielding; arm bent and elbow resting on the table, he beckons Josh with four fingers. 

“Come on. If we’re doing this, we’re doing this.” 

Fine, Josh thinks. Fine. 

“There isn’t actually much to tell. It’s just...complicated, I guess.” He pauses, and when it’s clear that Tyler is waiting for more, he goes on. “She’s a really good person. A good mom. And… she’s also a single mom with four kids. It’s not like she hasn’t supported this, my career, you know. It’s just that she’s always made it clear that she wasn’t going to fund my dreams at the expense of her other children.” 

“Hmm.” 

Tyler’s slight frown reads as pensive—not critical—so Josh goes on. He has to push through a clinging web of discomfort at the idea of laying out his life for an outsider to see, but for some reason, he does. Inexplicably, it feels worth it. 

“She’s a nurse, and like… she’s been taking overtime shifts for as long as I can remember. Our younger siblings are still in high school, so I’m not…” He breaks off, sighing. “I’m just not going to show up on her doorstep and be a burden again.”

He watches Tyler blow air out through his lips. “Alright,” he concedes. “So it’s complicated.” 

“It’s complicated,” Josh repeats. 

He peels back the plastic on a protein pack—almonds, raisins, and chocolate so dark it’s barely even sweet. At the front of the lobby, a gaggle of swim-campers filter out the doors, the swell of their conversation rising and falling again. 

“Don’t I get to ask questions?” Josh prods. 

Tyler sweeps a flat hand in front of him, as if to say you have the floor. Josh considers. He doesn’t know where to begin; anything other than the basics feels too risky. 

“Did you and your brother start diving because of your dad? He...he got injured diving in college, right?”

He watches Tyler tilt back slightly on the back legs of his chairs, and then lower himself slowly back to the ground. Tyler shakes his head, lips tugged down exaggeratedly. 

“Wasn’t even a question. We were in water as soon as we were old enough to hold our heads up on our own, and diving as soon as we could swim. It was never not going to be diving, in our household.”

Josh nods. “And you were homeschooled so you could fit in your training schedule?” 

“Okay,” Tyler interjects, “so far you’re just asking things you already know the answers to. Hit me with a question that isn’t covered on my Wikipedia page.” 

Josh feels his face redden, and busies himself with removing a miniscule piece of shell from the surface of his hard boiled egg. 

“Fine then,” he finally says, meeting Tyler’s eyes. “How come you don’t have an Olympic rings tattoo?” 

This, he can tell, is not what Tyler was expecting him to ask. 

“I haven’t earned it,” he says simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll get it when I earn it.” 

Josh blinks. “What—because you haven’t medaled?” 

Tyler inclines his head. 

“You still—I mean, plenty of people go and never even come close to medaling, right? Doesn’t mean you’re not still an Olympian.” 

“I only get tattoos that mean something,” Tyler shrugs. “When I earn the rings, I’ll get them. I don’t just want it to mean oh, I went to Rio; oh, I went to Tokyo. Where’s the meaning in that?” 

Amazed, Josh shakes his head. Hard work and self-discipline are not unfamiliar to him—but Tyler is another species entirely. 

This is backfiring, Paul, he thinks to himself . The more Josh learns about Tyler, the more questions he has. 

*

“Again,” says Paul, and then, “again.”

They dive again. 

They dive again. 

*

The next day, they don’t eat at the cafe tables. Tyler beckons Josh to follow him in the opposite direction; he’s expecting to be led to a lounge, a conference room—maybe even Paul’s office. 

What he doesn’t expect is a stairwell labeled roof access. 

“Are we going to the roof?” he asks. 

Tyler sniffs. “Hell no. I’m not trying to get sunburned, are you?” 

Josh supposes not. 

In the end, they stop just short of the door to the roof, on a wide landing. A large electrical box of some kind sits in the corner, and Tyler slides down into the space next to it. This is where Tyler eats every day, Josh realizes with a jolt—what test has he passed, what layer of trust reached, that Tyler is willing to share this place with him? 

This time, Josh has come prepared. 

“I thought of a question,” he tells Tyler, who is arranging tupperware containers on the electrical box. 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

Josh turns the words over in his mouth, trying to sound interested, but not overbearing. 

“Do you really feel like these Olympics are your last chance?” 

Immediately, Tyler stiffens, a piece of watermelon hovering on his fork.

“Why?” he says icily, “you thinking of quitting?”

“No, ” Josh backtracks, despite having been considering that very thing less than 48 hours before. “I just mean… like, 25 isn’t that old. Sorry, just—you’re acting like it’s this or nothing, but you’ll only be 29 for LA. It’s not… I mean it’s not geriatric.”

Tyler’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Spoken like an early-career diver.”

A door opens and closes a few levels down, footsteps echoing loudly as someone descends, unseen. Josh clings to the sound, wishing it would swallow up the silence longer.

“It’s less about running out of time,” Tyler finally says. 

Josh keeps stock still, quieting even the rustling of his lunch bag; getting vulnerability out of Tyler feels akin to approaching a deer in the forest: one wrong move, and it’s gone. 

Three speared pieces of watermelon later, Tyler speaks again. “It’s more, I guess, that I… I was given everything. I had the most privileged, supported upbringing an athlete could dream of. My family has spared nothing for my career. There’s just—there’s no reason that I shouldn’t have medaled by now.” 

Something inside Josh twinges, cracks a little. 

“Yeah, Tyler,” he says carefully, “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t really work like that.” 

Tyler huffs. “I mean, obviously I know that. But what’s the point of all that like… privilege, and effort, and support, if I can’t make something of it? I have no excuses, you know? Especially now that…” 

He trails off, and Josh tilts his head, listening. 

“There has to be some reason why he got injured, and I didn’t,” Tyler says quietly.

Tyler thumbs the cap off a Gatorade and tips his head back to sip it, averting his gaze. 

“I assume that if I say something about being too hard on yourself, you’re just gonna tell me there’s no such thing,” Josh says. 

 It earns him a snort. “Oh, I don’t know,” Tyler says. “At least I come by it honestly. My brother and I had it pretty much drilled into us from the beginning.” 

There’s more to say—Josh can tell there is. But he lets Tyler take his time, until words spill out like they were idling in his throat all along. 

“I guess you can say that all the… you know, financial support of our careers—it didn’t come free. The expectations from our parents were a little…” Tyler pauses, gnawing at his lip. “...hardcore. You know, like...you never skip training, even if you’re puking your guts up five minutes before. When we were younger, if we screwed up badly enough during practice, they’d barely speak to us that night. Obviously it’s not practical to make athletes skip dinner, but I guess that’s sort of what I imagine to be the equivalent.

“Jesus Christ,” says Josh. 

Tyler shrugs, “It got me where I am.”

“Yeah, but…” Josh begins. He doesn’t let himself say what he’s thinking: but did it have to? 

Abruptly, Tyler slaps flat palms on his crossed legs, and the somber mood falls away. 

“My turn,” Tyler announces. He assembles the mask so swiftly, so smoothly, that Josh doesn’t even catch the transformation. One moment, a painful vestige of his childhood self; the next, two-time Olympian. 

Josh lets him rattle off another question, and then another. Each time, Josh reaches into his gut, summoning all the courage he can muster, and answers with the truth. 

It’s nothing, but it’s all that he can offer. 

It’s nothing, but it’s the least he can do. 

*

Ashley forces a dinner with their mother. It goes as well as Josh can hope for. 

His younger siblings talk about their lives, their own sports; they don’t ask Josh about his career. He wonders if his mother has downplayed it, the reality of what he’s training for—or if she, herself, doesn’t understand. It hurts more than it should. 

Back on Ashley’s couch, Josh re-downloads Twitter, and finds the video again. As before, he lingers on the moment when the camera zooms to Tyler’s face. 

All this time, Josh thought Tyler’s face to be expressionless, cold. Now, he knows better. It’s a face he’s seen: anger, perfectly controlled; anger at the blood on Zack’s chin, anger at the strangers witnessing it, anger at everything this sport has taken from him, and what it was taking from his brother, right there, while the cameras looked on. 

He considers reporting the tweet, but there’s no option for haven’t these boys been through enough, no bubble he can select to implore the internet to let them grieve in peace. He settles for liking a few of the more encouraging, well-wishing replies, before deleting the app again. 

Ashley hovers in the hallway, brushing her teeth. 

“If you make the Olympics,” she says through toothpaste, “do I get to go to Paris with you?” 

“Do you have upwards of 1k for a plane ticket?” Josh says, snapping more than he meant to. 

His sister raises her eyebrows. “Christ.” 

“Yeah,” Josh agrees. 

Yeah. 

*

The thing is—it’s starting to work. 

It’s taken almost three weeks—both inside and outside of training—but finally, finally, they are beginning to move in sync. Finally, Josh is honing his newfound skill of peripheral sight, an extra sense that knows where Tyler is in space and time. 

They aren’t perfect by any means; they have two weeks left before Knoxville, and they need every bit of that time—but it’s a marked difference, and all of them can tell. Tyler, too, is giving more: over-emphasizing his breaths and movements, so that Josh can anticipate his next step before he takes it. Slowly, slowly, Tyler’s body is starting to feel like an extension of his own 

And maybe it’s this, the drug of sudden intimacy, that makes Josh say it. 

Maybe it’s the way Paul is finally starting to cheer when they surface, instead of snap, or maybe it’s the way that Tyler ducks his head and grins when Paul claps both of them on the shoulder after a good dive. 

Or maybe, it’s just that Josh is an idiot. 

He doesn’t know why he says it. But he does. 

It’s a joke, at first. They’re on the landing, stretched out, lunches long gone—Tyler flat on his back with his feet up on the electrical box, and Josh perched precariously in a lunge on the top few stairs. The stairwell rings with the sounds of their fading laughter at Tyler’s uncannily accurate impression of Paul’s deep rasp, calling out his perpetual pool-deck refrain— make me proud, boys. Make me proud. 

“Oh my god,” Josh effuses. “You are way, way too good at that.”

Tyler waves a dismissive hand in the air, straight above the him. “It’s natural, after this many years of dealing with his antics.” 

Josh switches legs, pressing into his lunge. From this angle, he can see parts of Tyler’s face that he never has before. Round cheeks; long, long eyelashes. 

“As if you don’t love every minute of it,” Josh says. 

The effect is instantaneous. 

“What?” Tyler says, frozen. 

Oblivious, Josh blunders on. “I just mean, you know… you don’t seem to mind if he’s a little flirty with you.” 

In slow motion, Tyler rights himself, feet coming to rest on the ground again. He’s facing Josh now, and he looks him in the eye. 

“Why would you say that?” 

Josh startles at the iciness of his tone. Something is wrong, drawing up all of Tyler’s defenses; and yet, Josh can tell that he’s really asking. 

“Oh,” Josh says. “I didn’t… I don’t know.”

Across from him, Tyler is motionless. Confidence ebbs out of Josh like the tide, replaced with a wave of embarrassment. 

“Tyler, I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. “It was a bad joke.” 

“Yeah I… yeah, it was.”

He fights off the urge to apologize again, wishing desperately to rewind the conversation. A minute, and then two minutes they sit there, nothing but each other’s silence for company. 

Finally, Tyler speaks. 

“It was never Paul.”

Josh’s heart sinks into his stomach. He knows Tyler’s face well enough by now to read the pain there, lurking behind the veil of his composure. 

“It wasn’t Paul,” Tyler says. “But it did happen.”

“Fuck,” Josh says, because there’s nothing else to say. There’s no need to ask what Tyler means. “When?”

“It was, uh, it was our coach in high school,” Tyler says. “It wasn’t as bad as you’re imagining. He didn’t do, like, anything that could be considered illegal. He didn’t even get fired. But lines…were crossed."

All at once, Josh is washed with the memory of Tyler’s strained voice in the locker room, on the day of their first fight. So it’s like that, Tyler said. And Josh didn’t know. He didn’t even know.  

“It was Paul, actually, who… pulled us out of that situation,” Tyler goes on, interspersing his words with measured breaths. “He was the one who saw what was going on. And he has never, for one second, treated us with anything except respect.”

He’s right, of course. It doesn’t take more than a moment’s recollection for Josh to see it—the way that Paul pushes him only as far as he knows he can take; the unspoken moments of fondness that pass between them. 

“We tease each other because things are easy between us—because there’s trust there,” he says. “Paul has earned that.”

“I know,” Josh hastens. “Sorry. I know.”

Locked on Josh’s, Tyler’s eyes are swimming, watery, but carefully balanced behind the precipice of lost control. When he speaks again, it’s with a pained determination.

“I’m not angry,” Tyler says. “Especially because I don’t know what kind of… like, if your relationship with your coach is complicated. I guess they always are.”

Even though he doesn’t say it, Josh can feel the implication of Tyler’s unspoken words, and their impact, like punches to his chest: fuck you for saying that; fuck him for doing that; fuck you for not being entirely wrong. 

Fury rises abruptly in Josh at the knowledge that this is yet another thing that diving has taken from Tyler. He’s furious at every Reddit asshole speculating about Tyler’s sexuality from behind their screens, about who he’s done what with, and when, and where. He’s furious at himself for wondering how much of it is true. 

He’s crumbling internally at the sight of Tyler in front of him, stoically driving the heels of his hands into his eyes just hard enough to curb the onslaught of tears, and he burns with the inability to say the right thing, to fix his blunders, to make it better. 

Josh was trying—foolishly—to broach the subject gently, over shared laughter; trying somehow to show Tyler that he knows what the rumors are, and he doesn’t care. 

Turns out, Josh doesn’t know anything. 

And yet—miraculously—it seems that he hasn’t yet run out of chances.

“Your turn,” Tyler says, a gentle laugh closing the seams around his vulnerability. 

“For what?” 

Tyler runs a hand through his hair slowly, eyes never leaving Josh. “Tell me something that matters,” he murmurs. “Tell me something scary.”

It’s a fair bargain, Josh thinks—and it’s fair for Tyler to know the full picture. 

“I’m not… I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to one up you with my coach sob-story.”

Immediately, Tyler’s face falls.

“No—“ Josh hurries, “it’s nothing like—it’s not what you’re thinking.” 

At least, he thinks it isn’t. Technically, it’s all online, searchable and easy to find—but he doubts Tyler has looked. 

“My coach,” Josh says, “he’s the only, like, proper coach I’ve had. He’s a little bit like a parent to me, I guess—and he got diagnosed with cancer last fall.” 

The burning injustice seeps through Josh all over again at the sound of the words out of his own mouth.  

“Oh,” Tyler says quietly. “God.”

“He’s doing alright,” Josh adds, reflexively trying to lighten the burden of responding to someone else’s pain. He’s prepared with the details—people always want the details—but Tyler doesn’t ask. 

Tyler opens his mouth to speak, seems to hesitate, and then starts again. 

“Is that why you haven’t competed so far this year?”

Tensing automatically, Josh tries not to let it show. “How do you know how long it’s been since I’ve competed?”

The expression that takes over Tyler’s face is complicated; knowing and curious at the same time. 

“Coaches talk,” Tyler says simply. 

Soberly, Josh thinks back to the version of Tyler that he created in his head prior to meeting him; the dispassionate, seasoned athlete, unknowable by design. What idea did Tyler conjure of Josh, before they began to train?

Did Josh prove him right, or wrong?

“Yeah. I guess they do.”

He feels Tyler’s eyes on him. “Is that why you skipped Worlds?” 

“Would you go to Worlds,” he asks plainly, “without Paul?” 

Tyler pauses to consider his answer. Josh has never met someone so comfortable with silence; so willing to take his quiet time gathering his thoughts. It’s the opposite of Josh’s anxious urge to fill every pause—and Josh doesn’t know why, but it’s oddly intoxicating. 

“Yes,” Tyler finally says. “I think I would.” 

And that’s the thing about him—Josh knows that he means it, completely. 

*

Ohio State Athletics | 6.13.24

Four from Men’s and Women’s Diving Heading to U.S. Olympic Team Trials

A total of four current, former, and visiting divers at The Ohio State University are scheduled to compete in the U.S. Olympic Diving Trials from June 16th-23rd in Knoxville, TN. The outcome of the event will determine the official roster of the U.S. Diving Team at the upcoming Paris Summer Olympics. 

The Buckeyes who will be competing for spots on the Olympic team include two current OSU athletes: sophomore Sara Eliot, and junior Aria Jansen, both competing in the individual Women’s Springboard event. 

Notably, Ohio State will also be represented by former OSU athlete Tyler Joseph [left], who will be competing in the Men’s Synchronized 10m Platform event alongside newcomer and visiting athlete Josh Dun [right]. A two-time Olympian, Joseph has represented Team USA in both the Rio [2016] and Tokyo [2021] Olympics, alongside younger brother and fellow Buckeye Zack Joseph, who is unable to compete due to an injury. 

It is unusual that pairs of synchronized divers are permitted to compete if their qualifying scores were not earned as a pair. Joseph’s coach, OSU’s Head of Diving Paul Meany, describes the petition process necessary for USA Diving to approve Joseph and Dun’s last-minute partnership as “convoluted, but worthwhile.” Meany, himself an Olympic silver medalist (Athens, 2004), has coached the Joseph brothers since they were 16 and 17 years old. 

Despite the age and experience gap between the new teammates, Joseph and Dun are well-matched, according to their coach. “It works out,” Meany reports; “Tyler has been doing this his whole life, so he gives the cues, and Josh has the talent and athleticism to follow his lead.” Dun, who had never competed as part of a synchronized team prior to working with Joseph, is a member of the University of Southern California’s men’s diving team. He is coached by USC’s Assistant Head of Diving Mark Hoppus, who is currently on medical leave. 

The Men’s Synchro Platform final (Joseph & Dun) is scheduled for Sunday, June 16th at 6 p.m. EST, while the Women’s Springboard final (Eliot, Jansen) is scheduled for Saturday, June 22nd at 6 p.m. EST. Joseph will also compete in the individual Men’s Platform event, the final for which takes place on Tuesday, June 18th, at 1:00 p.m. EST. 

*

Josh’s mom sends him a Facebook link to the article, along with a confetti emoji that somehow manages to drip with sarcasm.

Directly underneath the headline is the photo they posed for during training the previous week; it’s both of them—poised on the platform, backs to the water and arms raised. Pretend I’m not here, the photographer said, and it was easy; by now, Josh knows the routine: focus on Tyler. Nothing else exists. 

Without meaning to, Josh finds himself lingering on the photo. He’s surprised by how much they really do look like a team: same height, same size, same terse, focused expression. It feels somehow transgressive to zoom in on the strange geometry of Tyler’s tattoos, the negative space of the skin inside the lines, but Josh indulges anyway. It’s a high quality photo, and the camera doesn’t miss the water droplets clinging to Tyler’s skin, or the goosebumps on his shoulders. Josh looks good—strong—but Tyler looks like a god.

He skims the article again, saves the photo, and clicks off his phone. Conflicting thoughts inundate him—but there’s one above all the others that Josh can’t ignore: with this photo out there, with this article attaching his name to Tyler’s, it will just be that much worse if they fail. It will be impossible, now, for Josh to fade into the background if they don’t qualify—to disappear, a passing stranger, like he was never there. 

This is what he wants. 

And yet, there’s another thought, one that Josh doesn’t admit to himself; it lurks just out of sight, too dangerous to feel in full force. 

He wants to qualify.

He wants to win. 

*

The university-provided athletics van that Paul manages to acquire is spacious enough to fit the three of them, plus Michael and their gear, for the five-hour drive to Knoxville. The two other OSU divers, Paul explains, are driving with their families, and Tyler’s parents will be driving down separately for each of his events. 

Josh doesn’t bother asking whether there’s room for Ashley; even if there is, even if she wants to go, there’s little chance of her being able to take the time off work. Nevertheless, a sticky note greets Josh on the fridge that morning: 

6/16 - J&T

Prelim -10 AM

Final - 6 PM

NBC

He swallows down emotion, and opens the fridge door. 

With stops, the five hour and fifteen-minute drive becomes closer to six. The cloying heat of Kentucky summer rushes into the van the moment Paul opens the door, slipping from the driver’s seat and leaning down to pop the gas cap. Michael makes his way into the rest stop’s small market for trainer-approved snacks, leaving the two divers in the car alone—Josh in the backseat, and Tyler catty-corner in the front. 

“I have something for you,” Tyler says, once Michael is out of earshot. He digs in his backpack at his feet, emerging with a large padded shipping envelope.

Josh leans forward, seatbelt straining against his chest. 

“You do?” 

“Yeah,” Tyler says quietly, unbuckling his own seatbelt and turning to face Josh. “Think of it as, like, an early birthday gift. It’s nothing big.” 

He withdraws a plastic cylinder from the envelope, and Josh knows what it is before Tyler hands it to him. He’s never really understood the attachment some divers have to their shammies, usually opting for whichever of his is cleanest at any given time—but based on the threadbare towel he’s seen Tyler with at nearly every training session for the last few weeks, Josh is guessing that he’s the type to take this sort of thing seriously. 

Tyler hands the first cylinder to Josh, pulling out a second. “One for me, too. My old one matched with Zack, so… yeah.” 

Josh can tell without opening the plastic that they match—dark blue fabric, swirled with a white tie-dye pattern. 

He swallows. He’s taken aback, but he doesn’t want to show it. 

“Thank you,” Josh says. “I totally get that—why you wouldn’t want to use your favorite one, when you aren’t diving with your brother.” 

Tyler’s expression shifts to surprise, and then something like hurt. It’s there for only a moment, flashing away in the next, but not before Josh registers it. 

“I—that’s not it,” Tyler says. “They’re for… you know. Us.” 

And Josh understands now. It’s an olive branch; an acknowledgement, at last, that their partnership is real. It stirs something heavy in Josh, and he opens his mouth to tell Tyler so—but he’s interrupted by Paul opening the door and reinstalling himself behind the wheel. 

“Can we blast the air again?” Tyler murmurs, fumbling to re-buckle his seatbelt and slipping the shammy back into his bag in the process. Paul obliges. 

In the back seat, cool air ghosts over Josh’s shins, and a shiver runs up his spine. 

“Tyler,” he says quietly, catching the other boy’s attention. “Thank you.” 

Tyler doesn’t turn around. “It’s nothing.”

It is something, though. 

It is. 

*

At first, Josh was worried about the logistics of the hotel, having never shared a room at competitions with anyone except Hoppus. To his relief though, Tyler volunteered to room with him without a second thought; it was no secret to him that Josh was relatively low on funds, so he was grateful that Tyler made it simple: yes, of course, they would share. 

In the long hallway, Paul divides up the keycards: himself and Michael in one room, Tyler and Josh across the hall. While Josh holds open the door, Tyler hefts his luggage over the threshold—a large roller bag, and an even larger duffle.

“Jesus,” Josh teases, and Tyler huffs. 

“Some of us have to be here for the entire freaking trials.”

Tyler dumps his duffel onto the bed closer to the window; only after Josh has flopped onto the other one does he realize they’ve instinctively taken the same sides as they do on the platform—Tyler on the left, Josh on the right. 

In an hour, they’ll make their way to the aquatics center for training, no time wasted in the pursuit of high scores. For now though, Josh allows himself the luxury of stretching out across the bed, reaching each of his limbs to its four corners. It’s been so long since he’s slept anywhere other than Ashley’s couch, and he’s almost forgotten what it’s like to have enough space. When it’s time to leave, Josh has to pull himself back from the brink of sleep. 

Walking up to the aquatics building sends a twinge of anxiety through Josh, but he pushes it away. He was avoiding the nagging worry, deep down, that seeing this place again would be too strange for him to bear. The last time Josh stepped through these doors, he was leaving—head held in shame, certain he was done competing; utterly, utterly alone. 

This time, though, he isn’t. Walking in, flanked by the rest of the group, Josh feels like part of a team—like he belongs, his presence here more than just a fluke. After all this time, he’s starting to feel like less of an imposter. 

And once they actually start to train, the cloying film of memory starts to fall away. In the end, every training room, every diving well, looks essentially the same; the only thing to differentiate it from everywhere else Josh has ever trained or competed is being here with Tyler. He lets himself focus on that. 

The hallways are a different story. Unlike the relative summertime quiet of the OSU campus, the building is abuzz with activity—athletes, coaches, and trainers around every corner. It seems like every male diver Josh encounters sizes him up from head to toe, whether he’s in a speedo or fully clothed. 

They are, after all, the competition. 

Josh isn’t immune either. Every moment of training he catches, every dive combination he hears spoken in passing, gets run through his own mental statistics— is it enough to beat us? One thing is abundantly clear: the program that Paul’s had them training for is hard. Each degree of difficulty, if executed, will give them an edge; it will also give them that many more opportunities to fuck up. 

As they inch closer to their event, worry creeps in at the seams of Josh’s consciousness, stealing his focus, and adding weight to the pressure that already threatens to drag him underwater. If they don’t make it—and objectively, the odds favor that outcome—where does he go from there? Back to Ashley’s couch, and a job in the real world? Back to USC to train alone? Either likelihood ends in the reality that Josh will probably never dive with Tyler again. 

It’s starting to come back to him—why he never did synchro before. Not because it’s more difficult, not even because he was too stubborn to slow down for another diver. The real reason is sobering in its simplicity: on his own, the only diver Josh can fuck over is himself. Synchro, on the other hand, demands that he dive for the sake of someone else—his success their success, his failures theirs too. 

In synchro, there’s always someone to let down. 

Five weeks ago, Paris wasn’t something Josh could have conceived of in a million years. He could miss out on qualifying, and return to his old life virtually unscathed. 

Tyler, though…

We have to do it, Josh thinks. We’re going to do it. 

*

It hasn’t happened to him in a long time. But when it does, it always starts the same way. One moment, Josh is asleep in the hotel bed, adrift in dreamless oblivion. And then, in the next, he’s not. 

He doesn’t just wake up—he’s wrenched from sleep, plunged into a pool of his own sweat, hands shaking and ears ringing. By the time he’s conscious enough to tell his body what to do, he’s already several breaths behind; every gasp for air tightens the vice in his chest, squeezing him until he can’t think, can’t think, can’t stop thinking—

Stumbling, Josh hauls himself into the bathroom and closes the door without flipping on the light. He reaches for the tap, thrusting his wrists into the flow of water, but it’s tepid—nowhere near cold enough to shock his system. He needs to dive into freezing water, right now. He needs to never dive again.

Josh sinks to the ground, leaning on the cool porcelain side of the bathtub and closing his eyes. Don’t throw up, he tells himself. Breathe—just breathe first, and everything else after that. 

It isn’t working. His chest is on fire, and he can’t do this, he can’t do this—

And then, just as he thinks it can’t get any worse, it does; because here’s Tyler, fingertips cautiously prying open the sliding door, tired eyes landing on Josh’s huddled form. There’s a moment, a collection of choked breaths, where Tyler doesn’t move—just stands there in his boxers, calculating, with furrowed eyebrows. Maybe it’s his eyes adjusting to the dark, or just his brain catching up, but something seems to register with Tyler all at once, and he’s in action, crouching down next to Josh and placing a flat hand on his sternum. 

“We’re going to breathe,” he says. It’s not a command—just a statement of fact, pure and simple. “You’re going to—when you inhale, you’re going to try and make my hand move. Okay, ready?” 

Josh tries to breathe. It’s shallow, short, and Tyler’s hand stays in place. 

“Again.” 

“Tyler, I—” his own choked breath cuts him off, heart pounding in his ears. 

“Shh. Here…” Tyler moves to face him, sitting back against the closed cabinets of the vanity. “Match my breathing. Can you do that, Josh? Breathe at the same time as me?” 

Josh nods. 

The sound of Tyler’s breath is a familiar comfort. Eyes squeezed shut, Josh wills his lungs to fall into step: the hissing inhale through his nose, the barely perceptible click of his mouth opening, the whoosh of air through his parted lips. Josh’s own breath is imperfect, hitching and gasping—but Tyler is patient. This close, Josh can feel the flutter of his breath on his chin. 

“Again,” Tyler whispers. 

Josh’s next breath hitches a little less than the one before, and Tyler tells him “again,” and “again,” until they’re perfectly in sync. It’s enough for Josh’s body, if not his mind; the latter is still reeling with the general terror that tore him from sleep, and now, with the fresh layer of panic that Tyler has seen him so entirely undone. 

When he opens his eyes again, Tyler is staring at him, head cocked 

“Zack used to get them,” he says, answering a question that Josh didn’t ask. “Do you have something you—take, or…?”

“My backpack, uh—the smallest… smallest pocket,” Josh manages, punctuated by careful breaths. 

Tyler moves quickly, back in seconds with two orange bottles, which he holds over the sink to read in the scant illumination of the built-in nightlight. 

“Citalopram,” he pronounces, “or—or al… al-praz…” 

“That one.” 

Carefully, Tyler unwraps a disposable cup from the two stacked on the sink, and fills it with water. He hands first the cup to Josh, and then the tiny orange pill, cradled in the line of his upturned palm. 

Josh usually swallows it dry, but he’s so taken aback by the sincerity of the gesture that he doesn’t say so. He sips the water, and swallows. He expects Tyler to leave, his job here finished—but to Josh’s surprise, he sinks back down, replacing himself across from Josh on the cold tile of the floor. 

It’s dim in the bathroom, the darkness broken only by the fluorescent glow of the nightlight, but Josh’s eyes are beginning to adjust. On his bare chest, Tyler’s tattoos stand out from his skin, stark and black.

“This just happens sometimes,” Josh says.

“Okay.” 

“I’ll be… you know, fine for tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

The silence that stretches out between them is loaded, and Josh sees it for what it is—an invitation. 

Tell me something scary.

Josh takes a long, tripping breath. 

“You asked why I skipped worlds,” he begins.

Tyler nods in acknowledgement. 

“It wasn’t just because of the stuff with my coach. I did… I did work with a different coach through a few competitions, after Hoppus got sick. There wasn’t anything wrong with her, you know, just—I don’t know,” he breaks off.

“Not a good fit?” Tyler says, and then, “sorry, I don’t… I’m not trying to put words in your mouth. I’ll be quiet.” 

“No, it’s—yeah,” Josh agrees. “Not really a good fit, I guess. It feels stupid saying this, but she was like…rough? Not that it’s bad to be a hard-ass, but she was, like, unforgiving in a way that Hoppus never was.”

Josh shifts, adjusting the press of his back against the cold side of the bathtub. Tyler stretches out a leg, his ankle brushing against Josh’s calf in the process, sending an unnerving tickle down his spine. 

“Maybe this makes me a bad athlete,” he forces himself to go on, “but I have to believe we deserve to be seen as more than just bodies who can do tricks. Like… I’m not just a sack of muscles. I don’t know.” 

“No, I get it,” says Tyler. “I know what you mean.” 

Josh is still holding the water cup between his hands; he fiddles with it, restless. Even after all their lunches, it feels strange to unveil himself like this—to tell Tyler things he hasn’t even talked to Ashley about—not really, anyway.

“Anyway, it started getting to the point where, just… every time I would get up on the platform, I’d start to panic. Not like—like this,” he breaks off, gesturing vaguely to the space around them.

“But bad,” Tyler supplies 

Josh thinks of the terror, can feel the memory of its grip on him; how it clouded his vision, amplifying his heartbeat until he couldn’t hear anything else, until the ten meter drop felt like a skyscraper, a cliff dive—how certain he was that he would plummet to his death if he took another step. 

“Bad,” he agrees. “And for a while, I just pushed through it. But we get to Winters, and I get all the way up there for my first dive, and I just—I can’t.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, and Tyler doesn’t ask.

“So I go back down, and I tell her—my coach, you know, that I can’t do it—and the look on her face…I just decided right then that I couldn’t take seeing that kind of disappointment again.” 

Tyler’s face, dimly lit, is complicated. 

“So you stopped,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Josh agrees. “Or, like, stopped competing—I never stopped training. I got on better meds, and then Hoppus tells me about you, and the next thing I know—yeah. And I’m better now, or…or getting there. I really think I am.” 

There’s half an inch of water left in the paper cup, and Josh drinks it, just to have something to do with his mouth. 

“Wait,” Tyler says slowly. “Winters? This past year?” 

Josh nods. 

“So you were like…”

“Here,” Josh confirms, pointing in the general direction of downtown. He laughs humorlessly, shaking his head. “Yep. In Knoxville. I know, it… it must really inspire confidence that the last time I tried to dive here, I didn’t even make it off the platform. Go me,” he adds, raising a sarcastic fist in the air. 

Outside, in the room, Josh hears the AC kick back in. Tyler’s calf knocks against his again—too deliberate to be passed off as unintentional. 

“Zack wanted to quit,” Tyler says out of thin air. 

Josh blinks at him. “He… wanted to—”

“Before the injury,” Tyler cuts in. “He told me, in Indianapolis, the day before the competition. If we didn’t make it to Paris this year, he was going to be done.” 

There’s no vitriol in his voice, no anger. Josh understands; in the wake of Josh’s panic, Tyler is simply evening the exchange of vulnerability—a secret for a secret. 

“He was?” 

Tyler nods briskly, pulling the side of his lip between his teeth. “Yeah. You probably wouldn’t know it from looking at us, but it’s just never been as big of a deal for him.”

“You had no plan B,” Josh says. He unrolls and rerolls the sodden lip of the paper cup between his fingers. “I get that.” 

“Right. So he tells me this, and it… I mean, it basically leads to the biggest fight we’ve ever had. Some of the horrible things I said to him, I don’t…” Tyler breaks off, flicking his eyes to Josh’s and then away. “I’m not saying I feel responsible for what happened. But regardless of how he ends up recovering from this, he… he’s done.” 

Josh watches his ribcage rise and fall with a long, broken breath. 

“He wants a real life, and I…I don’t even remember a time before this was all I wanted. I don’t know who the fuck I am without diving.” 

It’s the first time he’s ever heard Tyler swear. 

Josh nudges Tyler’s calf with his own. “I don’t know who the fuck I am with diving.” 

Against all odds, it earns him just the slightest hint of laughter—lips turned up at the corners, a rush of air through Tyler’s nose. 

How many synchro pairs must there be in this hotel right now, spread out through its floors? How much history, Josh wonders, lurks behind each and every dive, that the rest of the world will never know?

“I do,” Tyler says. 

It takes Josh a second to catch up. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

The paper cup falls apart in Josh’s hands, lifeless. 

“Who, then?”

Tyler grins, and stands, reaching a hand down to pull Josh up with him. 

“My partner.” 

*

For the first time in his recent memory, Josh wakes up to sunlight, instead of to an alarm. Reality catches up to him through the fog, and Josh scrambles for his phone to check the time—

“Relax,” Tyler says, peering around the corner from the bathroom, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. “I texted Paul before we went back to sleep. We’re due in the lobby by 9:15.”

Josh lets himself fall back onto the pillows, boneless at the simple act of kindness. 

“I told him you had food poisoning,” he hears Tyler call, followed by the sound of toothpaste being spat into the sink—”so do your best to look mildly nauseous.” 

That, Josh thinks, should not be difficult. 

In the car, Josh endures only a mild lecture from Paul about his nonexistent food poisoning before Tyler manages to pull his attention away with talk of their competitors—where they train, their medal history, whether Tyler will be up against them in individuals too. 

“It’s Geraghty and Acord who are really going to be the ones to watch,” Paul recites, thumbing up and down through a note on his phone at a stoplight. “I don’t know how Minnesota keeps churning out this caliber of athletes, but somehow they do. Senner and Calmes… ah, I wouldn’t worry about them too much. No way they’re going to attempt anything over a 3.2, 3.3.” 

Josh tries to tune Paul out, staring out the backseat window. He recognizes some of the names from other competitions, but he doesn’t let himself think too hard, or attach faces to them; if he stands a chance of keeping his anxiety at bay, he’s got to laser focus on himself and Tyler—nothing and no one else. 

Nevertheless, when his phone buzzes, he looks down at it. 

It’s from Hoppus. 

Blow them away, kid.

Josh squeezes his phone in his fist for the rest of the ride.

*

There’s a word, one word, that follows them around the building. 

Josh can tell that Paul is trying to keep it away from them, and he understands why. Everyone wants to be the best; nobody wants to be the favorite. The word dangles a crushing weight inches above Josh’s chest, and every dive threatens to cut the rope.

It’s a cycle: climb to the top of the tower; dive; wait for scores; shower; hot tub; climb the stairs again. Between each dive, Paul inundates them with feedback that Josh can barely take in through the ringing in his ears. They’re doing pretty well—he knows they are—but each round of 7.5s and 8s slacken the rope a little bit more, lowering the weight. 

Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun, favorites for the top spot. 

Josh has a bad habit of imagining the commentators’ voices in his head as he dives. He always has, ever since he entered the strange universe of televised sporting events, finding it impossible to know that his every action would be broadcast and discussed, without imagining what would be said.

See how Dun is just behind Joseph on the entry, lagging a little behind into the water?

It’s a surprising move, pairing an Olympic veteran like Joseph with a relatively new diver; you have to wonder what was behind that decision. 

Look at the way his arms shake in the air. Look at his heart beating out of his chest. Doesn’t he know we can see it all? Doesn’t he know that Joseph’s chance at Paris depends on him? Doesn’t he? 

Paul plays each dive back for them on his iPad while they wait for their scores, telling them to straighten their legs in their pike, to come out of their rotation sooner. 

“It’s the wildest thing though,” Paul shakes his head and says. “Even your mistakes are in sync. They can’t dock you there—they just can’t!” 

In the end, they finish the preliminary round in second place. 

It’s a good second place though; the margin is small, and their errors are fixable. The first of the two easier opening dives is rushed with nerves, sending them each flying a little past vertical—but the real behemoth is the second to last dive in their program. On paper, their final dive is the hardest; but this one, with its 2 ½ twists and 2 ½ somersaults, is the most difficult to perform in total synchronization. 

They’ve pulled it off in training, more often than not in the last few days—but it’s the one they miss the most often, by far, and it’s the one they miss today. 

After, in the training room, Michael takes turns unwrapping first Josh’s tape, and then Tyler’s. Paul paces at the foot of their tables, unpacking each dive in an unending monologue. 

“You really did do very well,” he emphasizes, Michael nodding his agreement as he stretches Tyler’s hamstrings. Nevertheless, Josh doesn’t miss the pained frustration in Tyler’s eyes. He knows he’s thinking about the twister.

Out of solidarity, Josh shrugs in response. “Mostly.” 

Paul stills his pacing. “No, no—listen to me, you shits. You are perfectly capable of making up the—what, nine and a half points? Cut the self-deprecation—you are very well situated.”

Tyler snorts at the name-calling, but it seems to draw him out of his stupor a little bit. Not for the first time, it hits Josh just how well Paul knows Tyler, and he feels a surge of gratitude toward the coach for stepping back and letting Josh get to know him on his own terms. There’s so much more to this dynamic than Josh realized when he walked into that locker room for the first time; such careful balance.

“Make me proud,” Paul says. “Make me proud.” 

*

For the finals that evening, Tyler’s family is seated much closer to them than they were during prelims. Josh can see them from the pool deck, can hear their cheers rising up each time Tyler’s name is announced. They’re holding a string of signs with bold black letters, and it’s only when the jumbotron flashes to their section that Josh can see the words in their entirety: Go Tyler and Josh! 

The Josh! sign is crooked, wobbling tenuously in the hands of Tyler’s teenage brother—but it’s there. It’s there.

Their first two dives go off without a hitch. 

On the third, Tyler’s footing wavers just slightly, and Josh is certain they’ll lose points—but the judges seem to overlook it, another round of strong scores rolling in. 

On the fourth, they nail their entry better than they ever have coming out of a tuck, slicing through the water and earning 8s and 8.5s for their efforts. 

They go into the fifth round with a sizable lead. Josh can see the mental calculations going on in Paul’s head—who needs to miss, and on which dive, for them to retain their lead. It’s a comfortable one—a full thirteen points ahead of Geraghty and Acord—but Josh knows how quickly it could slip away if they miss this one again.

As high as the climb up the tower feels, the stakes feel even higher. On autopilot, Josh takes his place next to Tyler at the edge of the platform—backs to the water, arms raised.

“Ready?” Tyler says. It’s a routine, a necessity—checking that they’re both ready to dive, before counting them down—but through the cotton in Josh’s head, Tyler’s voice sounds far away.

Josh can feel the heat of every single spectator’s eyes on them, waiting to watch them plummet. He’s outside of himself, away from his senses—

And then, just barely, he feels the tips of Tyler’s fingers graze his own where they’re held aloft, and it snaps Josh back into himself like a live wire. He knows where he is. He’s next to Tyler. He can hear his voice from last night, grounding him— breathe at the same time as me. Can you do that, Josh?

“Ready,” he says. 

In his periphery, Josh watches Tyler’s shoulders sink down, his ribs deflating, ready to fill with air on his next breath. He lets his own lungs fall into rhythm, gasping the same burst of humid air. 

And then, they’re diving. Their knees bend like springs coiled by the same invisible force, bursting up together, as if they are the same person split between two bodies. Josh forces his arms around torso, forces his eyes to stay open, spotting the platform, the water, and Tyler, Tyler, Tyler. 

Their hands pierce the surface at the exact same time. 

If someone asked Josh what his favorite moment of a dive is, he’d tell them this: those first few moments underwater, when all sound is sucked away; the blissful minute where there’s nothing in the universe except the water rushing past him and the air in his lungs. 

Josh takes his time, relishing the last few moments in the liminal realm of the pool. As long as he’s underwater, he can remain in blissful ignorance; if he’s ruined everything, he doesn’t yet know. 

But it can’t last forever; his body betrays him, buoyed to the surface.

The first thing that hits him is the sound of the crowd—the tail end of applause. Paul’s whooping voice reaches him next, and then, last of all, Tyler’s splitting smile. 

“Yes,” Paul is saying when they reach him, his teeth bared in a snarling grin. He pulls both of them into a crushing hug, strong enough to dissolve the last of the weight in Josh’s chest. A ripple of voices rises around them, and in tandem, all three of them whip their heads to the screen displaying their scores.

9s—two of them—mixed into the 7.5s and 8s. Compounded with the degree of difficulty, it’s huge—more than the team below them could possibly hope to make up, unless Josh and Tyler completely miss their last dive. 

And maybe it’s the confidence of nailing the twister, maybe it’s the sheer joy of finally admitting how much they want this, how close this is, if they can only reach out their arm and fly through the air and take it—but they don’t miss. They don’t. 

They have to hold their breath and wait for two more dives from teams who couldn’t pass them even with perfect scores, and it feels like an eternity; but then it’s happening: the announcement comes through the loudspeaker, and it’s official, Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun will be representing the U.S. on the Paris 2024 Olympic Diving Team. 

Instinct drives Josh toward Tyler, but he holds back, tentative. 

Tyler doesn’t. He yanks Josh into him. With wet chests pressed together, he can feel Tyler’s heart racing against his ribs. Inexplicably, it sends a chill down Josh’s spine. 

He’s grateful that Tyler pulls away first; he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but Josh wasn’t sure if he’d be able to let go. 

Snippets of the announcer’s voice reach Josh through the chaos of cameras and voices—he hears the words “partner, Josh Dun,” and “first Olympics…" and as chlorine dries on Josh’s skin, reality catches up with him: 

It isn’t over. It’s just beginning. 

*

Back in Columbus, Josh and Ashley turn on NBC and watch in real time as Tyler misses out on individual qualification by just shy of four points. 

“Fuck,” Ashley says. When Josh doesn’t respond, she mutes the commentators and turns to him. “I mean, that’s a bad thing, right?” 

Josh chews at his upper lip. It’s a bad thing—of course it is. He should be hurting for Tyler, feeling the sting of failure like it’s his own. 

So why isn’t he? 

“Ohh, I get it,” Ashley goads, reaching out to poke Josh’s thigh with a socked foot. “You get mister fancy-pants Olympian’s undivided attention, now. No more solo events, so he’s all yours.” 

She stretches out the last few words, prodding him now with both feet. 

“What ever,” Josh shoots back, tossing her off of him and standing up, feigning nonchalance. Inside, though, his thoughts are churning. 

“Hey,” Ashley calls after him. “For what it’s worth, you two make a good team.” 

Josh pauses in the hall.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “we do.” 

* 

There’s a giant white drop cloth stretched over a bay of lockers on Josh’s first day back at the aquatics center. 

WELCOME HOME OLYMPIANS TYLER AND JOSH! 

“Oh my god,” he says out loud, grinning in spite of himself.

Mark ducks his head out of the training room, Michael following close behind.

“Do you like it?” the latter says, beaming, and then pointing an accusatory finger at Mark. “It was his idea.” 

Mark scoffs. “Lies.” 

Regardless, it’s clear that the swimming and diving camp kids have had some hand in the banner, which is festooned with badly-drawn gold, silver, and bronze medals, alongside crude stick figures of what Josh guesses are supposed to be him and Tyler. 

“Which one is me?” Josh asks, gesturing between the stick figures, one of which is weirdly elongated, and the other of which has giant pink eyelashes. 

“The pretty one, obviously,” Mark says, pointing to the one with the eyelashes. Josh swats at him. 

This is friendship, Josh realizes. He has friends. It’s been so long since he could really properly say that about someone who wasn’t either related to him or paid to coach him, that it happened without him noticing. 

Josh takes a picture of the banner and texts it to Tyler. The action is so immediate, so obvious, and Josh can’t help but think it: 

This is friendship, too. 

*

Training is different this time around. With Tyler no longer putting in time for his solo dives, their afternoon blocks stretch longer. Sometimes, it’s dark by the time Josh bikes home, and he relishes the whip of the evening breeze on his still pool-damp skin. 

Paul doesn’t tell them to spend their breaks together, but they do it anyway, stretching out in the stairwell long past when their food is gone. Maybe it’s the panic attack that has melted away the last of the tense reluctance between them—maybe it’s the hug. Or maybe it’s just something about qualifying, about actually doing it, forcing them to accept the incontrovertible fact that yes—they are a good team. 

At the same time though, the specter of Paris looms large over the aquatic center every day. 

It’s a word spoken in excited, hushed tones as huddles of staff pass him and Tyler in the hallway. 

It’s the mountain of paperwork that Paul guides him through, the applications and travel stipend requests to USA Diving and USOPC—familiar to Tyler, but a world of confusion for Josh. 

It’s the flurry of phone calls and social media buzz when Paul is officially announced as the assistant coach to the USA diving team for Paris 2024; the flash of quiet pride that Josh doesn’t miss in Tyler’s eyes.

It’s also the things that stay unspoken. There’s no two ways about it—it’s going to be a steep climb to the podium this year. As always, China is virtually unbeatable—and with Britain’s veteran team favored for silver, Josh understands that the real fight will be for Bronze. No one mentions that Zack and Tyler fell just short of third place in both Rio and Tokyo. No one needs to. 

New to their routine is the omnipresence of Jenna, an absurdly pretty blonde woman who, despite not looking much older than Tyler himself, Paul identifies to Josh as Tyler’s media manager. Friend of the family, Paul explains—but Josh learns quickly that this can’t be the only reason for her position. Jenna is good.

She crops up at a morning training, there for a few minutes—and by evening, Josh is stumbling into their own faces on his Instagram feed, smiling into the camera for a reel he doesn’t even remember her taking. The comments are filled with praise for their performance at the trials—some of them referencing Josh specifically— some of them, to his surprise, nothing more than badly concealed thirsting. 

One day, Josh learns from Mark that he has a Wikipedia page. It’s short—Josh reads it on a bench in the locker room, in its brief entirety. He clicks on the linked name Tyler Joseph, and then on his own blue underlined name on Tyler’s page, back and forth until he believes it’s real. There it is, their partnership, written indelibly into code. 

A week before they’re scheduled to leave for acclimation camp, Paul and Jenna materialize in the training room with an armful of plastic-wrapped packages split between them: speedos, half a dozen of them, branded with the Team USA insignia. 

Back and forth from the locker room, they change into one after another—Jenna concerned with color, and Paul with fit. Jenna lands on plain navy—something about skin tones—but Josh barely hears her, because Tyler, brusque and businesslike about the whole matter, is taking the question of fit very seriously. 

It’s not that Josh is trying to look. In fact, he’s trying to do the opposite. But here’s Tyler, testing out each new size for its ability to hold up to a series of squats, jumps, and standing pikes. 

Half-heartedly, Josh makes a feeble effort at mirroring his motions. He knows the main concern is whether speedo is tight enough to keep his junk in place; regrettably, at that particular moment, there are some other variables at play in that department. Josh needs to think about something, anything else—and fast.

“How’s that fit?” Paul asks the both of them, and Tyler straightens, twisting side to side.

“Good.” 

It’s not as if they haven’t glimpsed each other’s dicks countless times over the past six weeks—this shouldn’t be any different. 

It shouldn’t be making heat rise to Josh’s neck.

Paul turns to him. “You need to go one size smaller, I think. Little too loose on the hips there.”

Josh swallows. “Okay.” 

He lets his gaze drift back to Tyler, but Jenna intercepts it, and he quickly looks away. When he next catches her eye, she’s smiling—just a little—one eyebrow raised. Shut up, Josh thinks, shut up, shut up. 

Snatching the next size down, he flees through the locker room door. 

*

Josh’s mom lends him a second suitcase. On the sidewalk outside of Ashley’s apartment, she pulls Josh down and hugs him tight. When he straightens up, her eyes are watering, and Josh knows that he should feel something other than a detached sort of pain—but he doesn’t. 

Upstairs, his sister tells him things he doesn’t want to know. 

“Abbie says she asked mom if you were going to win a medal, and mom said the chances were low. The chances were low.” She stomps through the living room, holding up Josh’s possessions that have spread out through the apartment over the summer. “Like… a ringing fucking endorsement of her older brother.” 

“Thanks,” Josh says. He accepts a bottle of multivitamins from her, and tucks it into his suitcase. “I’m so glad I know that.” 

Ashley sighs. 

By evening, a cluster of luggage stands guard by the door, ready for his 4AM alarm to go off. In 24 hours, Josh will be in Berlin, adjusting to the time difference and training for the biggest competition of his life. 

A step into the unknown—and none of it feels real. 

*

Berlin is a blur of jetlag and new people. 

Everyone seems to know Tyler, and Tyler seems to know everyone. Josh knows names, faces, but he’s barely spoken to any of these people before. He doesn’t need to worry though; Tyler’s voice is a broken record everywhere they go:

This is Josh, my synchro partner. 

This is my partner. 

This is Josh.

Rationally, Josh knew that there would be seven other divers on the U.S. team splitting Paul’s time and energy, and countless other trainers and coaches’ names to remember—but being so suddenly surrounded by strangers is disorienting, adding to the haze of all-day training. 

The only time Josh feels like himself is when it’s just him and Tyler, alone in the hotel. They don’t speak much, exhausted as they are; yet even lying there in their own beds, letting their aching muscles settle and sleeping at odd hours to acclimate to Paris time, is a strange comfort. It’s the closest thing to normal that Josh has right now. 

Other things, though, are decidedly not normal. 

More and more often, Josh finds himself startling to attention and realizing that he’s been… staring. Some subconscious part of him is captivated by the sight of Tyler stretching, or working out, or pulling himself out of the pit after dryland dives, his quads and biceps straining; of the shape his lips form right before he jumps. 

There isn’t any time to think, let alone to process what any of this might mean; he files it away as something for future Josh to worry about. Present Josh needs to dive. Present Josh needs to keep Tyler and his muscles in the outskirts of his vision, where they belong.

*

After the exhaustion of their first long-haul trip, the flight from Berlin to Paris passes like nothing. It’s a small plane, two seats to a side, and Tyler lets Josh have the window, pointing over him at the patchwork of farmland rolling by beneath the wing. 

Despite the seatbelt sign, Paul turns around to kneel on the seat in front of them, camera angled at Josh and Tyler’s faces. 

“C’mon,” he says. “Lean in—Jenna’s request.” 

Tyler hesitates, and Josh thinks he’s going to protest—but then there’s a tight arm around his shoulders and Josh doesn’t even have time to remember to smile before Paul’s pressing a finger to his screen, and Tyler’s pulling away again. 

“Well she’s going to eat that right up,” Paul laughs, turning and settling back down into his own row. 

Josh dares to glance toward Tyler, but he’s pointedly buried in his phone, scrolling through his Instagram comments and replying to a few here and there. Josh lets himself stare freely, still buzzing with the ghostly weight of Tyler’s arm around him, suddenly there, and then gone. 

It’s heady. It’s strange. He’ll worry about it later.

Clearly, the pilot has some sense of how many Olympians the plane is carrying, making an announcement over the speakers as they cross over the Rhine, and into France. A muted cheer goes up in the seats around them, and Josh puts on a grin, but beneath it, something is constricting around his innards.

There’s no more preparation—no more training for. The Olympics aren’t something that feels like it might still not happen somehow; they’re here, and there’s no going back. They’re diving, whether they’re good enough or not.

“Not a turbulence fan?” 

Josh startles, blinks, realizing how hard he’s been white-knuckling the arm rest between them. The slight jostling of the plane is the last thing on Josh’s mind, and he has a feeling that Tyler knows as much. 

“I, uh…” he says weakly. “Yeah.” 

Tyler nods, and for a moment there’s nothing except the roar of the engines as they cut through the sky. 

“Tokyo had these insane breakfast pastries,” Tyler says out of nowhere. Josh looks at him quizzically, and Tyler goes on. “And in Rio, they’d make you pretty much any kind of fresh fruit juice you wanted. There was a whole station in the dining hall—like literally any fruit, they had it.” 

Josh knows what he’s doing, but he lets it happen, follows the sound of Tyler’s voice into the distraction he needs. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Oh—and ’ve told you about the scooters, right? How in Tokyo they had all these little electric scooters everywhere?”

Josh shakes his head.  

“Yeah, they did—you could ride around the village so fast that way. They’re such a thing now, I’d be surprised if Paris doesn’t have them. Some people’s coaches don’t let them, in case they fall or whatever, but Paul trusts us. Platform perks, you know—we can balance.” 

A corded pair of headphones sticks out of Tyler’s screen, and he wraps it around the thumb of his right hand over and over, coiling it around. 

“Oh, and the cardboard beds really aren’t—”

“Tyler,” Josh cuts him off. 

Tyler lets go of the headphones, and the cord unravels to the floor. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry.”

Josh shakes his head, starting to smile. “It’s okay.” 

“Okay,” Tyler echoes, not meeting his eyes. “I think…I guess I’m nervous too.” 

And it’s nice, Josh thinks, to remember that Tyler is human; that having done this all before doesn’t make it any less monumental, or any lower-stakes. 

He swallows. “Thank you for trusting me to…to be the person who gets to come here with you.” 

Tyler’s face softens, but he still doesn’t meet Josh’s gaze. “Thank you,” he says, “for being the reason that we’re here.” 

From the row in front of them, Paul’s teasing voice cuts through the tension. “Get a room.”

“Eat a dick,” Tyler responds immediately, with such no-nonsense politeness that Josh can’t help but burst out laughing, Paul echoing the sound, and for now at least, for just this moment, Josh feels the nerves melt away. 

*

It turns out that the cardboard beds really are as bad as Josh has heard—but by the time they get them re-constructed with Team USA-provided mattress pads, it’s a halfway passable place to sleep; certainly no worse than the couch Josh has grown accustomed to. 

And anyway, sleep is what they need them for; between the whirlwind of welcome events, photos, and starting to train in the brand new Olympic aquatics facility, they’re both ready to crash by the time they return. 

But they’re in Paris—they’re in Paris—and tired or not, Josh isn’t going to miss a moment. Their room’s balcony is cramped, and looks out another housing unit directly across the alley—but it’s a balcony in Paris, and Josh can’t resist sliding down against the railing to FaceTime Ashley on their first night there. 

“Hey Olympian,” she answers, her go-to greeting since the trials. “How’s the city of love?” 

“It’s the city of light,” he corrects. “And it’s… it’s good.” 

It’s pixelated, but he can see the teasing glint in her smile. There’s not much to see from their little corner of the Olympic Village, but he shows her anyway, flipping his camera and straining to catch just the tiniest glimpse of the Eiffel Tower that rises above one of the adjacent buildings. 

“It’s there,” Josh huffs, trying in vain to focus the undefined glow. 

“I can’t really see,” Ashley admits, “but I believe you.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes. A car alarm blares on the Ohio end of the call, and on Josh’s, a motorbike rounds the corner, revving. 

“You ready for this?” Ashley finally says. 

Josh breathes in a lungful of warm city air, and lets it escape in a long sigh. “No. Yes. No.” 

“One out of three,” Ashley says. “I’ll take it.” 

Somehow, Tyler seems to sense the moment the call is over; he wedges his way onto the balcony, leaning his weight on the railing and staring unfocused into the distance. 

He doesn’t look at Josh—doesn’t speak. 

They stay like that for a few minutes, Tyler on his feet, Josh curled on the ground, peering through the slats of the railing at the alley below. Their fourth-story room is higher than the ten meter platform, but not by much. 

Pretty. Soft. Josh thought these things the first time he laid eyes on Tyler in person, and with the slanting orange light illuminating Tyler’s pensive face, he can’t help but think them again. 

As if sensing Josh’s eyes on him, Tyler turns.

“Tell me something scary.” 

Something burns in Josh’s chest, as warm as the orange glow. 

You’re beautiful, he thinks, but it’s too much, and he gets it wrong, and says instead—“we’re at the Olympics.”

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah.” Josh shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.” 

“I can,” Tyler says without hesitation.

He extends a hand down to Josh, and Josh takes it— soft—and lets himself be pulled to his feet. 

For a moment, a singular suspended moment before Josh rights himself, he thinks that Tyler’s going to keep pulling him; to let them stumble into each other. To catch him as he falls. But it’s a trick of the light, a trick of this city; Josh steadies himself, and the moment passes. They slip back in, and they close the door. 

*

It’s the third room he has shared with Tyler, so really, nothing should come as a surprise—but Josh can’t seem to stop noticing things. The little red eye mask that Tyler can’t sleep without; the half-hearted way he makes his bed in the mornings, no matter how early they have to be up; his bad habit of leaving the bathroom fan running at all times. Josh notices all of it. 

He notices, too, the subtle change in Tyler’s behavior. 

It’s not that Tyler is moody, exactly. It’s not that he’s distant; at least, not from Josh. If anything, they’re more attached at the hip than ever—so much so that Josh can’t help but wonder if the other U.S. divers are starting to take notice. 

Where the rest of the team is boisterous, full of restless energy, Tyler is quiet in their presence. In the cafeteria, while Josh does his best to make conversation with athletes from other sports, other countries, Tyler eats quietly, slipping back to his normal self only when he and Josh are alone again. Josh can’t help but think that this strange, reserved person is more like the Tyler he first met than the one he’s come to know—the difference is that now, Josh is on the inside of his carefully constructed walls. 

Josh adds the strange thrill that this knowledge gives him to the growing list of things that he doesn’t have time to process. Acknowledging it—how much he enjoys being the sole focus of Tyler’s attention—threatens to unleash a monster that Josh doesn’t know how to tame. It’s easier to just ignore. 

And maybe that’s why Josh says yes to the party. 

Maybe that’s why, when the pair of springboard divers from Indiana invite them to the building’s game room on a rare free night, Josh weighs the danger of room alone with Tyler and room full of people and distractions, and errs toward the safety of the latter. 

It earns him a lukewarm glare of betrayal from Tyler, but Josh can take it. It’s easier this way. 

Somehow, the Indiana girls seem to have befriended the entirety of the German diving team, the game room a wash of black, red, and gold when Tyler and Josh walk in. It’s a party of elite athletes—meaning that there isn’t a drop of alcohol to be found—but vices come in many forms, and someone has managed to scrounge an entire tray of chocolate muffins from the cafeteria, crumbs already trailing from the table.

“Want one?” Josh asks, pointing to the muffins, but Tyler’s attention is pointed elsewhere. Josh follows his curious gaze toward a cluster of couches in the corner, where a trio of blond guys are huddled around a Nintendo switch console. 

“Would you believe me,” Tyler said, “if I told you that I’m unreasonably good at Mario Kart?” 

Josh raises an eyebrow, and pulls a face. “Nope. Don’t believe you. Gonna have to prove it.” 

He flicks his eyes to the blond guys, and Tyler smirks, wordlessly crossing the room. Josh picks out a chocolate muffin and a bottle of water, and settles himself in an armchair nearby. 

While Tyler ingratiates himself with the Mario Kart group, Josh lets his gaze wander, and starts to play a game with himself: how easy is it to pick out the synchro partners among the group? Scanning the German divers, he tries to look for anything tangible among them; any sign of the kind of attachment he feels to Tyler. 

He comes up lacking. 

“Hey…?” 

Too late, Josh realizes that he’s been staring, soft-focused, at the stranger sitting across from him.

“Oh,” he fumbles. “Sorry.” 

“Sorry,” she says, overlapping his own apology, and then laughing at herself. “Just… why the thousand-yard stare?” 

He takes in her German-flag emblazoned athletic jacket, and her round face. She’s extremely pretty, he realizes. 

“You don’t sound German,” Josh says lamely. 

The girl tilts her head. “Okay… so your excuse is that you’re staring at me because I don’t sound German? Hmmm…” she breaks off, a smile playing at one corner of her mouth. “I’m not sure that one holds much water.”

Josh can’t help but smile back. It’s been awhile since he’s been outright flirted with, and it’s not the worst feeling in the world. 

“Okay,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Can I be real?” 

She inclines her head as if to give him permission. She’s tiny—barely built enough for him to believe her diver, if her jacket didn’t plainly tell him so—yet there’s a commanding air about her that Josh is immediately attracted to. 

“I was trying to see if I could tell who in here is a synchro pair,” he confesses.

The girl gestures to her own chest. “And?” 

“And…you seem to be here alone, so I’m thinking…not?” 

She smiles, and crosses her legs. “Correct, but I’m calling it a lucky guess. Debby,” she says offhandedly, and it takes Josh a minute to realize that she’s telling him her name. “And you’re right—I don’t sound German, because I have dual citizenship, and mostly grew up in the U.S.” 

A simultaneous cacophony of boos and cheers rises from the Mario Kart contingent of the room, and Josh lets his attention flicker away, and then back. 

“I was going to say you also seem to be here alone,” Debby goes on, following the trajectory of his gaze. “But something over there has your attention.” 

Cheeks hot to the touch as he covers them with his hands, Josh says a small prayer of thanks for the dimness of the room. 

“The guy winning Mario Kart over there…?” 

“Oh, Tyler Joseph?” she says, craning her head to look, her ponytail bobbing in its wake. “He’s your partner?” 

It’s the first time Josh has heard anyone phrase it that way—Tyler being his partner, rather than the other way around. 

“Synchro partner. Yeah.” 

Debby faces him with a wide-eyed, theatrical nod. “Got it, got it. And that makes you…” 

“Oh—Josh,” he says, sticking out a hand. She takes it delicately, in an exaggerated show of politeness, and the awkwardness evaporates. Belatedly, he asks, “you know Tyler?” 

“Not my first Olympic rodeo,” she shrugs. “And everyone remembers a pretty guy with tattoos.” 

Josh can’t keep blushing like this. He can’t. 

Stealing a glance in Tyler’s direction, Josh is startled to find Tyler looking right back at him. It’s the type of expression Josh might have called unreadable a couple months ago—but he knows Tyler now, and he knows what lurks behind the look on his face. 

It’s pain, pure and simple. 

Debby’s saying something else, and Josh feels his attention splitting in half, trying to look like he’s listening, and simultaneously, to parse Tyler’s strange coldness. Controller held lifeless in one hand, Tyler’s eyes haven’t left his. 

Josh shakes his head minutely, as if to say what’s your problem? It’s a mistake. Tyler hands off his controller to one of the Germans, murmuring some sort of excuse. 

“...strange, I’m sure,” Debby is saying, “stepping in for his brother.” 

“What? Oh, it’s—it’s—” Josh wrenches his focus back to her. “—yeah.” 

When he looks away again, it’s barely in time to see Tyler disappearing through the door. 

*

He can feel the dark cloud of Tyler’s mood in the gait of his walk, and in its trajectory—away from Josh, through a stairwell labeled roof access, up, up, like a storm forming. Two stairs at a time, Josh follows, and when Tyler bursts through the door, Josh catches it before it closes, holding it open with one arm. 

“Okay—what was your plan if this locked behind you?” Josh says roughly to Tyler’s back. 

Up here, a slice of the Eiffel Tower really is visible; there’s music blasting from a window of a nearby building, and laughter carrying up from the street, but the few feet of space between them feels like a strange bubble of quiet. 

Tyler’s voice is clipped, a string pulled taut enough to break. 

“You can go back downstairs, Josh.” 

“I’m not going to do that,” Josh says, forcing himself to speak gently, one hand still braced against the door. “First off, because I’m pretty sure I’d literally be trapping you up here, and second, because you’re clearly pissed off right now, and—”

“I just,” Tyler cuts in, “need… a minute.” 

Frustration courses through Josh—at Tyler’s distance, at the enigma of his anger, at the way the slight evening breeze catches in the tufts of his hair. At being stuck here, halfway in and halfway out. 

With a gruff sigh, Josh toes off one of his sneakers, shuffling it into the door jamb with his other foot and letting the door swing closed on it, just ajar enough that it doesn’t latch. 

“Josh,” Tyler warns, half turning. “I’m fine. It doesn’t matter how I…you—you didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Oh, well that’s a relief.” Josh tries to keep bile from dripping into his voice, but it’s a lost cause; he can feel the bitterness of it in every word, escaping him before he can think better of them. “Because it seemed like you were annoyed at me for talking to a girl who isn’t even our competition.” 

“Josh,” Tyler says again. Josh knows he should heed the warning, but he can’t shake the indignity of being right back where they started, once again relegated to the outskirts of Tyler’s feelings, like a stranger—like the last two months never happened. 

“Just tell me what’s going on,” Josh begs. 

Like a storm breaking, Tyler whips around, anguished. “Are you fucking with me right now, Josh? Or are you really this goddamn clueless?” 

And Josh knows the wild look in Tyler’s eyes—because he’s felt it before, a hundred times over. It’s the feeling of losing your footing right as you dive; the terror of already being in the air, too late to stop the fall, not knowing if you’ll hit the water straight, or smack it hard enough to shatter your bones. 

He doesn’t need to wonder what it means. 

“Wait, I—wait.” 

Tyler’s face is a picture of quiet misery. “Yeah.” 

Foggy and sluggish, Josh’s brain is slow to catch up. 

“I don’t…” he says lamely, “you didn’t…” 

“I know,” Tyler rasps, hands rising to twist in his own hair, agonized. “I’m just trying to stay sane, Josh, I’m trying to be…to not be…the idiot who ruins our chances.” 

It’s clear, now, that the ball is in Josh’s court; it’s on him to speak, to act, and in his mind’s eye, Josh can see the scene play out—how it could go, if only he could make his feet move; how he’d uproot himself from where he stands, and move toward Tyler; how he’d take his cheeks in both his hands and lean in until their lips were pressed together, right here on the rooftop, with Paris lit up behind them.

He spends so long envisioning it, imagining it, realizing how much he wants it—that he doesn’t notice he’s taking too long. 

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” Tyler says quietly, dropping his gaze and hurrying towards the propped-open door. 

“Tyler, Jesus Christ, can you—wait!” Josh whips out a hand to catch Tyler by the wrist, halting his retreat—but Tyler yanks his arm out of his grasp, whirling on him. Chests heaving, they stare each other down. 

“Josh,” Tyler pronounces, sounding calmer than he has all evening. “I know that you’re not…” he trails off, and shakes his head gruffly. 

I don’t know what I’m not, Josh thinks. I don’t know anything. 

“We cannot fuck this all up. So please,” Tyler says, “please, just go back downstairs, and talk to that girl, and I will mind my business, and then we just—”

Tyler pulls open the door, bending down and retrieving Josh’s shoe, which he hands to him. Dumbstruck, Josh takes it.

“Just what?” Josh whispers. 

Tyler doesn’t look at him. “And then we pretend this never happened.”

*

Their room is already dark when Josh eases through the door, head spinning and numb. He can tell right away that Tyler isn’t sleeping; he’s facing the wall, stock still in his sleep shirt and boxers—but his eye mask is missing, and so is the telltale rise-and-fall of his shoulders.

Josh readies himself for bed as quietly as he can, slipping out of his shirt and into fresh boxers, and brushing his teeth. It’s still early—but there’s nothing to do except climb into bed, hovering on top of the covers, without a chance in the world of sleep. 

Josh squeezes his eyes shut, replaying their conversation on the roof over and over, until he can’t stand it anymore.

“Tyler?” 

Across the room, there’s no reply. 

Eyes on the curve of Tyler’s spine, Josh strikes a bargain with himself: if Tyler doesn’t speak, if he keeps pretending to sleep, Josh really will act like nothing ever happened. He’ll respect what Tyler asked of him. For the sake of their partnership, for the sake of their performance, he’ll halt the strange momentum of his feelings and tuck them back into his chest. 

But if he does… 

“Yeah?” Tyler whispers.

And God—just that single sound is all Josh needs. Hesitation floods from him, and he can’t help it—he’s rising, moving over to the opposite bed, placing a tentative knee on the edge of the mattress pad. He forces himself to go slowly, sinking gingerly down, and tucking himself behind Tyler—his chest to Tyler’s back, knees curled into the back of Tyler’s legs. 

Breathing slowly, Josh gives Tyler ample time to roll away, or tell him to fuck off, but he doesn’t, he doesn’t, and Josh doesn’t have to wonder—he knows they’re on the same page. 

Josh tries not to let his hand shake as he brings it up to rest on Tyler’s ribcage, but it does anyway, fluttering against the fabric of his shirt. Every touch makes a sound, amplified by their utter silence; every breath a stuttering cacophony, as Josh leans in and barely, just barely, grazes his lips against the back of Tyler’s neck. 

Against him, Tyler shudders. 

By silent agreement, they don’t speak. They’ve talked enough; putting words to this would only drown out the delicate hum of electricity between them. 

Josh dares to move his hand from Tyler’s side to his chest, splaying his palm flat and firm; not to keep him still, or control him—but just to tell him, wordlessly… I’ve got you. I’m right here. 

I want this too. 

It’s a slow agony: the brush of Josh’s mouth under Tyler’s ear, the feeling of Tyler’s breath over his knuckles as Josh begins to rub his chest, palm bunching up the material of his shirt, and then smoothing it, over and over in a soothing rhythm. This alone, just holding him, feels overwhelming. 

An amateur all over again, Josh worries at every turn that he won’t know what to do—but it’s as easy as breathing, each touch following after the last. It’s the easiest thing in the world to trail his fingertips under the hem of Tyler’s shirt, to trace them up over his stomach, brushing each of Tyler’s nipples as he goes, drawing short, shallow breaths out of him. 

Lips parted and breath still hot against the back of Tyler’s neck, Josh inches his hand lower, stalling over the quivering muscles of his abdomen. This is a precipice, a ledge—one step further, and they’ll be falling, gone, in too deep to turn back. 

Tyler’s breath catches on his inhale, and Josh feels the hitch of his diaphragm like it’s part of his own body. The distance between them is nonexistent, pressed to nothing—and yet it’s still too fucking far. 

“Josh…” 

It’s a whimper, bordering on a whine, and it’s all the encouragement Josh needs. Any worries about what a bad idea this is for  their diving, to be doing this here and now, are light years away, in another unreachable universe. It’s just the two of them, and nothing else—and Josh has never touched another dick before, but the moment he brushes his fingers over Tyler’s, hard and outlined in his underwear, he forgets to care. It’s Tyler, and he wants all of him; he wants to feel it all. 

The way Tyler’s squirming, reacting even to the slightest touch—it’s doing something to Josh. As an athlete, Tyler is the epitome of stoic, perfectly controlled; seeing him utterly undone like this sends an ache of arousal searing through Josh’s core. 

Josh curls gentle fingers a little tighter around Tyler’s cock, stroking over the fabric, gratified to already find the beginnings of a wet spot there. He squeezes, and Tyler moans, bucking his hips and shifting in such a way that the ruddy head of his dick peeks out from the waistband of his boxer briefs, and christ, Josh would keep him just like this, working him up with teasing touches, if he thought there was a chance he’d last. But he’s already capsizing as it is, especially with Tyler grinding back against his own crotch involuntarily, over and over as he loses control. 

He dips fingers into Tyler’s waistband and tugs, coaxing his hip off the bed and dragging his underwear down, over the curved musculature of his ass. It’s an ass that Josh has been admiring for weeks—whether he admitted it to himself or not—but it’s different like this; the slight give of the flesh when Josh digs in his fingers, the half-moon circles that his nails leave there, that he can’t see, but can feel when he brushes over them again…it’s a drug, a high that he won’t soon forget. 

Fingers sweaty and trembling, Tyler reaches back to cover Josh’s hand with his own, urging it over his hip until it’s wrapped around Tyler’s shaft where it rests, leaking and desperate, against his hip bone. The feeling of Tyler filling his hand is new, but the angle itself is not; Josh knows what to do to make him fall apart, and he does it, forming a ring with his thumb and two fingers that Tyler immediately thrusts up into.

“F—fuck,” Tyler chokes, letting his head loll back onto Josh’s bicep; the motion gives Josh sudden access to the taut skin of Tyler’s neck, and he wastes no time pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses into it, nipping and nosing his way up to his slackened jaw. 

Tyler’s shirt starts to bunch up between them, and Josh extracts himself just long enough to help him tug it off, before he’s curling back in, skin on flushed, heaving skin. He wraps the arm that’s trapped between Tyler and the mattress around to his chest, drawing him back even closer, and pinning Josh’s own straining dick against him. 

Even with precome spread over his length, Josh’s grip on Tyler is growing dry; with a confidence he didn’t know he had, he reaches his hand up to Tyler’s lips, cupping it lightly against his mouth, and pressing his lips to Tyler’s ear. 

“Spit,” Josh whispers—the first word he’s uttered since he lay down. 

Tyler acquiesces instantly, and Josh moves his hand back to Tyler’s cock, jerking him in earnest now. They build up a rhythm like this—Josh pumping Tyler, and at the same time, shamelessly searching for friction against the curve of Tyler’s ass, his dick tented and begging for relief. 

A well-timed thrust sends Tyler’s hips hitching back, and Josh feels the still-clothed underside of his length drag tortuously between Tyler’s ass cheeks, rubbing just barely against his entrance. Josh can’t help but buck his hips, chasing the feeling again. It pulls a throaty moan from Tyler, long and ruined, and Josh removes his hand from Tyler’s cock just long enough to splay fingers over his hip, coaxing him to grind back against Josh’s erection again. 

Desperate, Josh yanks at his own underwear, tugging it as far down his thighs as it will go. His dick is a mess, a glistening strand of precome clinging to his hand as he guides himself back so that he’s nestled against Tyler. 

No need for spit this time—the slide of Josh’s length against Tyler is wrecking both of them. Josh barely needs to move his hand anymore, letting Tyler’s stuttering rhythm take over; based on the broken sounds he’s making, it’s clear that the pressure of Josh’s tip against his rim is adding to Tyler’s pleasure, and Josh groans into his shoulder, soaking up every whine and gasp as Tyler fucks himself over and over into Josh’s hand, and against Josh’s cock. 

It’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to Josh—the contest isn’t even close. It’s the stark opposite of the calm control that Tyler has shown time and time again on the platform; he’s utterly unmoored, plummeting treacherously toward the surface, and Josh is right there with him. 

Together, they tumble toward their climax, shivering, neither of them able to hold back their whimpers now. One writhing entity, they cling to each other, chasing a release that’s been building for minutes, days, weeks—and when they come, when Tyler spills over Josh’s fist, and Josh onto the small of Tyler’s back—it’s in perfect, perfect synchronization. 

Chest heaving, Tyler doesn’t waste a second. Josh has barely come all the way down from his orgasm before Tyler is flipping over in his arms, stomachs tacky and sticking together as he captures Josh’s mouth in a searing, breathless kiss. A hand catches in Josh’s hair, pulling him even closer until teeth meet teeth, lips hungry and spit-slick and messy and pressing against Josh’s again, and again, and again. 

He knows that first kisses aren’t supposed to be like this, sweaty and fumbling and half-naked in the dark—but it doesn’t matter. Josh wouldn’t trade it for anything. Face to face, everything feels different; there’s no hiding from each other like this, with Tyler’s nose squished against his cheek, and the warmth of his breath on Josh’s chin when they come up for air. 

With foreheads pressed together, Josh lets his eyes flutter closed, memorizing every part of Tyler that he’s never been close enough to feel until now. He catalogs the sweet smell of his sweat, the slight chap of his lips, the way his fingers dig into the back of Josh’s neck, holding him in place. He wants to map the expanse of Tyler’s body, run hands and lips over every inch of uncharted territory—and he hopes, desperately, that Tyler will eventually let him. 

Just like he eventually, after another eternity of kissing, lets Josh retrieve a washcloth to clean them both up, handing it first to Tyler to wipe his own stomach, and then, sheepishly, taking the cloth and cleaning his own mess from the small of Tyler’s back. He blushes, and Tyler blushes back, and Josh leans in to kiss him again, and again, and he forgets about the Olympics, forgets that he’s an athlete, or a diver, or anyone other than the boy being kissed by Tyler, in his shitty cardboard bed. 

Outside, the city vibrates with life, unknown and unknowable to them. This is what they’ve trained for—to care only about the other’s body, and where it is in space, and how fast it’s falling. 

Nothing else matters. 

Nothing else exists. 

*

Josh wakes up in his own bed. 

It took a monumental effort to extract himself from Tyler’s bed at midnight and drag himself back to his own. Everything in the universe has changed, but their training schedule hasn’t, nor has the need for a good night’s sleep, no matter the circumstances. Nevertheless, the sound of Josh’s 6:30AM alarm is perplexing to him, discordant—a remnant from another lifetime.

Tyler is already up, blankets pulled haphazardly over the mattress in an attempt at neatness. Josh scans the room for signs of life, landing on the shadow of a form through the curtained door to the balcony. 

He takes his time brushing his teeth, mind wandering to every possible scenario that he might be greeted with on the balcony—from the overwhelmingly good ones, to the one that Josh is most afraid of, the one he’s already heard once in the last twenty-four hours: 

And then we pretend this never happened. 

He slides open the door. 

Tyler waits until Josh has stepped all the way out onto the balcony, and closed the door behind him again. There’s a beat, and then another, and then Tyler’s turning, bed-headed and smiling, and Josh knows, then—it doesn’t matter what Tyler says. For Josh, it isn’t over. 

But it’s clear, as Tyler moves forward to lace his fingers in Josh’s, as Josh brings a hand up to tangle in the mess of Tyler’s hair, pulling his gaze up to meet his in a heady communion, the city humming around them, washed in the glow of the early Paris morning—he doesn’t need to worry. 

“Is this a bad idea?” Josh wonders quietly. 

“Almost certainly,” Tyler says. His smile grows. 

And then, he’s kissing Josh, and Josh, in a daze, is kissing him back, hands on waists and around necks and woven in each other’s hair. Nothing like last night, this kiss is languid and indulgent, all deep breaths and lips brushing lips. 

They don’t have long—barely ten minutes, before they’ll be running late—but the way Tyler’s kissing him, they may as well have all the time in the world. 

*

With the grandeur of the opening ceremony looming that evening, they have only three hours of conditioning and two hours of pool time to get through. 

On the way, Josh sends Ashley a text. 

I have something to tell you. 

He’s burning with the secret, just wants to feel his fingers type out the words—but for once, she doesn’t reply right away. 

There’s really no other word for it—all throughout their time with the trainers, Josh is giddy. Like a middle schooler, he has to fight a surge of giggles—giggles!—from rising out of him every time Tyler catches his eye. He’d briefly considered the possibility that the morning would bring some sort of crisis of identity, a need to categorize and soul-search and apply tidy labels to himself. 

Instead—here he is, giggling.

Later, in the water, Josh stuffs his smile down, and forces himself to focus. Nothing is different about this part, not really—they’d already known each other well enough for this; the parts of their bodies that needed to be in tune already had been. 

The difference is this: Josh doesn’t look away when Tyler climbs the tower ahead of him, staring openly at the way his speedo hugs the curve of his ass, the way droplets cling to the crease of his thighs. He doesn’t turn away when Tyler lifts his arms under the shower between dives, or when he bends over to dry his legs. Josh’s desire is an animal—and it starves. 

On the pool deck, Josh carefully collects his face into one of sober interest, tilting his head to listen to Paul. He gathers himself for every approach, face screwed in concentration while he tumbles through the air. But deep in the water, where no one can see him, Josh smiles. 

It’s a private joy, all his own, and Josh wants to keep it that way. Underneath it all, there’s still a nagging part of him that wonders if he’s in over his head—deeper, somehow, than Tyler. There’s a version of Tyler in his imagination who cringes at the magnitude of Josh’s feelings, who sends this fragile thing between them crashing down, ending in hurt and heartbreak and ruin. 

It doesn’t quite sink in for Josh how utterly irrational this is.

It doesn’t quite sink in, even when the real Tyler turns to smile at him before counting them into a dive, or when he grazes a hand over the top of Josh’s thigh in the hot tub. Not even when he stares unabashedly at Josh in the group showers, eyes dark and warm under his long lashes, and Josh feels heat trickle all the way from his cheeks and down to the object of his attention. 

It doesn’t sink in later that day, at an early dinner with the Joseph family that Josh attends at Tyler’s mother’s warm insistence. There’s something of a cruel irony in the fact that after spending most of the week in just each other’s company, today is the day that they’re surrounded by people at nearly every moment. 

Ultimately though, the Josephs are far too nice for Josh to feel even a little bit resentful for their company. Kelly fusses first over Tyler’s collar, and then Zack’s, and it isn’t at all difficult to imagine her as the strict yet devoted helicopter parent at the center of so many of Tyler’s stories. Outside the restaurant, while Tyler is deep in conversation with his brother, Kelly wraps Josh in a long hug, and Josh huffs a small oh, taken aback by the intensity of her embrace. They met very briefly at the U.S. trials, and only now does he see the resemblance between her and Tyler—the slant of her eyes, and the straight line of her nose. 

“Thank you,” Josh says when she pulls away. “For including me. I know it must be complicated, when this…I mean, it should have been…” he gestures in the general direction of Zack and Tyler. 

His comment seems to startle a laugh out of her. “Are you kidding? Honey, you helped Tyler get here. He hasn’t let anyone so much as breathe a bad word about you since the two of you met.” 

“Oh,” Josh says tightly. “I, that’s—oh.” 

Kelly smiles indulgently. “And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that he has extremely high standards. He obviously saw you as a worthy teammate, considering he wouldn’t let Paul rest until he agreed to recruit you.” 

She says it with a laugh, like it’s nothing. 

“I didn’t realize that it… that it was so much Tyler’s idea,” Josh says quietly. 

“Oh, hon,” she says, reaching out to Josh’s forearm with both hands. “Why do you think Paul jumped through all those hoops to get you two approved as a team? It was going to be you, for synchro—or no one at all.” 

They both let their eyes trail to Tyler, shared affection settling between them. 

“And thank goodness he did,” Kelly says matter-of-factly, patting Josh’s arm twice, just as their party is called by the host. “Clearly he was right.” 

“He usually is,” Josh says. 

It still doesn’t sink in. Not even when, halfway through their meal, Tyler corners Josh in the restaurant’s bathroom, neither of them caring how suspicious it looks when Tyler crowds him into a cramped stall to kiss his neck with a ferocity that falls just short of leaving a hickey. They stagger their exits and return to the table one by one, Josh with things carefully rearranged in his underwear. 

Somehow, somehow, it doesn’t sink in through all the stormy pomp and circumstance of the Opening Ceremony. The rest of the boat full of U.S. athletes soak in the spectacle and the sheets of rain, waving to the throngs of onlookers lining either shore of the Seine; even Josh finds himself captured by the sheer scale of the celebration, the roar of the music, fireworks exploding and fizzling out from behind the Eiffel Tower—but every time he turns to catch Tyler’s eye, he finds that Tyler is already staring at him, apparently indifferent to the fanfare. 

This, finally, is what makes it sink in, for Josh: 

They’re passing under a bridge, one of the old ones with the little round outcroppings. Suddenly alert, Tyler takes Josh by both arms, and angles him in the direction of one of the bastions, pointing. 

Three people stand pressed against the stone railing in bright yellow parkas, two of them jumping and waving down at him in boisterous excitement. 

Josh has to blink, because it can’t be. But it is—somehow, his mother and sister, hair soaked and plastered to their faces, Ashley’s mouth screwed up with tears as she clutches their mom’s arm. Paul towers over his mother on her other side, and even from below, Josh can make out his smirk of triumph at pulling off what Josh has to assume was a surprise long in the making. 

“Oh my—oh my god,” Josh sputters, and raises two hands above his head, waving back in wide arcs. 

In the dry darkness under the bridge, he clutches Tyler’s hand in his own, trying not to capsize under a wave of emotion. 

“You did this,” Josh says. It’s not a question. 

“It was my idea, yeah. But in a practical sense, Paul and my mom were the ones who like…made it happen.” 

Embarrassment and tears burn the edges of Josh’s gratitude, and he does his best to blink both of them away. Swallowing a lump that can’t be swallowed, he manages only a terse thank you, gripping Tyler’s slippery hand hard enough to break as finally, finally, the truth sinks in:

There’s nothing one-sided about any of this. 

*

At first, it felt like a blessing that their final was so early on in the Olympics—but with only two days to go, Josh finds that he would trade anything for more time; to train, yes—but also to prolong the liminal paradise of the before. As long as they haven’t dived yet, then it hasn’t gone wrong; as long as it isn’t over, he doesn’t have to go yet—to leave Paris, and then Ohio, and Tyler. 

With the Women’s Springboard Final set to monopolize the aquatics center for most of the day, he and Tyler are relegated to the neck-breakingly early time slot of 5-6AM. Josh doesn’t mind; it means more free time at a reasonable hour that he can spend with Ashley and his mom. 

Even with the twelve hour days he’s pulling as the team’s assistant coach, Paul has assured the two of them over and over that they are his first priority, and his perfect alertness at the early hour is proof enough. It also means that he’s as ruthless as ever about perfection, drilling their fifth dive again and again. 

“I’m being harsh because you are doing so well,” he stresses, replaying their last attempt in slow motion on his iPad, scrubbing back and forth over the moment of entry. 

It’s a more complex combination than the one they qualified with, adding a half rotation to maximize their chances at scoring high. Tyler, in particular, has been struggling to rotate all the way to vertical, and Paul is far from shy about telling him. 

“I’m going to be late for dryland with the springboard girls, but you guys have…” he taps the corner of the iPad screen, “twelve minutes. Josh, how are your wrists?” 

He shakes them out, the right one sore and tense after an awkward impact a few rounds ago. “Ehh.”  

“Okay—you rest. Tyler, I want three more attempts at the 109C. Josh…” Paul points two fingers at his own eyes, and then between Josh and Tyler. “Watch him?” 

Josh gives a mock-salute. It’s only a handful of times that he’s had the luxury of watching Tyler dive solo, in person, and he isn’t going to waste the opportunity. 

“Where are you going?” Tyler says, his attempt at fake annoyance eclipsed by a smile as Josh dogs his steps up the tower. 

He peels off at the 7m, curling his legs under himself and leaning back to face the 10m platform. 

“Getting a front row seat,” he calls up, as Tyler climbs the rest of the way. 

It’s all so different from this angle, the vantage point a luxury that Josh is never afforded. He could stay up here forever, he thinks, subsisting only on the vision in front of him: the flat plane of Tyler’s body, and the two excruciatingly noticeable exceptions at the back and front of his speedo. 

And then, of course, there’s his tuck; the proximity sends Tyler hurtling past Josh in the air, legs curled up and in towards his chest, crotch and inner thighs on full view, and god—Josh has never wanted a slow-motion replay more. 

“That was better,” Josh calls down, when he hears Tyler surface. He’s lying—he missed the entry entirely. 

Each time, on his way back up the tower, Tyler flashes him a smirk. 

*

Blessedly, blessedly, the locker room is still empty when Josh practically drags Tyler through the door and into one of the curtained changing stalls, pressing him against the wall with a bruising kiss. Grin still plastered on his face when he pulls away, Tyler makes to tug his own speedo down, but Josh stops him with a hand around his wrist. 

“Oh?” Tyler says, a question and a sigh wrapped into a single breath. 

Josh drags teeth over Tyler’s jaw, greedy. “You just looked so fucking good.” 

Tyler’s voice is thin, punctuated by huffs of sensitivity as Josh traces one hand lower, grazing the front of his speedo. “And?”

“And…” Josh echoes meaningfully, but he doesn’t finish his thought, distracted by the labor of trailing kisses down the damp slope of Tyler’s abdomen, sinking to his knees, until he’s low enough to mouth at the outline of his dick through his suit. 

Tyler’s hand in his wet hair is immediate, but he lets Josh move, kissing into the groove where the material meets the top of his thigh—first on one side, and then the other, and then directing his attention back to the bulge staring him in the face. 

“Josh,” Tyler chokes—an oath, a prayer, or a reassurance—possibly all three. “Fuck.” 

Drawing confidence from the whirlwind of his arousal, Josh moves quickly, flipping Tyler around until his chest meets the cold tile with a surprised oomph. It’s like a dream playing out in real life as he hooks the fingers of both hands under the band of Tyler’s speedo, peeling it slowly down, and following the same path with his mouth. 

“Off,” he says simply, tapping Tyler’s thigh twice, the only cue Tyler needs to step the rest of the way out of the speedo before dutifully resuming his position against the wall. 

Josh wastes no time, pulling Tyler apart with both hands and licking a long path from his perineum to the smooth skin above his hole, chlorine and copper heavy on his tongue. He’s rewarded by a series of small, short gasps from above him, sliding gradually into full-on moans when Josh flattens his tongue over Tyler’s entrance, teasing. 

For all his quad strength, Tyler’s legs are trembling; Josh uses the hands spreading him to brace him against the wall, torturing him with short, gentle licks that wrack Tyler with shivers Josh can feel against his lips.

Once again, Josh is running on instinct. He has done this before, though not with this particular set of equipment; but though his knowledge is limited, it isn’t nonexistent. With the pad of a thumb, Josh presses—gently at first, and then firm—against Tyler’s perineum. It draws a broken groan from him, and Josh pulls back to watch Tyler grind his crotch once, twice, against the unyielding surface of the wall. 

“Desperate,” Josh comments, a fragment of an observation against Tyler’s hip, and then a gentle command—“turn around, Ty.” 

He sits back on his heels, head tilted up to the vision of Tyler, red-cheeked and glassy eyed—and then at eye level, his cock, flushed and hard against his abdomen. 

It doesn’t matter that Josh hasn’t done this before; his body courses with need—for Tyler’s pleasure, for his own—and it knows what to do. Nevertheless, Josh is cautious as he wraps lips around Tyler’s tip, getting used to the weight of it on his tongue, and then pulling off, suddenly self-conscious. 

“This…” Josh murmurs into his thigh, “this is alright?” 

Tyler’s reply is a low whine. “Josh, fucking—suck me, please, I need—” 

Josh doesn’t have to be told twice. Doubt vanishes the moment he gets a few inches of Tyler past his lips. His cock isn’t terribly big, and Josh is gratified at how far he can sink down after a few bobs of his head, running his tongue along the underside of Tyler’s shaft.

He feels two sets of curled fingers grip in his hair, anchoring him—but though Tyler shudders with every pass of Josh’s mouth, he doesn’t buck his hips; he lets Josh set the pace, both of them relaxing into an easy rhythm. Josh’s own dick aches between his legs, but he lets it; it’s enough, for now, to feel Tyler’s cock twitching against the back of his tongue. 

And god—the noises Tyler’s making. A selfish part of Josh wishes he could stop just long enough to sit back and take in the sight of Tyler’s mouth biting back groans and sighs, half-formed words dying on his lips while he tries to catch his breath. He’s torn between the desire to watch Tyler’s face transform when he tips over the edge, and his determination to finish what he started and let Tyler spill down his throat. 

It’s clear, as Tyler tightens his hands in his hair and hisses loudly, that Josh doesn’t have long to decide. Tyler tugs gently at him in warning, and Josh pulls off, replacing his mouth with a dextrous hand and nestling the head of Tyler’s cock on the pad of his tongue. His eyes ache with the strain, but he trains them up just in time to see Tyler drop his jaw, lips glistening and face flushed. 

“I’m—Josh,” Tyler whines, his head thrown back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. Josh rubs a hand over his hip, coaxing him—and that’s all it takes for Tyler to pulse and hitch and come into his mouth, Josh’s hand working him through his climax. He presses a cheek against Tyler’s thigh, swallowing once, and then again, as Tyler heaves breath after deep breath and rakes fingers through Josh’s hair. 

Josh doesn’t remember tears falling from the corners of his eyes, but he can feel their tracks, one on each cheek. It’s taking everything in him not to reach down and palm himself, his own erection still painfully trapped—but Tyler is there, pulling him up, backing him against the wall with an onslaught of messy kisses that trail down the slope of his jaw.

“Tyler,” is all he can manage, voice thin with arousal. “Ty.” 

His desperation is obvious, and Tyler doesn’t seem interested in making him wait; he drags a flat hand down Josh’s chest, damp with sweat and the clinging scent of chlorine, until he’s cupping the length of Josh’s dick where it strains along the narrow front strip of his speedo. After all this time, the relief is instant; Tyler’s barely touched him, and he’s already teetering on the edge. 

Nuzzling into his neck, Tyler’s voice is a flutter of warm breath. 

“I’d let you fuck me,” he says, “if we weren’t about to compete,” and Josh whines, and bucks, and bites his lip as an orgasm crashes down around him. 

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” he chants, trembling at the feeling of come spreading through the material of his speedo. Tyler’s breath hitches a little in surprise, and Josh burns pink all the way out to his ears—but all mortification is forgotten the moment Tyler’s mouth is on him again. 

One hand on each of Josh’s cheeks, Tyler kisses him senseless; it’s a kiss that says don’t be embarrassed. It’s a kiss that says that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s a kiss that says Josh, Josh, Josh, with every new press of his lips. 

After a minute that feels like an infinity, Tyler steps back, bending to pull his own speedo back on. 

“You stay here,” he says, pulling back the curtain with a sheepish smile. “I’ll, um—towels.”

Boneless, Josh slides down into the corner of the small space, letting his head slump back against the wall as the last of the physical high subsides. He could be anywhere, in any locker room in any country, for all his body cares. They are Olympians—in two days, they’ll be competing for the prize of their lives. 

But right now, they are only Josh, and Tyler. 

They are each other’s—and they’re invincible. 

*

By that night, they’re tired; despite the newness of everything, they still have to rest. But their exhaustion doesn’t keep them from spending a lazy half hour in Josh’s bed before they sleep, Josh’s head in Tyler’s lap where he leans against the wall, pulling curls of Josh’s hair loose and watching them spring back into coils, over and over. 

It’s the first proper moment of quiet they’ve had all day, and the easy togetherness lends itself to conversation—the kind they haven’t yet had. 

“I didn’t think you liked guys at all,” Tyler confesses. 

Josh shrugs against Tyler’s knee. “Neither did I. I was pretty sure you did, though.” 

Tyler bites his cheek, eyes unfocused as he plays with Josh’s hair. 

“I don’t really know how I got this reputation as, like, the slut of the diving world,” he says. “It’s less that I’ve slept with a lot of divers, and more so that…almost all the people I have slept with are divers.”

“So you have a type,” Josh teases, and Tyler breathes out a syllable of laughter, but shakes his head. 

“No,” he says, “I have a place—or a set of places, I guess—where I meet pretty much everyone I know. I don’t think I’ve spent actual time with anyone outside the diving world since my mom made me quit the boy scouts when I was, I don’t know, twelve? It’s not like my training schedule growing up left a lot of room for me to figure myself out. And then, with my coach…well.” 

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence; Josh hasn’t forgotten. 

Josh takes Tyler’s idle hand with both of his own, squeezing. “Yeah.” 

“So yeah,” Tyler echoes. “maybe I’ve barely ever been in a real relationship—but sue me for the fact that when I realized that I was gay, and…y’know, that people didn’t find me ugly…” 

A grin creeps onto his face, and Josh reaches up, squishing his cheeks in a grip that Tyler wiggles out of with a scrunched expression. 

“...and I was going to competitions every few months, surrounded by other guys my age…yeah, I fooled around a little!”

Josh bites back a grin, and Tyler raises an eyebrow. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Josh says quickly. “Just, you know…anyone famous?” 

“No, no,” Tyler says, retracting his hands from Josh’s hair. “Mostly not.” 

Josh sits up, rod straight. “Oh my god,” he says. “Who?” 

Tyler looks pointedly in the other direction, leaning away from Josh’s needling jabs. 

“Who? Who? ” Josh prods, poking and pinching at his armpits as Tyler yelps and doges his attack. “Okay—a diver?” 

“Duh,” Tyler confirms. 

Josh sits back on his heels. “International?” 

“Yes.” 

“Springboard or platform?”

“Platform.” 

“Gay? Like, out?” 

Tyler hesitates. “Famously out, yeah.” 

“Oh my god,” Josh says, swiping at his shoulder. “No.”

“Yes.” 

“No. You’re fucking with me. You didn’t—did you hook up with Tom Daley?” 

“He has a pretty mouth,” Tyler protests, “and it’s not like he was married yet—this was ages ago.” 

“Oh my god,” Josh says again, through a smile, and Tyler leans in to peck him three times in quick succession, pulling his head back down to his lap.

They lie in silence for a few moments, punctuated only by a yawn that bounces back and forth between them in rounds. On the edge of sleep, Josh’s defenses are lowered, curiosity pressing at the edge of his consciousness.

“You don’t have to answer,” he says quietly, “but have you ever been with a girl?”

Tyler’s quiet for a moment, and then he shifts, wriggling down so that he and Josh are lying face to face, his cheek resting on his hands. 

“Just one,” he says. “Any guesses?” 

Josh searches his mind for a moment, and his eyes widen with realization. “Jenna?” 

Lip pulled between his teeth, Tyler nodded. “Yep. Which, you know, made it pretty easy to figure out. Like, if I’m not attracted to her… well, you’ve seen her.” 

“I have,” Josh agrees. “I have very much seen her.” 

Tyler pinches his bicep cheekily. “Okay.” 

They laugh, and they make out lazily. Tyler brushes a tender palm over Josh’s forehead, and looks at him with such utter, utter fondness, that Josh can’t help but let one last question pour out of him, unbridled and earnest.

“Do you think we have a shot at this? Like, really?” 

He asks it not because he knows what Tyler will say, but because he knows that Tyler will be honest. It’s easy not to believe in the possibility of greatness—to self-deprecate, and doubt. It’s much harder, Josh knows, to speak your dreams out loud in the presence of another person. To make them real. 

“I do,” Tyler says. “I really, really do.” 

*

The day starts like any other. 

Over a Paul-approved breakfast, Josh and Tyler lean in to watch a clip from the previous night’s American primetime coverage, shared by OSU Diving on Twitter. 

“It’s a fight for the podium tomorrow in the Men’s Synchronized 10-meter Platform Diving final for Columbus-based team Josh Dun and Tyler Joseph, representing the U.S. in this event.” 

“Hey,” Josh delights, “they said my name first!” It’s a poor attempt at mirth; nerves pull at his vocal cords, distorting his tone. 

The announcer’s tone is chipper and businesslike as she details China’s history of dominance in the event and Britain’s unexpected upset in Tokyo. “Which leaves the third place spot,” she concludes, “open for contention. Joseph, alongside former partner and younger brother Zack, placed fourth at both the—”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Paul says, snatching Tyler’s phone out of his hands and fumbling to lock the screen. He points a finger back and forth between their trays. “Eat.” 

By mutual agreement, neither of them have let anything slip to Paul about how they’ve spent their last few days; other than Josh finally putting it into words in a text to Ashley, which was met by the largest quantity of rainbow flag emojis Josh has ever seen in one message, it’s still a secret—theirs, and theirs alone. 

Hours pass too quickly. 

In the training room, Josh closes his eyes while the medical team tapes his wrists, wishing for the familiarity of Michael’s hands, instead of a stranger’s. His phone has been bright with notifications for hours, but Josh lets the vibrations of well-wishes roll in without looking. It’s just another day. It’s just another day.

Josh repeats the mantra through Paul’s hype-up speech, trying to let the comfort of Paul’s confidence seep into his bloodstream. 

“Make me proud,” Paul tells them, and then, with a firm hand on each of their backs—“make each other proud.” 

*

It’s Tyler who locks up first. Josh can see it in the tightness of his muscles, rippling and shifting under the still-dry skin of his back, while they wait on the deck for their turn in the first round. 

Josh reassures him with a feather-light press of his hand that brings Tyler back to earth, turning to meet his gaze. 

“We’re just going to do some dives,” Josh says. 

Under his hand, he feels the tension ease. “Yeah.” 

“Just like in training.” 

“Just like in training,” Tyler agrees. 

Tyler counts them in quickly on the first of their easy dives—no space for either of them to get in their heads. They dive like they’re in training, just them, and Paul, and the water. They dive, and they dive well. 

Rationally, Josh knows that fourth is a comfortable place to be sitting, three rounds in; he can tell that Tyler and Paul—sensible, logical, and seasoned—are happy with the score, confident that the degree of difficulty on their fifth and sixth dives will offer more than enough of an opportunity to pull ahead of Canada. 

And yet, the number sews a seed of panic in Josh’s gut. It’s the fear that hovers just outside of the podium spot; he can’t let Tyler come this far and finish in fourth again, the medal just out of reach, slipping through his fingers.  

The panic upends Josh enough to rattle him on their fourth dive; he’s overcompensating, desperate not to let worry drag him down, and it sends him careening out in front of Tyler in the water, dragging their synchronization scores down with him. 

It’s okay, Paul assures Josh, it’s alright—but it’s not enough to penetrate the armor of self-loathing that’s gathering itself around him. He closes his eyes under the spray of the shower, unwilling to face the disappointment that he’s certain he’ll find on Tyler’s face if he opens them. He’s not just in his head—he’s a prisoner there, and the guard is missing. 

“Josh.” 

The sound of his name is accompanied by a watery thumb and forefinger around his wrist. They’re in the hot tub, Mexico across from them, both boys looking like they’re trying very hard to mind their own business. 

Josh doesn’t remember getting from the showers to the water. There’s a camera on them, and when he turns away from it, there’s another. 

“Josh?” Tyler says again, his thumb insistent on Josh’s inner wrist, at his pulse point. “You with me?” 

He lets the sharp press of Tyler’s nail anchor him in his body again. “Sorry.” 

Tyler shakes his head, brow furrowed. “Why?” 

A roar of applause breaks their spell, and both of their eyes dart automatically to the monitor adjacent to the hot tub area, telling them that Australia has pulled up into third with their most recent dive, displacing Canada.

And then, the hand around his wrist is pulling, and Tyler is leaning in, pressing pool-cold lips up against the hollow of Josh’s ear. 

“Listen to me,” Tyler says. “Just me—nothing else.”

Josh does. A shiver runs through him at the ghost of Tyler’s breath, and he lets it. 

“Nothing you do can disappoint me,” Tyler breathes. “Nothing can make me not proud of you. And I need…I need you to know…” 

Tyler trails off, breaking contact briefly as the Mexican team is replaced by the Brits, rippling the water as they sink down across from them. Josh’s heart is in his throat. He laces his fingers with Tyler’s, squeezing as Tyler leans back in. 

“I’m trying to say that I’m grateful,” he goes on. His voice is a delicate whisper, too low for the cameras—only for Josh. “That it’s us here. That it’s you and me. And that…Josh, no matter how this dive turns out, this doesn’t end when we get home. I want to keep diving with you, and keep…” 

He pulls back, and looks Josh straight in the eye. 

“...everything else,” he whispers. 

Affection drenches Josh, warm in a way that has nothing to do with the roiling water. Under the surface, Tyler’s fingernail traces the shape of a heart on Josh’s thigh. 

“Okay,” says Josh. It comes out choked. “Okay.” 

Across from them, an accented voice pipes up, startling both of them to attention. 

“You’re going to nail this,” says the smaller of the British team. “You’re doing great.” 

Improbably, Josh feels a smirk form on his lips, which he directs at Tyler, who aims a kick at him under the water. It’s the smallest, most inconsequential thing, and it shouldn’t be such a balm to the terrified wound inside of Josh—but it is, and he lets the brightness of Tyler’s smile melt the worry into nothing. 

“Thanks, Tom,” Tyler says. “That means a lot.” 

The twister doesn’t feel like such an insurmountable hurdle, with Tyler’s words playing in his head. Fingertips inches apart, they bend, they spring, they twist in perfect tandem, and the resulting score inches them back into fourth, with their highest difficulty dive still to come. 

“It’s on me now,” Tyler laughs, as the scores roll in. “You nail the 4½ every time. Yes,” he adds as Josh pulls a face, “you do.” 

“Can’t help but agree,” Paul says, and Josh thinks it’s the first time he’s ever seen him look nervous, jittery with how close they are to knowing, to finishing, to everything they’ve worked for. “You just go up there and do what you do best.” 

Josh raises an eyebrow. “Which is?” 

Paul grins. “Be so good that Tyler will pull out all the stops, just to impress you.” 

He knows, Josh thinks with a start, and sees Tyler realizing the same thing—but with one of Paul’s hands solid on each of their shoulders, he finds he doesn’t mind.

“Now come on,” Paul says. “Let’s finish what we started.” 

The final round is electric, charged with anticipation as Britain steps into the first place holding spot, quickly replaced by China. Teams rotate in and out of third place, an ever-changing coda to the line of six athletes, dripping with pool water and anxiety as each set of scores is read.

By the time they climb the tower, it’s Canada holding down third; it will take an excellent dive, eights and above, to displace them and hold fast through Australia’s last dive. They’ve done it before—but not every time. 

Despite it all, Josh’s head is remarkably clear when they step onto the platform. It feels like what it is: not a skyscraper, not a cliff, but the ten meter drop he’s trained for, all this time. 

Back in May, Josh made himself a deal; back when he’d said a tentative yes to this—to Tyler —hoping it would lend some direction to his directionless career. Either he could prove himself capable of competing again—mold himself into someone worthy of an Olympian’s trust—or he couldn’t, and he’d move on; to something with a more permanent shelf life. To the real world.

And here he is—inundated with more proof than he could have bargained for, realer than the mat under his feet, or the smell of chlorine. Josh has found his direction, permanent and clear. He’s standing right beside him. 

Later, after it’s over, he will say all of this to Tyler. 

After the whip of the splash, the gasp of the spectators; they surface, together, hands clutched through the excruciating wait in the third-place holding spot, heads bowed through the last few dives; after four sets of British and Chinese hands clap them on the back, shake them back to life as the realization rolls over all of them, that Australia’s scores aren’t enough, and that bronze is theirs, theirs, theirs—

After Tyler stuffs his face into Josh’s shoulder, sobbing, neither of them caring when the cameras zoom in on Tyler’s arms clutched around his neck; after Paul’s ear-splitting yell of triumph as he nearly whips the other coaches off their feet in celebration before tackling Josh and Tyler in a bear hug, telling them I knew you could do it, I knew you could, both of you; after the jackets, the photographs, the announcements; the long wait on the podium through China’s national anthem, and then the weight of the heavy bronze medal placed around first Josh’s neck, and then Tyler’s; the sight of Josh’s mother cheering louder than anyone else, tears streaming down her face, both hands clutched and folded at her heart as she sobs—

After photo after photo, posing with their medals; after Josh surprises everyone, even himself, by pulling Tyler in by the strap of his medal to to catch him in a kiss, in front of the cameras and their families and the world, and after the media storm that follows—the flood of brand deals and contracts with pride campaigns and high-profile interviews that roll in faster than Jenna can manage; after the paychecks from them, and from his medal, which are more than enough for Josh to move himself and his belongings across the country the moment his transfer to OSU becomes official. 

But for now—ten meters in the air—they know none of this. 

For now, Josh lets the world shrink to the size of the platform, big enough only for himself, and Tyler—no one else. He hears Tyler breathe, and feels time slow down, past and future collapsing in on each other as he matches their inhales—two sets of lungs, taking the same breaths, together. 

“Ready?” Tyler says—and Josh doesn’t have to pretend. 

He means it. He believes it. He knows it to be true. 

Yes. Yes. Yes.