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Part 2/2

Friday is Ryan’s Birthday. With two more days of competition left the team keeps things low key with a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday to You” at breakfast in the athlete dining hall, and a smuggled in cupcake. The real party will be had Saturday and Sunday once they’re all free to indulge. You appreciate the restraint. You don’t know how well you’d deal if everyone was hanging out in the suite being loud all afternoon and evening. You know it’s not just for your benefit that they refrain. Cullen has his 50 free final that night and both Matt and Nathan are set to race in the Medley relay with you the next night. So yeah, of the five of you in the suite, Ryan is the only one done racing. He spends most of the day hanging out with his family and friends who had come to London to cheer him on. You’re not sure he’ll come to the evening session but he’s sitting in the athlete’s section of the stands when you come out for the 100 Fly final.

Normally you spend the last few minutes locked in your own head. Nothing but a familiar beat raging through your brain, as you walk out, following your prerace routine exactly. But this time you look up as you’re exiting the ready room, walking across the pool deck. You spot Ryan right away. He’s on his feet with most of the other athlete’s, and you shouldn’t be able to pick him out of the crowd, but somehow you do. And it makes you smile, knowing he’s there, that he’s on his feet for you.

The 100 Fly isn’t as special to you as the 200. The 2 has always been your better race, no matter how you have always longed to be a sprinter. But this time the 100 Fly is the medal you want the most. You’ve lost the 200, come in second. You’ve lost the 4IM, come in fourth. You’d won the 2IM, but this, the fly, is your stroke. Your specialty. And you don’t want the last individual race of your career to end in anything but gold.

You dive in the water, and it’s like everything is perfect. You have a steady stroke, your body feels right, high in the water. You feel slick, fast, like a seal cutting your way down the pool lane. And you know this race is yours, yours, all yours! And it is. You win. You win Gold. And you come out of the water smiling.

After your race you watch from the ready room as Cullen wins his silver in the 50 free. There will definitely be some pre-end of competition partying happening in the suite tonight, and you don’t even mind.

After the races, and press conferences, and interviews are over, you head back to the dorm. Cullen and Ryan are camped out in the communal living area, contraband pizza and beer at the ready.

You snag a bottle and a slice, limiting yourself to just one of each, as you flop down on the end of the couch next to Ryan.

“Look at you, Mr. Olympic,” Ryan teases, and you grin at him around pepperoni and gooey runny cheese. He laughs, pounding you once on the back and turning back to Cullen. “Glad to be done?” he asks, taking a long pull of his beer.

“Yes!” Cullen replies, smiling widely and showing two neat rows of even white teeth. “But I am beat, I’ll see ya in the morning?” he asks, standing up. Ryan looks at him in confusion.

“Come on, man! You’re done! And it’s my birthday!” he objects. Cullen shakes his head.

“I’m exhausted, and we’re gonna be celebrating your birthday for like the next two weeks. I’ll see you in the morning!” he backs out of the room, eyes going from Ryan to you and back again. You frown at him, confused, before shrugging and focusing your eyes on the television. It’s tuned to a local station, one of the BBC’s dedicated Olympic channels, and your eyes are unfocused as you watch highlights from earlier in the day flash across the screen. The volume is turned down so low you can’t make out the words being spoken, but there are lots of Union Jacks being waved, and medals being handed out. You practically feel Ryan deflate beside you, slumping low on his end of the couch.

“Why does no one want to hang out with me during my birthday?” Ryan asks. “Do I have like a BO problem or something? You’d tell me right? We’re tight enough you’d tell me if I had like offensive levels of rank going on?” he asks. You laugh, finishing the last of your slice, and taking a quick swallow of already flat beer.

“Of course, Doggy. I would never let you run around smelling bad. It would clash with your whole GQ style,” you reply licking grease off your fingers. Ryan is curiously silent beside you, and when you glance over, he’s staring super intently at the television, looking far too serious.

“You’re going out with us tomorrow night right?” he asks, without turning to look at you, and you frown. He looks worried, earnest almost. Like your answer is very important.

“Definitely, man. I wouldn’t miss it,” you reply. He nods.

“Good, cause I want to talk to you about something, once you’re done.” You study the side of his face for a moment, a heavy weight settling in your stomach.

“Not about something bad though, right?” you ask. He laughs, and you feel the tension in your limbs suddenly release at the sound.

“Nah, man! Definitely not something bad. Don’t worry about it. You got more important stuff to be stressing out about. Like finishing off Team USA with another gold,” he stands up as he finishes the sentence, stretching his arms over his head, and arching backward. It’s a familiar sight, but as always you force your eyes to dart away from him. “Goodnight man. Get some sleep.” He socks you in the shoulder and heads off the way Cullen had gone a few minutes before. You finish the last swallow of your beer, scrubbing a hand through your short cropped hair, and letting your eyes stare unfocused at the TV.

Your mind turns in circles, thoughts whirling around like a twister in your head.

The problem with Ryan, beyond his being your teammate, and competition, and rival, and all the things that everyone else had made him into for you, was that he has always been more than just those things. He’s your friend, and your occasional roommate. He’s fun to be around, and great to talk too. He’s smarter than anyone who doesn’t really know him, gives him credit for. He’s loyal, and kind, and a little bit crazy. But he’s also beautiful. He’s drop dead beautiful, and sexy, and completely not someone you are allowed to think about in that way. Because even when he’s being goofy Ryan Lochte, with the freckled skin, and the full kissable lips, he’s still teammate, and competition, and rival.

You put up certain walls that first year, when you were both young and stupid, and naïve. Mostly because Bob caught on, and gave you a lecture to beat all lectures. Ryan was not to become a fuck-buddy. Ryan was not dateable. They could be friends, but not too close. They could hang out but not too often. And nothing they were to each other could be allowed to affect how he acted and reacted from the moment he stepped on the starting block until the moment he stepped onto the podium. Caring about Ryan would be dangerous, idiotic, insane. And so You did what you were told. You ended it before it even began, made some joke about being buddies, and stopped letting Ryan hang all over you like he liked too.

You try not to let what ifs rule your life. You make decisions, and good or bad, the ramifications are what they are. You can’t go back in time and change things. So why dwell on could-have-beens? This should be no different, Ryan should be no different than smoking pot at that stupid party, or getting in the car after having a couple of beers. No different than putting off training, or skipping practice. But as you sit there, in the dark of your London Olympic Village dorm room, with Ryan one wall away, and your last ever Olympic race almost around the corner, you feel regret.

Ryan is amazing, and part of you, a bigger part than you would ever willingly admit, even to yourself, wishes things had been different between you.

Retirement is less than 24 hours away, and as you blink hazily up at the white washed ceiling you frown, suddenly tired of all of it. You want this to be over. All of it. The competing, and the stress. Every last bit of it.

Just one more race and it will be.

You pull yourself up off the couch, reaching for the remote control, and shifting your tired eyes to the TV. And it’s you on the screen, your face filling the shot as you walked out to swim the 100 Fly. You watch yourself step out, eyes focused on the ground, arms swinging in preparation, and ears covered with your headphones. You watch your own head come up, eyes focusing on someone, something high above and to the right, and you see the smile come over your face, even the you on the screen looks quickly away, refocusing in a split second. You’d looked happy. Really happy. You flip off the TV, unwilling to give it anymore thought tonight. You have a race to win tomorrow.


When you step out of the ready room, Brendan, Matt, and Nate stepping out beside you, you feel conflicted again. You’ve been telling yourself for months that you’re ready. That you’re tired. That it’s time. Retirement is the right choice. You’ve sworn up and down to family, friends, Bob, Schmitty, and every single interviewer during the last two years, that this is your last Olympics. Your last competition. Which makes this your last race.

The buildup, the weight of all that expectation and anticipation makes you feel heavy, and exhausted. It’s been a long week. And you’re happy this is your last race. But it’s buoyed by the sadness of it all ending. You love swimming, even if you don’t love the dedication it requires, the commitment, but you can’t really be faulted for that. Your life has centered around the pool for over half of your life, you’re ready to try something new.

So there’s sadness that it’s ending. Pride for all you’ve accomplished. Love for your friends, your coach, the real fans who never stopped supporting you, and for the sport itself. But there’s also joy. Overwhelming happiness that you’re here. You’ve done it, you’ve proved everyone wrong, and when your name is called, right alongside Brendan, Matt, and Nathan’s you can’t do anything but wave to the crowd, and try your damndest to keep the smile off your face. You have nothing but complete faith that the four of you will be on the top of the podium representing the U.S.ofA. in less than an hour.

The Men’s 4x100 Medley relay is the one relay that the US has NEVER lost at the Olympics. Every single time the USA sends a team to the games, they have won that race. And the four of you are no exception.

Matt starts you off with the back. Then it’s Brendan with the breast. Followed by you with the fly, and finally Nathan with the free. As soon as Nathan dives into the water you climb out of the pool, heading back over to join Matt and Brendan to wait for Nathan, your eyes are glued to Nathan’s body as it cuts through the water like a missile. The three of you cheer and scream, and stomp your feet. And then he’s done it, you’ve won. Your last Olympic Swim ever and it’s over. Team USA finishes just 1/100 of a second off the Olympic record, pretty damn good for a textile swim. It’s your last swim ever, and it’s Brendan’s last swim ever, and the four of you huddle together, arms around each other in celebration. Some part of you thinks you should feel sad. You’ll never have this moment again. Instead you relax into it, and the excitement and happiness feels like the first time all over again. The crowd screams so loud you can barely hear yourself think. You thank your teammates. And they thank you, and then the chaos starts up again.

There’s the post-race interview, while you’re all still dripping and fighting for your breath. Later you won’t remember what you say to Andrea Kramer. Just that you talked to her, and you hope you didn’t sound like an ass. Then it’s to the warm down pool to catch your breath and stretch your muscles. You’re about to dive in when you decide to forego it, conditioning is no longer a concern. You’re retired now. So you wave off the others, and head for the locker room instead. You take a long shower, rinsing away the chlorine, and letting the warm water help ease the lactic acid built up in your system. You take your time dressing, nodding to the guys when they get back. And soon you’re all in your podium gear preparing to walk back out.

The medal ceremony is like every other medal ceremony you’ve had in London. Not much changes from one to the next, except that sometimes you’re on the top podium, and twice you aren’t. But you’re eager too. You’re excited. You put one leg up on the top step, unable to contain yourself completely. The four of you are all smiles, joking and laughing, gripping each other’s hands and enjoying every second of this. And when the that last medal is placed around your neck all you can feel is success. Completion. You’d done what you set out to do. And you’re happy.

But when the Anthem starts to play, that’s when it all hits you. Last time ever.

Your face is solemn, your tongue licking at suddenly dry lips, and you know your eyes are glossing over with tears. You listen to the song, and you take deep calming breaths and you smile.

You don’t know about the trophy in advance. You didn’t know FINA had planned it. You weren’t expecting anything like that, not at all. And you choke up all over again when it’s presented to you. 22 Olympic Medals. 2 Bronze, 2 Silver, and 18 Gold. Plus a Silver plated trophy proclaiming you the most decorated Olympian ever. That’s a pretty good haul.

The hours that follow are a frantic blur of press, and congratulations. Of interviews that blend together in your memory, and stark moments that will be cemented forever as the touchstones of the experience. Hugging Bob with the award in one hand, your medal around your neck. Seeing your Mom and sisters for the first time. Picking up Taylor and letting her feel the weight of the gold around your neck. Looking up and seeing your teammates, old and new, past and present, but no longer future, cheering and applauding and screaming congratulations. Walking out of the pool, your trophy dangling from one hand and feeling in that moment that there was no turning back now. That it was officially official. You are retired now.

You’re kept in the press zone for ages. Everyone wants to interview you. NBC wants an exclusive. There are a million pics taken of you, and by the time the entire worlds press has snapped their fill you’re ready to just get some sleep. It’s Bob who says something. Bob and Peter, who finally herd you away and out of the media center. It’s late and you are exhausted.

Tomorrow there will be time to celebrate with the guys, to toast to the teams collective success and the end of the indoor swimming events. You have seven blessed days until the press tour starts, longer if you have your way. Plenty of time to relax and celebrate. But for now you need sleep.

The Athlete Village has reached that strange mid-Olympics balancing act. The time where a good number of athletes are done competing, and, with the next Olympics four years away, just want to cut loose and party and have a good time. But the other half of the athletes are still in the zone for competition, where plenty of sleep and rest, and no distractions are the rules to follow. So walking through the village is an adventure in duality. Half the dorm windows are dark and quiet, while others are bright, windows open, and music playing, just this side of not too loud. There are people roaming around in groups of two or three. Probably rushing from or too a party. You pull the hood of your sweat shirt up and keep your head down. Not in the mood for interaction.

When you get back to the dorm you figure everyone will have gone to bed. It’s almost three in the morning and you know Matt and Nathan are probably just as tired as you are. So you’re quiet as you fit your key in the lock, and ease open the door. The common area is mostly dark, but the TV is on, the sound muted. The light from the TV is enough for you to see your way around. You’re halfway across the living room when you spot him.

Ryan is stretched out on the couch. His eyes are closed, mouth open in sleep. He’s shirtless and the blue light from the TV lighting up his body enough to show he’s wearing just gym shorts. And you freeze.

It hits you from time to time, usually all of the sudden and without any real warning, that Ryan is insanely hot. You try and not notice, doing your best to ignore it. Because crushing on your biggest competition is stupid, and letting sex ruin a pretty great friendship that’s already stressed by said competition would just be unbearable.

But here in the middle of the night you let yourself look.

You’ve been surrounded by nearly naked men and women since you were just a kid. And Olympians are in general some of the fittest most athletically beautiful people in the world. But you can admit here in the privacy of your own mind, at 3 in the morning, that Ryan is definitely the most beautiful.

You’re startled out of your internal musings when you hear an amused clearing of the throat. You blink, your eyes flying up to Ryan’s face. He’s smiling at you, one side of his mouth pulling up higher than the other. He smirks, his mouth dropping open in a yawn, and then his back bows up off the couch in a long slow stretch. The arch of his back and the way his hips raise up to readjust his position makes your mouth go dry. You look quickly away.

“Hey man,” he says. You nod.

“Hey, you going to bed?” you ask. He nods, cracking his back and then sitting up more on the couch.

“Yeah, in a minute. You gotta be tired,” he says.

“I am, yeah,” you say and nod. He bites his lip and smiles.

“You got a lot of shit done today. And everyone knows being awesome is exhausting,” he teases. You laugh, shaking your head at him. “But then again, no one has ever been as awesome as you are, so you must be extra tired.” You roll your eyes and flop down on the opposite end of the couch. He yanks his feet out of the way and then plops them down on your lap. You stare at his toes, the arch of his feet, the curve of his ankles. The skin just barely starting to regrow his leg hair, and you look up and away again. You must be exhausted if ankles are turning you on. You look back at Ryan’s face, but that doesn’t really help much.

“Hey, where’s your trophy? I bet that thing weighs a fucking ton!” he says, using one foot to nudge you in the hip. You smack his foot away and he laughs.

“Peter took it. He doesn’t trust me with it, I don’t think.” It’s true he doesn’t. “I got my medal though,” you reach into your pocket and pull out number 22. He takes it from you, studying it carefully in the low light, running his fingers across the pressed surface.

“What you did,” he says shaking his head and frowning, “No one is ever going to do better. It’s not possible.” He hands the medal back.

“You can,” you say. “And now that we’re no longer competing against each other I’ll actually be rooting for you to win next time.” He lets out a small laugh.

“Nah, man. I’m sitting at 11 over three games. You have 22 over those same three games. It ain’t gonna happen,” he says, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling.

“You can’t think that way, Ry,” you say. “You’re amazing. And I promise not to mess up any more gold medals for you from now on,” you tease. “Besides I got 22 over four games. Not three,” pointing this little fact out seems terribly important just then. His head rolls on his neck to face you, and he gives you such a look of disgust that you have to laugh.

“Dude, nobody counts Sydney. Let it go!” he says it slowly, like you’re an idiot.

“I count Sydney. The rest of the world should too!” you reply, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Don’t pout. You’re already a legend. Do you have to keep reminding everyone you were a fucking prodigy too?” he asks. You’re suddenly glad it’s so dark, hopefully he can’t see the blush staining your cheeks. “For serious though, I’m proud of you, Mike. You did good.” You look at him then, and you want to kiss him, but you don’t. Because he’s Ryan. He’s fucking Ryan Lochte, and you don’t kiss Ryan.

“Thanks,” you say instead.

“But I will tell you this: I’m damn glad you’re retiring. You’re totally cramping my style, man.” That makes you laugh again. Perhaps a bit too loudly. There’s a thump from the room Nathan and Matt stay in and the door cracks open.

“Guys, Come on! It’s four in the morning. I got press to do in like 2 hours. Keep it down!” Matt says, voice harsh and accusing. And you shrink back into the corner of the couch. Anyone who calls Matt the ‘Gentle Giant,’ have clearly never woken him up in the middle of the night.

“Grevers. Go back to sleep man. We’ll be quiet,” Ryan says. Matt blinks at him, the frown melting off his face.

“Ok. Sorry. Just… I’m tired man…” Matt says.

“It’s ok. Dude, just go back to bed,” you say and he nods, disappearing back into the bedroom and shutting the door. You turn back to Ryan. “I guess we’re being too loud,” you whisper, and he sits up, dropping his long legs to the floor. He leans closer.

“You know why else I’m happy you’re retired?” he asks so quietly you scoot closer to him.

“No. Why?” you ask.

“Because it means I can do this,” and then he’s kissing you. You gasp, your mouth dropping open in surprise. And you don’t know what to do. You don’t know how to respond. You’ve wanted this for so long, but you haven’t let yourself imagine it. You haven’t let yourself think about it. So it takes you a minute to respond. His lips still against yours, and he starts to pull away. That’s what startles you into reacting. You reach for him, one hand coming up to tug him back in, fingers threading through the short hair on the back of his head. You open your mouth, tilting your head for a better angle. He smiles against your mouth, the sides of his lips tipping up and you pull your mouth away to breathe. He grins at you, wide. “Well that’s one way to keep you quiet,” he whispers. You blink, looking away.

“Where did that come from?” you ask, eyes focusing on the still flickering television screen. He adjusts his position beside you, and your head flies back in his direction, not wanting him to move away.

“Come on, Mikey. I know people think I'm an idiot, but you of all people should know I’m really not. I’ve wanted you for years. And I was… willing to ignore it. I know how you get. How intense you are about boundaries, and putting all the shit going on in your life in little boxes. There’s the swimming box, and the business box, and the family box. You don’t like things straddling your lines. I get that. I couldn’t be competition and… more. So I waited.” Your forehead creases as you listen to him. Shock and hope and want and fear warring inside of you. You know these things about yourself. You’re fairly self-aware about how your brain works. You’ve kind of had to be. But no one else has ever spelled out the things rattling around in your brain so clearly before.

Later you’ll blame your response on how attractive he is just then, how tired you are, and how much you’ve been denying yourself this for quite literally years.

Your hand in the center of his chest catches him by surprise. You push him back and back again until he’s sprawled out across the far end of the couch, with you sitting across his hips. He smiles at you in surprise.

“If you’re not in the swimming box anymore. What box are you in?” you ask, pressing him back into the seat, all your weight pressing down on him. His hands find your hips, tugging you closer before sliding around your sides to slip under your t-shirt.

“Well I’m hoping we can make a new box. Like a really hot boyfriend box?” Ryan asks.

“I think that is definitely doable,” you say in response, and he smiles at you.

“Good. I’ve been really patient, and I’m kind of tired of waiting. Soooo wanna make out?” Ryan asks. You let out a shocked bark of laughter and his hand slaps down on your face so fast your lips sting at the impact. His eyes fly to Nathan and Matt’s door, and yours follow, neither of you daring to breathe. When nothing happens he peels his hand away and screws his face up with relief. You dart forward, pressing your lips to his again, and licking inside when he opens to your kiss. Of course that’s when the door behind you flings open. The two of you spring apart, and turn to face it.

Nathan blinks at you, his jaw dropped in shock.

“Jesus. Fuck me…” he whispers. He folds his arms across his chest and leans in the open doorway, gaze appraising. “Well. Well. Well. What have we here?” he asks. You turn back around and let yourself go loose limbed against Ryan, burying your face in his shoulder. “Yo, Matt. Come see this. I think you won the bet,” Nathan calls over his shoulder. There’s another hard thump from inside the bedroom, and you groan wiggling your hands further under Ryan’s shoulders.

“Bet?” Ryan asks, wrapping his arms tighter around your waist. He pats you high on the back with one hand. You peek at the door over your shoulder. Matt is there now, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He sees the two of you tangled together and a grin spreads across his face.

“Yes! Nathan my friend you are my proof. I had 1 day after retirement, and it’s after midnight. That counts!”

“What did you win?” Ryan asks and the amusement in his voice makes you pinch the skin of his back in retaliation. He squirms but doesn’t bother reacting any other way.

“The betting pool. I think it’s up to like a thousand dollars. I had the first 24 hours locked down!” Matt crows in triumph, and you groan again.

Ryan pushes you back and you reluctantly move away from him.

“How detailed was this betting pool?” Ryan asks, climbing to his feet, and stretching again. You try not to be distracted by how low his gym shorts sit on his hips, or all that tan skin currently on display.

“Pretty detailed. First kiss. First love confession. First to make a move. We’re going to need details,” Nathan says, and he’s smirking in a way that makes you want to smack him.

“All of that information is none of anyone’s fucking business,” you reply, setting to your feet and rubbing at your tired eyes. “I’m going to bed,” you announce, moving toward your own room door. Ryan’s face falls, his hands clenching at his sides. You grin at him. “Coming?” you ask. Ryan’s slipping past you a second later, hands lingering in interesting places. You grin at the shock playing across Matt and Nathan’s faces. “See you in the morning,” you reply, closing the door behind you, only to hear Matt’s yelled reply even through the sturdy wood.

“It’s already morning you shits!” You lean back against the door. It’s nearly pitch black in the small room with the lone window’s curtains pulled closed, but you can just make out the shape of Ryan sitting on the end of the bed.

“Are we really doing this?” you ask, breaking off in a loud yawn. He laughs quietly, flashing white teeth in the darkness.

“I think for now, we should probably get some sleep. You look tired man,” Ryan replies. He crawls across your bed to curl up against the wall, holding the covers up for you. You slide in beside him, where it’s warm and everything smells like Ryan. And seriously when did you start recognizing how Ryan smells? Since when did it become familiar? And hot? You can’t dwell on it for long, because you’re so tired you start to drift off almost immediately.

Ok so you’re retired now. And everything’s changing. Which is simultaneously amazing and scary at the same time. And dating Ryan? That’s unexpected. That’s unplanned. And it won’t be easy. The logistics. The politics of it alone will be difficult. But you like difficult. You thrive on impossible, and improbable, and complicated.

Up until now your life has been about swimming, but with that over and done with, goal accomplished and retirement official, it’s time to get started doing all the stuff you couldn’t do before. And loving Ryan seems like a pretty amazing place to start.

New challenge accepted.

Date: 2012-12-18 06:27 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] silentdictator.livejournal.com
omigosh i saw the preview on tumblr and now this whole glorious wonderful two pieces of awesome is fully on the internet and this is the greatest day ever.

i just love the end. love love love it because look at that culmination of angsty angst and feelings and wonderfully worked out relationship built on trust and over the period of those olympic races the intensity just builds and the suspense and all the awkward. and the best part its like everyone is avoid those two to try and give them some "time" to work out when they will actually start their relationship. yay for nosy roommates and awkward medal awards and amazing feelings. love how this is toned down, but still so full of voice, you know? like it's a very nicely narrated piece you have. :D fantastic! :D

Date: 2012-12-18 06:58 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] cupcakegirla.livejournal.com
EEEEKKK!!!! Really?! O M G !!!! This is one of the best comments ever! Thank you!

I'm so glad you liked it! Thank you for reading and taking the time to leave such a nice comment. It's stuff like this that makes me keep posting the stuff I write, instead of just hoarding them all on my laptop.

Date: 2012-12-26 10:31 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] greatestheroine.livejournal.com
DUUUDE.

Like, IDK. <3!!!

That's all I can say right now. I'm such a mess.

Date: 2012-12-26 07:24 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] cupcakegirla.livejournal.com
:D

You liked it! This was a pain in the ass to write so every time I get a comment it means SO MUCH MORE.

Thank you for reading and commenting. It means a lot to me.

Date: 2012-12-27 11:33 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] greatestheroine.livejournal.com
You did mention that this one took you probably 6months to write (started June, right?), and can I just tell you that not a single month wasted. REALLY. This is just, uuuugh! <3!

Their divorce is killing my shipping heart one day at a time. It fookin hurts.

Date: 2012-12-27 05:43 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] cupcakegirla.livejournal.com
Yes, June! :D lol.

and I know! I want Phlochte to just be together! Why can't it just happen!?

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