Archive of Our Own

His message arrives like clockwork.

vi_vanderlane: did you watch

Caitlyn sips her tea and eyes her phone.

On the TV, the post-match coverage rolls through. Replays and analysis.

She watches, for probably the fifth time, a bald footballer in a black jersey with 2 on the back line up to take a penalty kick. The keeper squares up, braced, in his hot pink keeper kit, matching gloves and all. Sweat drips down the side of his face. He squints at his opponent. He looks calm. Behind him, the crowd are grumbling about the penalty being a load of shit in the first place, and behind them, the scoreboard reads 1-0 in their favour, with barely 70 seconds of the three minutes of overtime left. Everyone falls silent when #2 steps toward the ball.

It's a tricky delivery. His body front-on, the side of his boot connecting hard.

The keeper reads it beautifully—telepathic. He’s already moving, leaping, stretching.

It hurtles in a sharp arc towards the top left corner.

The ball spins into the dead centre of his gloves like they both planned it. Ricochets away.

The crowd are on their feet before the keeper hits the turf.

“He’s done it! Full stretch! What a save!”

The stadium erupts. The keeper’s bounced up, a huge grass stain down his side and a huger grin on his sweaty face, and as he sprints to the sideline with his cheering teammates on his tail, he backflips—something of a personal trademark—landing on his feet to increased roars from the fans.

“What a joy this is to witness. The Flares have bagged a much-needed win, and it is in thanks, largely, to their keeper, Vi Vander-Lane, as it has been so many times so far this season.”

The Zaun City Flares had made it to fifth on the ladder, not yet mid-way through the season. They’ve barely been within the top ten since the team formed four years ago.

It doesn’t sound like a lot, but Caitlyn knows it’s special for a young team that’s worked as hard as they have. Special, particularly, to the red-faced keeper in the offensively pink kit, hollering at the crowd with his fists in the air.

Caitlyn shifts her mug into one hand and picks up her phone.

caitkira: Do you train the backflips, or is that something you have to carve out time for?

vivander_lane: you loved it

She sends him a single sparkling heart emoji, because while she won’t give him the satisfaction, she did, despite herself, leap off her couch and scream in the moment.

Vi sends back ten little yellow smug emoji faces wearing sunglasses, because he does, unfortunately, know she would have.

////

“This one?”

Caitlyn pauses her sorting and squints at him. Thinks.

“No.”

Vi hangs it back on the rack with the other shirts, pauses, selects another.

“No?”

Caitlyn doesn’t have to think this time.

“No.”

Back it goes. He reaches for another—

“God no, no, put that back-”

“I hadn’t even-”

“I saw what you were thinking, and no.”

“It’s nice?”

“It’s brown.”

“Brown can be nice, why can’t brown be nice?”

“Brown can be nice on me. You have neither the complexion nor the hair colour.”

Vi frowns at the shirt that didn’t make it into his hands, clearly evaluating himself. His freckles, his piercings, his tattoos. His red hair, shaved close around the sides and thicker, longer on top. His stubble, darker than what’s on his head, which Caitlyn knows he spends a lot of time keeping trimmed, tidy. Him and his manscaping.

“Right,” he says, slowly. “So it doesn’t go with flawless skin and incredible hair, is what I heard.”

Caitlyn smirks at a lavender button-up with white accents on the cuffs and adds it to the pile draped over her arm.

“Yes,” she says, turning her smirk on him to catch him smirking, in turn, at her. “My shit skin and atrocious haircut is exactly why I can pull off brown.”

“Good,” says Vi, like he’s learned something.

“Good,” says Caitlyn, like she’s taught him.

“I can’t do that,” Vi says then, catching sight of one of the shirts she’s holding.

Caitlyn doesn’t bother to get him to elaborate; she’s confident in her choices, and in the likelihood of Vi disagreeing with most of them.

“You asked me to help, didn’t you?”

“That’s an interesting way of saying you bullied me into doing this.” Before she can interject, he adds, for the hundredth time, “I already have a nice shirt.”

“A nice shirt you’ve confessed to wearing on every other occasion you’ve needed to wear a nice shirt.”

“I’m getting my money’s worth. It’s a nice shirt.”

It’s a deep red and purple pattern, which could go either way, but it works, and it fits him well, and she’s seen him wear it with a black tie, and without any tie, and always in his equally beloved grey suit, the one with the black buttons and the narrow lapel.

“It is,” Caitlyn says, eyeing off an emerald green shirt with a subtle white flower pattern on it she finds charming. She’d sworn to herself no greens, but this might be the exception. “And it’s time you added to the collection.”

“That’s pretty.” Vi rubs the sleeve of the green shirt between his fingers. He’s particular about fabric.

“You like this one?”

“Yeah. The pattern’s nice. Subtle. Come on, last one. I’ll need food soon.”

“You always need food.”

Vi grins. Responds with the same thing he always says when she points out his limitless appetite: “I’m a growing boy.”

And he strides to the change rooms at the back of the oversized men’s formal wear store while Caitlyn trails behind, trying not to get sidetracked by another shirt or a pile of slacks, and imaginings of how good Vi would look wearing them to this fundraising dinner next week. Or, ceremony—every time they talk about it, Vi makes sure to remind Caitlyn it’s a ceremony, thanks to a wholly unrelated lifetime achievement award… thing they’re giving a board member the same night.

He's been invited along with his brother and fellow Flares player, Mylo, to represent the League’s fastest-rising club in seasons and drum up support for an organisation working with LGBTQIA+ youth. There’s an auction, a half-day training camp on offer run by the Vander-Lane brothers.

Vi’s days away from offering to join the company formally as an ambassador, to make some sort of more meaningful contribution. He wants to help, he says. Raise the organisation’s profile in some truly tangible way. He’s one of the national league’s most beloved players, the star of an underdog team on a steady hard-earned rise. To say nothing of his very public profile as a trans athlete in a sporting world still learning how to be more inclusive. Probably, he’ll make a sizable donation of his own.

Caitlyn watches him get distracted by a wall of novelty socks and reminds herself over two million people follow him on Instagram.

“What?” he says, catching her smiling, and catching her catching him.

“Nothing,” she says, only smiling more.

It makes him smile, too, a lightly confused mirroring.

Not even sure what she’s smiling about, and still willing to join her in it.

She hands him the shirts and sits on the bench outside the change rooms, watches his dirty white Nikes shuffle through the low gap under the door. What dress shoes does he usually wear? Loafers, she thinks. Black, shiny silver buckles. It’ll be nice to see him get dressed up again. She’s a little jealous. She enjoys getting dressed up, when the occasion calls for it. They’d have fun together. But he hasn’t asked, and it doesn’t matter. It’s not like he’s scored himself a ticket to the Golden Globes.

“So this… dinner,” she starts, despite herself.

“Ceremony.”

“Are you going with anyone?”

“They invited Mylo, too. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Oh, no, you did. Yes.”

“He’s more excited than I am. Dunno why.”

“Free food, free drink…”

“Right, right.”

“Time with his brother?”

A graceless snort comes from the other side of the door. “Sure. ‘Cause we’re both starving for opportunities to spend time together.”

“I don’t know,” Caitlyn says, reclining on her bench seat. “You’re usually so far, all the way down the end of the pitch. Poor Mylo’s busy giving the other keeper hell…”

“He can feel my eyes on the back of his head. He’s told me.”

“Wait—What are you doing? You have to show me.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t take it off without showing me.”

A pause.

“How do you know what I’m doing?”

“I can see your feet.”

“You can not tell what I’m doing from my feet.”

“Levi.”

“It’s not right. Trust me.”

“Come on. Please.”

Another pause. A sigh. The door unlocks, swings inwards. There he is.

It’s the lavender one with the white cuffs. Vi’s face is screwed up. Caitlyn tries not to enjoy the astronomical level of petulance.

“You haven’t even done it up.”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s nice.”

“But it’s…” He turns his back to her to face the change room mirror. “It looks like it started out white and I accidentally washed it with your PU hoodie. The purple one.”

“The one you stole.”

“Yeah. That.”

Caitlyn doesn’t bother getting up. It’s only the first shirt, and she’s not about to pressure him into something he doesn’t feel good in.

“Alright. Try another one.”

The door closes. Vi’s stance changes as he takes it off. Coat hangers rattle quietly.

Caitlyn fiddles with the various rings on her fingers. Turns and turns. She wonders if Mylo’s taking anyone to the dinner. Ceremony. Thing.

It’s silly. She needs to stop thinking about it.

She clears her throat. Makes a stab at sounding casual.

“Is Mylo taking anyone, do you know?”

“To the dinner?”

“Ceremony.”

“Uh… He did tell me. I can’t remember her name.”

“I’m surprised Mylo can remember her name.”

“Sad, but true.”

“So you’re like, allowed to take someone. If you wanted.”

“I guess so.”

“Right.”

She has never sounded less casual in her life.

“I don’t know if I like this one either,” he says then, saving her from herself.

“Let me see.”

The door opens. He hasn’t done the buttons again. She can see his freckled skin, his happy trail, the edges of the long-faded scars on his chest where they meet in the middle. That petulance, too, written all over his face.

Gods, but he is rather good-looking.

Caitlyn’s on her feet again, reaching to sort him out. “You have to at least try.”

“I really don’t want this to take all day.”

“And you think I do?”

“You live for it.”

“I really don’t.”

“How many outfits have you picked out for me in the three minutes you’ve sat there waiting?”

Caitlyn looks up from threading buttons through loops and meets his soft gaze, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“That depends on how you feel about waistcoats.”

“I am pro-waistcoat.”

“Four, then.”

He tsks, disappointed. “I would’ve thought like, eight.”

“The day is young.” She straightens his collar, the tattoo that covers his back and stretches up one side of his neck peeking over the top of it—a tree branch, leaves. She leans back to appraise him. “It’s okay? No?”

He looks down at himself. “Maybe?”

“Maybe. Alright.” She makes a circular motion in the air with a finger. “Next.”

They get through two more shirts, one he refuses to even show her and one other soft maybe.

“I used to hate this, you know,” he says, from the other side of the door. She’s about to make a joke along the lines of is this you enjoying yourself? when he continues. “Nothing like, fit right. Ever. Stupid button-ups. All the guys in the ads always looked so sharp and cool and then I’d put one on and it was just… wrong.”

Caitlyn takes this in. The most prominent sentiment is:

“That must have been difficult.”

“Took me years to figure out what the hell was going on. Now I have memories of undoing and redoing the buttons thinking but why can’t it sit flat? and then thinking that was like, a stupid thing to think. ‘Cause y’know. Totally a woman. Totally supposed to have boobs. Not that one equals the other.”

“Of course.”

“When I realised there was another option…” He whistles, low and amazed. “Blew my mind.”

The door opens. This one’s a plain deep navy, all over. The cut suits him, hugs his shoulders, his arms. Caitlyn steps up to her buttoning duties.

“Well,” she says, focusing on the feel of the smooth fabric and trying to decide the right thing to say. She loves when Vi shares things with her about his gender identity journey, and only worries her responses trend towards being woefully inadequate. “I’m very happy you figured it out.”

“You and me both.”

She smiles at her handiwork, and at him. The shirt's probably a bit boring for the intended purpose, but maybe she can convince him to add it to his collection for some other occasion.

“Very nice,” she says, and then, just an observation, “Very flat.”

Apparently that is the right thing to say. Vi looks beyond pleased.

She’s kept her hand on his chest, which is probably odd, even if it doesn’t feel it. She takes it away, and he turns back to the mirror behind him to run his hand down his front, tuck the edges into his jeans some more.

“What was it like? The surgery? If that’s not—Can I ask that?”

“It was terrifying. Even though I wanted it like crazy. And expensive. It felt so indulgent. Still does, sometimes.”

“It’s not indulgent to want to be comfortable.”

“Yeah. No. You’re right. Just… brains.”

“I can’t imagine looking in the mirror every day and feeling like something’s so out of place.”

“You’ve never hated something about your reflection?”

“Nothing like that. My little tooth gap, maybe, when I was younger. Not anymore.”

“Your tooth gap is cute.”

“Um. Thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” he responds, sounding amused in a way she can’t make sense of. Then the door’s closed again.

Caitlyn switches to checking her phone, finding herself in need of a mindless distraction after such a randomly intimate moment. Her brother Jayce, on a long overdue holiday currently, has sent her a picture of him and his husband Viktor smiling and holding umbrella drinks on a poolside deckchair, with a bunch of palm tree emojis and hearts. She takes a quick picture of herself giving him the finger and sends it.

Which is when Vi suddenly makes a low noise of approval from the other side of the door.

“What?”

“O-kay.”

“What?”

“Alright. Alright. This is—I think we did it.”

“Show me.”

“I don’t know if you can handle it.”

“Handle what?”

“How extremely hot I look.”

“I’ll brace myself, then.”

“Hoo boy.”

She leans back. Crosses her legs. Taps her phone screen with a fingernail.

“Whenever you’re ready, hotshot.”

The door comes open slowly. He’s leaning on it, his hand clasped over the top corner, hip cocked. Striking a pose. He’s pulled his sunglasses out of his back pocket and put them on, resting low on his nose so he can look at her over the top of the frames.

Caitlyn’s hand flies to her mouth. As if she can shove both the smile and the laugh back into it.

Vi grins, borderline feral.

“Right?”

“Oh, god…”

He lets the door go. Tosses his head back. Struts toward her on a runway of his own imagining.

“Oh god is right!”

“It’s giving me a migraine.”

He does a spin.

“Oh, no, it’s worse when you do that.”

“I feel so powerful.”

“I made a mistake.”

“With this? Ma’am. No. No, no, no.”

He turns back to the mirror. She thinks he’s two seconds from doing some kind of exuberant karate kick.

The shirt is bright pink with gold swirls, and in Caitlyn’s defence, it looked less insane on the hanger. She added it to the pile in an attempt to meet Vi halfway with something that had some personality (yes), had the most chance of appeasing him (fuck), had the possibility of looking surprisingly decent (no).

“I love it.”

“It’s awful.”

“You picked it!”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“I’m buying it. It’s this one.”

“It’s clashing with your hair something horrible.”

“I’ll dye it.” Caitlyn laughs again, because he’s being an idiot, which always turns her into one, which only encourages him. “Or I’ll shave it all off."

“Your suit is grey.”

“Grey goes with everything.”

“And your belt is black, and your cufflinks are silver, and—You can’t wear grey, silver, pink and gold. I won’t let you.”

“So you’re saying if we get me a black suit, I can have the shirt?”

“That is absolutely not what I said.”

“It’s a little bit what you said. C’mon. As if you don’t wanna turn this into a full-on suit-shopping trip. For me?”

Caitlyn sags. She can feel her resolve waning.

He’s watching. Knows he’s nearly got her. His grin is cautious, his eyes wide.

As if she would ever truly stand between Vi and happiness, in any context.

“And shoes.”

“And shoes, yes, great.”

“And belt.”

“What’s wrong with my belt?”

“And belt.”

“Okay, okay, whatever. All of it.”

Caitlyn looks at him. The hot pink. The swirly gold pattern, metallic and shiny. It curves and loops, over his arms, his shoulders. Christ. Maybe if he rolled the sleeves up. Found the right tie. His jeans aren’t helping to sell it, she has to admit that. She tries picturing him in slacks.

“Fine,” she says, hating herself. “Fine. If that’s… Sure.”

Vi’s completely still. For far, far too long.

Then his grin grows. Far, far too much.

His posture—preening, insufferable—changes. Falters.

“Wait. Really?”

Caitlyn blinks.

“… Yes?”

“Oh my god.” He stops. Starts laughing. Stops again. “Wow. That was so fast.”

“What?”

Vi’s laughter intensifies. He turns back to the change room.

“Really thought I’d have to work harder than that.”

“I… excuse me?”

“I’m not getting this fucking shirt. Look at it!”

Caitlyn stares. Replays the past two minutes. His theatrics. His enthusiasm. That irresistible twinkle in his eyes.

She’s squeezing her phone so hard the screen might crack.

“But you… I thought… Oh my god-”

“Ohfuck-”

She leaps up. He squeaks—throws himself behind the change room door and slams it shut between them.

“You’re such a shit!”

Vi’s cackling grows louder. Caitlyn thumps the door, and dimly wonders how affectionately furious is a thing it’s possible to be. Thank god he can’t see her trying not to laugh again.

“I made a mistake,” he mimics, giggling maniacally. “Fuckin’ A. I can’t believe you won’t let me wear brown but you put that in the pile.”

Caitlyn does laugh at that—can’t be helped.

“I’ll remember this. You watch your back, sir.”

“If I ask you to go with me, do I get my name taken off your shit-list?”

The door comes open then, for what already feels like the final time. He’s got the emerald-green, white-flowers shirt on. He’s tucked it in, done up all the buttons, and is rolling up the sleeves. The rest of his back tattoo, overgrown branches and swirls of air and all sorts, runs along the backs of his arms, and she can see the ink stretching up to his wrists as his fingers fold the cuffs. He looks comfortable. Nice. Handsome, as predicted. There’s a gentle smile on his face now.

Caitlyn’s blushing. Furiously.

This can also not be helped.

“Go with you? To the dinner? Ceremony? Thing?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Who else would I go with?”

She stares at him, him and his warm grey eyes. He’s left his stupid sunglasses on top of his stupid head. He matches her gaze, and she adds affectionately puzzled to the long list of new emotions he seems to bring out in her.

“You don’t have to,” is her ridiculous response. She wants it so much, and feels so silly about it, giving him the opportunity to change his mind feels like the least she can do.

“I know I don’t have to.”

“If you just want to spend time with Mylo, I mean.”

“Mylo’s gonna be tied up with—Janet! Her name’s Janet.”

“You’ll be working. Technically.”

“I’ll be shmoozing. You can help.”

“Are you sure?”

Vi takes both of her hands, from where she’s—oops—absently fussing with his collar, his sleeves. Looks deep into her eyes, soft and warm as ever.

“Caitlyn Kiramman,” he says, sounding very serious. “Can we please stop pretending you haven’t been fishing for an invite for weeks and skip to the part where you say yes so I can buy this shirt and get some goddamn food?”

She shoves him into the change room and pulls the door closed on him.

////

Her roommate, Mel, texts her on her way to work. A picture of a billboard on the side of a building. A Nike advertisement. Vi, decked out in a tracksuit, arms folded, looking fiercely into the middle distance.

Mel: Does this mean he can get us free gear??

Caitlyn: Oh. Maybe? I haven’t asked.

Mel: … This entire situation is wasted on you.

Caitlyn: Agreed.

////

On weekends, when he’s home, she joins him for breakfast. He lives by himself, which she sometimes wonders if he doesn’t entirely like, and he also has the better kitchen. It usually evolves into them spending the day together, and they usually don’t even plan it.

“Do you have any allergies?”

Vi pauses with half his second sandwich partway to his mouth. Toasted ham and cheese, white bread. She thinks it’s adorable and has chosen not to say so.

“Me?”

“No, the other person in the room with us right now.”

“Allergies... Not really. Can’t go too hard on dairy.”

“What happens if you do?”

“That is not polite mealtime conversation.”

“You’re eating ham and cheese right now.”

“Yeah, two. Not ten.”

“What’s your favourite breakfast food?”

“This,” he says, around a mouthful.

“Really?”

His mouth quirks. His eyes soften. He’s humouring her.

“Yes. Really.”

“Second favourite.”

“Coco Pops.”

“I can’t believe you’re an elite athlete.”

“Alright, a bagel. With bacon.”

“Not bacon and egg?”

“Hate egg. Which is a pain in the ass. All that protein in such a disgusting package.”

“So breakfast is usually some version of meat-in-bread. What do you eat for lunch? Cereal?”

“Cereal’s for dinner time.” She smiles at his gentle teasing. “Why’re you asking?”

“I nearly stopped on my way over to get us something, then realised I didn’t know what you liked.”

“Aw. Thanks. But I have plenty here. And like, a whole fitness and wellbeing team to keep me honest.”

“I suppose someone has to eat all this muesli and fruit, or they’ll get suspicious.”

“You’re doing me a favour, coming over and eating my food.”

“Why do you even buy it if you don’t use it?”

“Uh. For you?”

Caitlyn pauses, her hand in the fridge, on a punnet of blueberries. Blueberries he’s made sure are here so she can put them on her muesli.

“You know you can just Google me,” he says then. “That’d answer like, literally any question you have, probably.”

“I can’t Google you.”

“You can, actually. I’m kind of a big deal.”

“Anyone can be Googled. You’re not that special.”

“You’ve already done it, haven’t you. I can tell.”

Once. One time.

Alright.

Maybe twice.

“What does the Googs have to say about me these days?”

“Am I supposed to believe that you don’t Google yourself from time to time?”

“God, no. Key pillar of my mental healthcare plan. Never read the comments. Don’t fucking Google yourself.”

Caitlyn busies herself mixing muesli, honey, yoghurt, berries. Thinks about adding a teaspoon of cocoa.

There is something that had been on her mind. She didn’t know how to bring it up.

“Well,” she says, opting out of the cocoa. “I read something about how you… you were homeless, for a time. You and your siblings.”

Vi wipes melted cheese off his chin. He regards her a moment. Looking at her looking at him.

“Yeah,” he says, eventually. “That’s true.”

It surprises her, and it doesn’t. Enough articles and interviews told the same type of story. She couldn’t wrap her head around it, is all. Still can’t.

“As in… homeless homeless?”

Vi lifts a shoulder.

“What’s not-homeless homeless look like?”

“I don’t know. It makes it sound like you slept under bridges and begged for pennies.”

“… I’m starting to worry you don’t know what homeless means.”

“Be serious.”

“I am.”

Caitlyn pauses with her spoon partway to her mouth. Sees the honesty, and—oh—vulnerability on Vi’s face.

“Right.”

Vi shrugs. Takes another bite of his food.

Caitlyn’s not comfortable with his silence.

“You just—You know. Don’t seem like… the type.”

Vi raises an eyebrow.

She should probably learn how to get comfortable with his silence.

“The type?”

“To be homeless.”

“What’s that mean?”

Caitlyn sighs. Nothing’s coming out right. Surely he knows what she means.

“You know what I mean.”

“That I’m what, normal? White?”

“Come on, that’s not fair.”

“You’re saying I’m not the type of person who’d be homeless and I’m saying I was homeless. For a couple years, actually. Me and my siblings. And now you’re looking down your nose at me trying to put two and two together.”

“I’m not.”

“It’s fine. I get it.”

“No, you just—We see homeless people, all the time, at the train station and-”

“And they’re like, disgusting, right?”

“No, that isn’t-”

“The idea that any of them could be normal, decent people just having a hard time is like, preposterous to you.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, you know I don’t think like that.”

“Do I?”

“Don’t you?”

Vi stands then. The stool scrapes backward on the tile, loud, and the noise seems to shake him, somehow. He closes his mouth. Looks down, at his food. Drums his fingers on the counter. And he grabs his plate and his water bottle.

“I’m going downstairs.”

“What?”

“To the gym,” he says. His voice is measured. His movements stiff. “I was going to exercise after I’d eaten so I’m going to do that now.”

“We’re in the middle of a…”

But he’s turned around, taken his keys from the bowl by the door.

“Vi?”

It opens, it closes.

Gone.

In a couple days, Caitlyn will think it’s a little funny how he took his food, left in his Adidas slides and socks, neglected to grab his headphones off the counter. Maybe he spends most of the time sitting next to the weights rack, eating and glowering.

For now, she only feels shocked, and deeply unsure what to do with being left alone in Vi’s very empty, very quiet apartment.

A workout? Mid-conversation?

Mid-argument. Same difference.

How fucking rude.

Caitlyn glares at the door. Thinks to go after him. Thinks to gather her things and leave, then, if that’s what he’s going to be like.

She puts her leftover muesli in the fridge, no longer hungry. She wipes the bench over, rinses the cloth, hangs it over the top of the tap. Realises it’s getting cool, and closes the balcony door.

Then she sits on the couch with her phone. Puts the TV on. Doesn’t watch it.

The clock ticks, and her anxiety stirs.

I should leave. What’s the point of staying?

Leaving now doesn’t feel right.

Though, Vi left. So he clearly doesn’t care.

Perhaps he needs space.

Or perhaps he’ll come back, expecting to have his apartment to himself, and you’re still here, for whatever stupid reason, and he’ll only resent you further.

She doesn’t realise she’s actively waiting—waiting to talk, waiting to listen, waiting for Vi—until the front door unlocks, opens, and there he is, the cotton of his shirt dark with sweat, skin flushed and slick, breathing still returning to normal. Empty plate, empty water bottle.

Caitlyn looks away as quickly as she looked over. She’s not sure if she was supposed to stay. She’s not sure where the past, God, seventy minutes went. Most of all, she’s not sure if she can take the unease that’s found its way between the two of them one moment longer.

Vi puts his things in the sink. Fills a glass with water and drinks it, refills it.

He comes to stand beside the couch. His breathing’s still a bit heavy.

“I need to shower,” he tells her. “Can you wait a bit longer?”

Caitlyn gives a small nod. There’s something about the way Vi’s tone has shifted, his actions become deliberate, that feels meaningful. She’s having trouble holding on to her anger.

Then he’s showered, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, barefoot. He smells like hot water and soap when he sits next to her on the couch, his hair damp.

He takes a breath. Watches the silent TV a second.

And he says, "I don’t like to get angry.”

Caitlyn tries to think of a response, but he’s already talking again.

“I could feel myself getting angry,” he says, in that measured way she’d heard before he left. Control, she realises. He’s trying to stay in control. “It’s… something I’m working on.” He sighs. Caitlyn thinks there might be a bit of annoyance to it, and thinks it might not be directed at her. “I don’t always know what to do except leave.”

Caitlyn takes that in. Fiddles with her phone.

“I wish you hadn’t.”

“I know.”

“It felt rude. Or like you were… punishing me, somehow.”

He turns to her, visibly frustrated. “Jesus, no, of course not-”

“It’s alright. I think I understand now.”

“Shit…”

He goes to rub at his face, scratch it, a subconscious flare of agitation—directed inward, like Caitlyn had thought.

“Hey. Don’t do that.”

She takes his hand. Holds it. She wants to be more annoyed, but clearly Vi has the monopoly on that particular emotion.

“It sounds difficult,” she offers. “To want to lash out, and recognise it before you do.”

“Hm,” is all Vi says.

“I suppose I’d… I’d rather you did leave, if the alternative is we end up arguing over something we don’t need to argue about.”

“That’s the idea.”

She squeezes his hand.

“Can you tell me what’s bothering you? What’s really bothering you. I hope you already know I’m hardly disgusted by homeless people.”

He starts playing with her fingers. Like he wants to let go, and also doesn’t.

He’s quiet so long she thinks he might’ve decided not to tell her. Until he does.

“Sometimes I don’t get why someone like you would be friends with someone like me in the first place.” He rubs his face with his free hand, more calmly. “It’s like I’m—Like one day there’ll be like, this thing, this reason, you’ll learn something about me and you’ll go, shit, not sticking around here anymore. You asked me about the whole homelessness thing and… I dunno.”

“You thought I’d have a problem with it?”

“Your opinion matters to me. Your opinion of me… matters to me.”

Caitlyn stares dumbly into the corner of the living room, where the weird floor lamp that came with the modest apartment furnishings sits. Can feel Vi still holding her index finger, running his finger over the knuckle and back. Her mouth’s open. She closes it. Opens it. Closes it.

Of all the ridiculous…

Vi’s watching her, possibly nervous, in the corner of her eye.

“What?” he asks—and, yes, there’s nerves there.

“You do know you’re famous, don’t you? As in, there’s a billboard down the road from my apartment with your face on it, thirty feet tall, famous.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“People think I’m making it up, that I know you. I’ll feel all proud of you winning on the weekend and I’ll be talking to someone at work and they think I’m mad. Whenever you message me, I’ll see the notification and the first thing I think is, Oh. What’s he messaging me for? Out of all the people on the planet who’d die to spend time with you, you keep asking me to do it. And I’m just… me. I’m so—boring. I just work. And read. And sleep.”

He’s frowning at her like she has eighteen heads and just admitted she doesn’t understand the appeal of pizza.

“I think you’re amazing,” he says, plainly.

“I think you are amazing, and the difference is I’m actually right.”

An eye roll, now. At least he’s more relaxed. “That is not the difference, Kiramman.”

Caitlyn squeezes his hand. Can feel he’s on more of an even keel. That they both are.

A rather overwhelming amount of affection hits her, as it so often does in his company.

Affection, and a determination to tread lightly.

Think before you speak, Kiramman.

“I didn’t ask you about your time being homeless because it bothered me,” she says, carefully. “I just… I do think you’re amazing. And I want to know more about you. Without Google, or any of that nonsense. I was—am—curious about that time in your life, about everything, but I suppose I… feel a bit silly. It’s jarring, to realise the reality of all the stupid articles I read about you, interviews and things, that it actually happened.”

A tentative smirk. “I knew you Googled me.”

“It’s what I get for being a gigantically privileged arsehole, I think.”

“Come on. I get paid to travel around the country catching a ball someone kicks at me. It should be illegal.”

Caitlyn appreciates his leniency, even if it only magnifies her discomfort. As much as she’s still learning about him, the same applies in the other direction. Vi must have picked up on the fact her family is, to use the nose-wrinkling euphemism, well-off. She’s feeling rather nauseous about the eventuality of him discovering the real extent of things, even if she distanced herself from it all a long time ago.

And Vi’s worried she would judge him.

“You’ve worked hard,” she says. “Everything you have, you’ve earned. Mine is a… a rather uncomfortable birthright, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t have to be so apologetic about it. Like. Being guilty about your privilege doesn’t make you less privileged.”

Caitlyn leans back on the couch, uncertain how to respond. Their hands are still together, and when she leans back, she also leans against him.

He leans back, too, a kind of welcoming. It comforts her.

“It’s not going to happen in one conversation,” she says, to herself as much as him. “Getting to know each other, I mean. It takes time, a long time, to get the whole picture, and then even longer to actually see it, doesn't it. To really appreciate it. We can just... start with the pieces. Little pieces. Whatever you want to share. Whenever you want to share it.”

Vi hums. Squeezes her thumb between his fingers.

“Kinda daunting. You already know way more about me than I do about you.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s super true.”

“It is not.”

“Okay. Okay. Let’s see.” He looks blankly across the room, thinking. “You like reading. You do not like crowds. You’re like, filthy rich. And you-”

She rears back as if stunned. The motion halts him.

“Wait,” she says. “I’m—What?”

“You said you’d like football way more if it weren’t for all the people?”

“No I’m—It’s—Not filthy.”

“Oh, that. No. Stinkin’ fuckin’ loaded.”

“We’re just-”

“Don’t say comfortable, I’m begging you.”

Caitlyn gapes at him.

Okay. So. Right. Okay.

“It’s not even… me. It’s—my family, my parents.”

“Please tell me you know what a pointless distinction that is.”

Caitlyn rubs her forehead.

Fuck.

“How did you know?”

“Like you said. Everyone’s Googleable.”

“Christ.”

“It’s cute how much volunteering your dad does. Gotta be honest though, your mom seems-”

“We are not talking about my mother right now.”

Vi chuckles.

Caitlyn does not get the joke.

“You’re fun when you’re caught off balance.” He takes her hand back, holding it between both of his. She gets the feeling she’s being handled with care, and hates that it seems to be working. “Sorry. Little pieces. I don’t want to rush getting to know you, anyways. I enjoy it too much.”

Caitlyn blinks at him.

“You… say the sweetest things, sometimes. I can never tell if you’re being serious or getting ready to wind me up again.”

“Can’t it be both?”

They smile at each other. A quiet truce.

“So,” he says, getting settled next to her on the couch. “Tell me more about all this Googling you did.”

She huffs a laugh at him.

“Please. This wildly popular footballer popped up in my actual real life, like that’s a totally normal thing that happens to people. I had to know what I was in for.”

“And what were you in for?”

“A surprise,” she says, honestly. “A very nice surprise.”

He seems to like that answer.

Says, softly, “You surprised me, too.”

Caitlyn wonders if she means it more than he does, or in a different way.

Except he’s still looking at her, and holding her hand, and… No.

Probably, they’ve said the same thing because they’re saying the same thing.

////

A week after their first adult conversation, as Vi will start to call it, they’re walking from the cinema to a restaurant, bundled in coats and hats, and Caitlyn’s got her arm linked with his while they walk, and the sun’s nearly done setting.

Vi gestures with a nod. “We used to live in one of those.”

Caitlyn follows his eye. An old station wagon, parked at the curb on the other side of the road.

“The brown one?”

“It was green. Clag got a job, cleaning in some office building. We agreed getting a car was the best first thing to do. Total piece of shit. We loved it.”

They’re stopped at a street corner, waiting for the crossing light to change. There’s a fondness in Vi’s voice. Reminiscence.

“What did you like about it?”

He shrugs the arm she’s holding onto, his hands deep in his pockets. “It was ours. At the end of every day we’d pile in. We’d talk, eat, play cards.” His nose wrinkles. “We don’t see each other much these days. Except for Mylo, being on the team and all. I miss it, sometimes. Which sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t.”

Vi smiles, a sad little thing. He’s still looking at the car.

“Our parents loved us,” he says then. “Mom was mad about football. Dad read like, a book a day. They were good people. Addiction is just… They needed more help than they got. They died at a house party thing. Someone started a fire. Just really, really… really bad luck.” He takes a breath. Lets it out, the air turning cloudy in front of his face. “Google doesn’t tell people any of that. I wish it did.”

Caitlyn stands beside him and rests her head on his shoulder.

When the crossing light turns green, neither of them move.

////

Mel: Ask him to explain the offside rule.

Caitlyn: No thank you.

////

He travels with the team for days, sometimes a week, at a time.

They message often, and she catches more than her fair share of updates from her online sources, or the sports headlines, or her brother, who will never not be furious she’s accidentally befriended someone whose face is printed on cereal boxes.

Vi gets back from a two-game away stint, the latter of which was a loss. She expects it to darken his mood, to find him stewing in defeat or at least a bit exhausted, but when he meets her outside their favourite pub the day after, he seems almost giddy.

“Missed you,” he says, bouncing lightly on his feet, though that could be an attempt to ward off the freezing air.

“Same, to you. I thought you might cancel, though.”

“Cancel? Why?”

“Last night. You lost.”

“Oh, that. Nah. Whatever.”

“You don’t mind losing?”

“Hate it.”

“You’re doing a good impression of a person who doesn’t, then.”

“We played pretty well. It was like, a whole twelve hours ago.” He shrugs. “Now I get to see you. So I’m happy.”

Caitlyn has no idea what to say to that. He grabs her hand and pulls her towards the entrance.

“Come on. If I don’t get lunch soon I might die.”

They find a table out in the back courtyard under a heater, and they’ve been seated not long when someone approaching in the periphery of her vision gets Caitlyn’s attention. A woman, early 40s, with dark hair and a friendly face. She has her hands resting on the shoulders of a young person she’s gently steering their way.

Vi’s engrossed in the menu. Caitlyn nudges him with her foot. He looks up, and his face goes from neutral to polite; he’s clocked it, too.

“Excuse us…”

Vi smiles warmly at the two of them.

God, he’s so good at this.

“Hi there.”

The kid looks like they can’t decide between excitement or terror. The woman—their mum, most likely—pushes on.

“We’re—We’re so sorry to interrupt your lunch, but, my son just loves you, and we wondered if we could maybe get a photo?”

Caitlyn watches, amused and totally forgotten. She is not the person people want to talk to, when this happens.

“Yeah, for sure. Hey dude. I’m Vi.”

The kid looks at his mum, who smiles her encouragement. “Tell him your name, bud.”

Summoning a remarkable amount of bravery, the kid says to the air beside Vi’s head, “Hi. I’m Blake.”

“Blake’s a sick name.”

Blake grins—a free, infectious thing. He meets Vi’s eyes for the first time.

“I picked it. It’s from my favourite book.”

“Then you have excellent taste.”

He takes a tiny step forward. Caitlyn notices he’s got a small plastic toy clutched in his hands, and he’s fiddling absently with a part of it. A little Formula 1 race car, she thinks it is. He’s flicking a wheel with his thumb over and over so it spins.

“Was your name always Vi?”

“Buddy.”

“No, it’s cool. It was, actually. But I changed it to Levi ages ago, ‘cause I didn’t like what it started out as.”

Blake grins in awe. “Wicked.”

“Blake’s thirteen next week,” his mother says, rubbing his shoulders. “He’s got your jersey, and your pictures on his wall. He loves watching you play. We both do.”

“Oh yeah? Do you make it to any games?”

“We did once,” says Blake, animated now. “I was worried I wouldn’t like all the noise but it was really cool. You beat the Barons two-nil.”

“Heck yeah, we did.”

“We’re not going to any this year because Mum says we have to save for hormones and surgery. Which is okay. It’ll be worth it. We watch on TV with my sister Casey. She’s over there.”

Caitlyn spots a girl a few years older than Blake watching with interest. She waves, and the girl waves back.

“That’s cool,” says Vi. “I have a sister, too, but she hates football.”

Blake smiles at that, his eyes darting away, his hands turning the toy car around over and over. He seems to notice Caitlyn for the first time.

“Hi,” he says to her, shy again.

“Hello. I like your car.”

And the shyness is gone.

“I have proper fidget toys like a snake and a metal thing and a squishy ball. But if I have this one nobody makes fun of me ‘cause it doesn’t look as stupid.”

She glances at his mum, like she needs her permission to interact more with the kid. This is new territory, but Caitlyn’s game.

“Well,” she starts. “It doesn’t look stupid to me at all. I’m always fidgeting with things.”

“That’s true,” says Vi. “Always. Sometimes with me. She likes to fiddle with my sleeves, my hair...”

“It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. But if you ever get tired of carrying something around, this is what I do.” She holds her hands up, wriggles her fingers. Blake takes in the plain silver rings she’s got on each hand. “Some I always have on, and some I take off and play with. The trick is not losing them when you drop one.”

“That’s a cool idea.”

“Shall we?” Vi says, nodding to the phone Blake’s mum is clutching.

“Here, let me.”

Caitlyn takes it from her and does her job as photographer. Everyone’s beaming. The first couple are Vi with Blake, grinning hard, and then Blake asks his mum to get in the photo, too. He smiles even wider when she does.

With that done, Vi takes out his own phone, tapping at it a second before handing it out to her.

“Listen, if you want, you can give me your details, and I’d be happy to get you tickets to the next home game.”

It feels more likely Vi will make them both lifetime members if he can.

Blake’s mum puts her hand up, already turning him down.

“Oh, no, that’s—You don’t have to-”

“I want to. Seriously.” He looks to Blake. “Us boys have to stick together, right?”

“I’m gonna go tell Casey!”

And he’s off, bolting to the other side of the courtyard.

His mum takes Vi’s phone to do as he’s asked. Caitlyn can see her eyes have started shining. Her hands shake when she types.

“Thank you,” she says, and her voice sounds too thick for her to just be talking about the tickets. “Visibility is—it’s the best thing for him. Thank you for just, God, being this amazing trans adult he can look up to. He had, um, a hard year, last year. It all seemed so big, and so difficult. Now he can see a future for himself.”

Vi’s reach slows when he goes to take his phone back.

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, totally. You’re welcome.”

The woman, whose name they still don’t have, clutches her phone to her chest.

“Anyway. Thank you so much for this.”

“Absolutely.”

She looks to Caitlyn, smiling wide. “Thank you,” she says, for the hundredth time. “Sorry to interrupt your…”

“No, no, of course. You’re fine.”

And she’s backing away with a few more quick thank-yous and an awkward wave.

Vi’s staring after her. He looks at his phone screen, before pocketing it.

“That was nice of you,” Caitlyn says. “The pictures, and your offer.”

He shrugs, smiles a preoccupied kind of smile. "I'll get them season passes. The least I can do.”

They order and eat, largely quiet. Vi’s gone pensive, and doesn’t even make attempts at stealing half her steak sandwich, as is the game they often play. Caitlyn makes a few light attempts at conversation. She’s not offended when it doesn’t work.

It’s only when they’re back out on the street in what little mid-afternoon sun there is that Vi speaks unprompted.

“That was weird, huh? That lady?”

They’re wandering towards the bank of the river that runs through this end of the city, cobblestones underfoot. He’s got his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets.

“How so?”

“I dunno. Just, what she said. How she… thanked me.”

The words come out clumsy, as if he doesn’t even know how to say it.

“You have fans approach you fairly often.”

“Not like that. She made it sound like I’d… I dunno. Done something for him.”

“I think that’s because you have.”

He’s quiet some more, looking ahead, to the water. Caitlyn follows his lead.

Then he sniffs. Wipes at his eyes quickly.

Mutters, “Shit.”

The sudden shift startles her. Caitlyn steps to him, reaches for his forearm, concern sinking through her. Stops just shy of touching him. Maybe he won’t want that, right now.

“Hey…”

“Sorry, no, I’m…”

“It’s okay.”

He keeps his focus downward. Takes a big, shaky breath.

“It’s just weird to—to be reminded you’re like, out there. People see you. All of you. Or not all of you, but, shit, a lot of you. Sometimes that’s just—a lot. Even when it’s good.”

She can’t imagine. She’s done some reading—a lot of reading. Not that a trans man is an entirely alien species, or that Vi wouldn’t prefer, largely, to be treated just like any other man. It’s only that his needs, his struggles, his vulnerabilities, could be more unique, from time to time. Require a different touch, a certain kind of comfort, space, support. Caitlyn’s as determined to care about those parts of him as she is hellbent on caring about the rest. To love him the way he bloody well deserves.

It sounds like the most vulnerable thing a person could do, to figure out a key part of their identity and share it with, well, anyone, much less the broader public, on a stage as large as the one Vi’s frequently on. Even when it goes well, when people applaud and adore you, as they so often do with him, you’re still exposed.

“It’s okay to feel a bit raw. You give so much of yourself. To the people you care about, to the world…”

Vi nods. Sniffs again.

“I dunno. I’m just being me, y’know? I’m not even trying to… I don’t have it all figured out. And there’s this kid—so many kids—struggling with all the stuff I struggled with but like, so much younger and the world’s so shitty sometimes and I’m like, so fucking amazed by him, and there he is with my pictures on his wall? Wearing my fucking jersey? Jesus. Where’s his jersey? Put his face on the damn Weeties box. He’s so—and I’m just-”

His face starts to crumble. Caitlyn shushes him, steps ever closer. She does touch his arm—she wants to help, desperately, and can’t decide how. What’s he need from her, in this moment? What can she possibly give?

“It’s okay,” she says, and it’s not enough. It can’t be. “It’s okay, I know.”

“Fuck. Sorry.” He digs his fingers into his eyes. “I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me.”

She gives him a few seconds. Stays close.

“You’re just processing. It’s a lot to sit with. It’s nice you can be an example of living a good life, but it would be nicer if kids like Blake—kids like you—never had reason to doubt that in the first place.”

Vi sighs. Nods some more. And nods and nods.

“Yeah,” he says. And then, “She seemed like a really nice mom.”

Cracks splinter in her chest. She knows both his parents are dead, that they died a long time ago. They haven't talked about it. Another thing this random interaction with a young trans boy and his loving mother has shaken loose in Vi, it seems.

“Yeah. She did.”

Vi looks at her now. Floundering as much as she is, for entirely different reasons.

“Can I please have a hug?”

Caitlyn gathers him against her instantly.

Relief floods her.

This, she can do.

This, she will always be able to do for him.

“It’s okay,” she says again, rubbing his back. “You’re okay.”

Vi shakes against her as he takes another breath in, another breath out. He clears his throat. It takes him a moment to put his arms around her. He does it loosely, his forehead resting on her shoulder. It becomes less of a hug, and more of a holding.

This, she can do, too.

Always always always.

Anchored by her role here, Caitlyn’s mind finds some clarity. She can feel the silent war waging in the man in her arms, unmistakable, now. An ocean of bittersweet sentiment no one person can hope to wade through alone.

Little pieces.

His picture gets clearer to her with every day that passes, and each time she stands back to take it in anew, he only ever becomes more beautiful.

“More than one thing can be true, love," she tells him, holding tightly. "You’re allowed to be happy for Blake, and proud of where you are now, and still wish things could be different for you both. For who you are today or who you were ten years ago.” Her fingers of one hand slip into the back of his hair, as if she can hold him any closer than she already is. “I hope you know that.”

Vi doesn’t respond. Not with words.

But when Caitlyn keeps her arms around his body, his head, starts a very slight rocking motion, he lets her, and that tells her enough. More than enough. Everything.

////

He gets better at letting her see him when he’s angry, at letting himself calm down with her instead of without her, at letting her help.

They meet up after a particularly trying day for both of them, and where Caitlyn quickly sets herself on his couch with her book and a large glass of wine to cope, sitting down seems the last thing on Vi’s mind.

“I shouldn’t have said yes. You know? I didn’t want to say yes, and I told Sevika I didn’t want to say yes, and then I said yes, and now here we fucking are, with me wishing I hadn’t said yes, and talking all about how next time, I’m not fucking going to, until next time fucking rolls around, and I end up fucking doing it.”

He’s talking to her from the kitchen. He seems to be choosing the loudest possible way to empty the dishwasher.

“It’s not even the shoot. I can do shoots. Like media day. You know I don’t hate media day. Remember last year? With the dogs? That was fucking cute. I’ll do that. Like I’m a footballer, not a showpony for any half-rate journo with a press pass, but whatever—team player. Good with the bad. Part of the job.”

A pile of tupperware is shoved into a cupboard it doesn’t belong in before the door gets banged shut.

“It’ll be a huge boost for your image. Don’t care. It’s a four-year deal. Why!? Think of the money. Like I’m not the only person in this fucking industry actually thinking about the fucking money.”

He goes to screw the lid on an empty shaker bottle, mucks it up, tries again, gives up and dumps the lid and bottle on the bench next to the kettle.

“I just—whatever. I thought I’d donate it all. That it’d be fun. They spun some bullshit about trans visibility, which—god damn it, you’d think I’d have a better radar for that shit by now. Absolutely fuck yourself. Don’t make my transness into some bullshit virtue-signalling cash cow and get mad when I see it for what it is.”

He’s pulling out plates now, stacking them on the counter before they all go in their drawer.

“Eight-and-a-half thousand pounds. Eight-and-a-half-fucking—nah man. That’s. Get fucked. Jesus. What so many people could do with money like that, and they’re sticking that price tag on a fucking jacket.”

The stack of plates makes it into his hands, if he even notices. It hasn’t stopped his wild gesturing.

“You would’ve hated it. Hated it. I hated it, and you know I don’t know anything about clothes. It had this—this weird collar, and the fabric was awful, so it felt like you were-”

“Darling?”

“What?”

“Plates?”

“Shit. Yes.” He puts them away. Pushes the drawer closed, hard. “It’s just so—stupid. You know? They’re talking about like, partnering with trans creators and designers and whatever which, okay, fine, points, I guess, but y’know what’d be really awesome? What’d actually help the vulnerable fucking kids who need it? Taking all the money and the resources and the energy you’re using on making a jacket with a little pride flag on the back and a collosally stupid price tag so the vulnerable fucking kids can get ‘a percentage of the profits’, and give the vulnerable fucking kids that, instead!”

He'd moved on to shoving the few dirty dishes that were in the sink into the freshly emptied dishwasher, and now he slams that shut, too.

“But it’s a luxury brand. This will be a status symbol. Go on Etsy and buy a bunch of patches some nonbinary kid’s made and sew that on something. If I ever want to spent nine thousand bucks on one fucking jacket, I want you to punch me in the fucking throat.”

His antsy movements have brought him to the middle of the living room. He stops between the TV and the coffee table. Sighs loudly.

Caitlyn slowly closes her book without taking her eyes off him.

“Anyway,” he says. “Fuck.” He finally looks at her. “I want pad thai. You want pad thai?”

////

Another text from Mel. Vi’s face is on the side of a bus stop. Something to do with the network that broadcasts most of the live games. He’s got war paint spread across his face, partly covering his cheek tattoo, VI, his name or Roman numerals, depending how you look at it.

Mel: I will never know peace.

Caitlyn: Right there with you.

////

caitkira: Obligatory making-sure-you’re-alive message.

She sends it, puts her phone down on the counter, goes back to her lunch prep for the next few days. Gets all the way through slicing baby tomatoes in half and portioning out some chicken and deciding to use up the half avocado she has left and—no, no, she’s absolutely not going to send a follow-up message. She’s not.

caitkira: Are you?

It’s marked as read the instant she sends it, and she curses herself for being the one to blink first.

vivander_lane: am i not supposed to be

She chews on her lip a moment. Puts the knife down.

caitkira: It looked like it hurt.

vivander_lane: which one lol

Which…

Caitlyn puts her phone down. Picks the knife up.

Puts the knife down and picks the phone up.

caitkira: The eight-minutes-of-extra-time one?

vivander_lane: oh
vivander_lane: nah
vivander_lane: not really

She can’t think of a reply, so she doesn’t send one.

Her phone buzzes again. Vi’s sent a picture of himself, smiling, though pale. There’s a bright blue bandage wrapped all the way around his head, hair sticking up around it, as if he’s a cartoon character who got bonked by a baseball bat.

The gameplay footage reruns in her mind, unbidden.

The evening’s match had been between Vi’s team, the Zaun City Flares, and the Zaun Barons, an over-funded enterprise constantly marred in controversy and seemingly incapable of losing. They were almost about to, down 1-0 thanks to a stubborn Flares defense line and a screamer from Mylo in the 63rd minute.

Until Deckard appeared, catching the defenders off guard when he gained possession from a sloppy Flares pass and hit the gas, hard. He cut towards the six-yard box 88 minutes into normal play. Barons fans screamed at Deckard and Flares fans screamed at their keeper.

Vi bolted forward in a brave, stupid tackle, dropped to his knees, slid, tilted—wanted to gather the ball, force a foul, trip Deckard, give Mylo a chance to catch up and clear the ball himself, anything. Deckard met the tackle by trying to force the ball past Vi, under him, who knows—a wreckless move for a wreckless move. His knee connected, hard, with Vi’s forehead. One toppled over the other.

Vi lay on the turf with the ball safely tucked against his chest. The crowd lost its mind.

And then he didn’t get up. Didn’t even move.

Caitlyn had sat and watched Mylo bend over him, then crouch at his side, then turn and wave emphatically for a medic, and then Caitlyn had stood, a foot from the television with her heart in her throat, waiting for him to move. And waiting. And waiting.

Anyway.

He’s fine now.

It didn’t even hurt.

Stop worrying.

vivander_lane: just need a sleep

caitkira: Are you sure?

vivander_lane: yeah

caitkira: I can come over, if you like?

vivander_lane: you don’t have to

It’s not a no. Caitlyn hesitates, wondering if this is a tiny crack in his stoicism. But before she can reply:

vivander_lane: Powder’s here. i’m fine.

Okay. Fine. Fine. Okay.

Her irritation at his seeming resistance to be honest with her, to look after his damn self or to let her help him do it, redirects itself in the pettiest of ways.

Moron.

He’s allowed to need help.

God. I just want to give him a hug.

Or, you’re being selfish and you just want to reassure yourself he’s fine, which he is, because he’s told you he is, and you’re not believing him.

Fuck’s sake, Kiramman.

She takes a deep breath and tells him Sleep well x, which she thinks is very adult of her, and he sends back a couple of heart emojis some twenty minutes later, which is enough for her to hope he’s had his shower, or started dozing off already, and maybe he is, truly, fine.

She can hardly go to pieces every time he gets hurt in a game.

It wouldn’t leave her a lot of free time to do anything else.

She finishes with her lunch, packs it into containers, puts everything back where it belongs. Right. So that’s done.

She shifts to her room. Brushes her teeth, puts herself to bed. Attempts to lie there with the lights off for all of ten seconds, then grabs her Kindle and resigns herself to a restless night.

Caitlyn doesn’t want to be right—she really doesn’t—but when her phone buzzes over an hour later, she has a sinking feeling she knows exactly who, and what, it is.

vivander_lane: still awake?

She’s warm and cosy under the covers, close to putting her Kindle away or falling asleep with it in her hand, as she’s done before, but no, now she is very much awake.

caitkira: Just reading. Can’t sleep?

vivander_lane: sore

caitkira: I’m sorry x

vivander_lane: what’re you reading

caitkira: Sliding into my DMs late at night to ask me what I’m reading. A scandal waiting to happen.

vivander_lane: my bad
vivander_lane: what’re you wearing

Caitlyn laughs at that. Cheeky.

caitkira: Pajamas and boots. I’m coming over.

She’s already in the hall, grabbing her keys and coat.

Her phone doesn’t buzz again until she’s downstairs, in her car, sliding the gearstick into reverse. A flash of anxiety prickles at her. It’s nearly midnight, a work night, and isn’t he travelling tomorrow? Maybe she’s overstepping. Vi’s sure to at least try to dissuade her, even if he’s clearly miserable and she truly doesn’t mind the excursion.

vivander_lane: thank you

////

He does indeed look miserable when he answers the door, his bandages still erring on the side of comical and the pallor of his skin even more concerning in real life than it was on her phone screen.

“Sweetheart…”

She pulls him into a hug, a reflex he falls into.

“Ow,” he mumbles, not breaking contact.

“I’m sure.” She pulls back, runs her hand through her hair, assessing him. She sighs. “But you’re okay?”

“Just a headache. Being a sook.”

“I thought you said Powder was here?”

“Sent her home.”

“Of course you did.”

He was in bed, and it’s late, so that’s where they go. His grey bedcovers are messy, the TV mounted on the wall the only light source.

Caitlyn props a pillow against the headboard to sit up and Vi curls himself against her with the covers gathered tight around him, his head laying on her lap, as if it’s all the only way things could possibly be.

Caitlyn rests her hand in his hair, her fingers carding through it absently. He sighs into her touch.

“Okay?” she checks.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding far away already. “Glad you’re here.”

“Glad you let me be.”

They watch TV a while, Vi’s weight and warmth against her a comfort to them both, if she’s honest. It is nice to confirm he’s fine, if a bit worse for wear.

The show he’s put on is animated, and she thinks it’s more intended for kids. He’s got the volume low but the subtitles are on. Trollhunters, she thinks it’s called.

“The TV’s not hurting your eyes?”

“Just listening to it.”

“Ah.”

The episode ends, and the next ticks over. She thinks he may be asleep, and then he says something.

“Doesn’t this remind you of how we met?”

“No.”

“Does for me.”

“Nope. Sorry.”

“Except our roles were reversed. You injured and me not.”

“And whose fault was that?”

Vi smirks against her thigh. Says nothing.

“I never had a very stupid looking bandage around my head, thank God.”

“Dunno why you hate the story. S’not like you’re the one who comes off like a moron in it.”

“It’s still embarrassing.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

He wriggles in place, shifts back against her stomach some more. Getting comfortable. She rests her arm on his side when he settles, her other hand back in his hair.

The truth is, when people ask how she knows him, she lies.

He’s a friend of a friend.

It’s another thing anyone can just fucking Google about either of them, if they really want to know. The internet never bloody forgets.

Mel took her to a game towards the end of the last season.

Caitlyn had already heard through Jayce, a lifelong devotee of the sport, that the culture had improved greatly in recent years; that her reasons for ignoring it, avoiding it or generally despising it—it’s a monument to toxic masculinity, uninclusive, brainless, etc etc—had undergone seismic shifts. Something to do with the national team shining through on the global stage in a recent championship, and the sport opening up for all manner of people—regardless of sexuality or gender or culture—that it had never managed to reach before.

She found it rather fascinating, if she’s honest. Still does.

When Mel won tickets in a TikTok competition of some kind, Caitlyn didn’t take half as much convincing as she’d thought she would. Jayce, who’d been badgering her to go with him half his life, nearly disowned her.

It proved worth it, certainly. Women and families and gender-diverse people and all other kinds. People waving rainbow flags and disability pride flags and trans flags. The occasional bunch of morons with their beers and their yelling, yes, but altogether, a far more wholesome experience than she’d expected.

She remembers watching the Flares warming up before the match started, eyes drawn to the keeper. The red hair. The handsomeness. That ridiculous trademark hot pink kit—she must ask him what that’s about, one day.

“That’s Vi Vander-Lane,” Mel had said. “He’s brilliant, and he’s part of the reason the crowd’s so diverse. He’s a trans guy. It was a pretty big deal when he shared that publicly last year. He had his team’s support, and the League really embraced him. Plus he’s just—Look at him. He knows it, too.”

Caitlyn remembers thinking, yes, look at him, and also, he certainly does know.

Cocky shit.

The game was at the Flares’ modest home stadium, small enough that it was easy to crowd the barriers after full time and line up for an autograph or a picture with your favourite player, which many did.

She and Mel hung back, observing and enjoying the atmosphere. A commotion broke out nearby when Vi emerged from the direction of the locker rooms and made a beeline to a kid wearing a trans flag as a cape. A few feet behind him, another kid held a homemade sign reading Can I please have your boots?

Vi signed the first kid’s flag, took some pictues, and people cheered some more when he bent to take off his boots. Caitlyn watched him tie the laces together, and distinctly thought, Is he going to jump the barrier? He didn’t, but maybe he should have. He pointed to the kid with the sign and hurled his boots into the crowd.

Whether due to being a bit overcome by all the attention or totally unfamiliar with the aerodynamics of two football boots tied together, their poor trajectory was matched only by the speed at which they travelled. Caitlyn vaguely remembers watching them sail through the air, but, it’s a bit of a blur.

They hit her in the head. She went down hard, more stunned than anything. The crowd gasped. Mel dragged her up and away. Caitlyn vowed to never return to a sporting field again. The kid got his shoes. All’s well that ends well, etc.

It took half a minute to end up on social media, and half a minute more for some knob to tag her her in the viral Instagram reel. Jayce swears it wasn’t him. Caitlyn’s not convinced.

She’d been home less than an hour when her phone pinged with an Instagram message request.

From Vi Vander-Lane.

Vi Vander-Lane the footballer.

Vi Vander-Lane the famous person, who nearly gave her a concussion with a pair of projectile boots.

vivander_lane: hi Caitlyn this is Vi Vander-Lane. um obviously. i just wanted to say i am so so so sorry about this evening and if you have like any hospital bills i will totally pay them
vivander_lane: my manager says i shouldn’t offer that in case you realise you could technically sue me for some reason but that sounds stupid
vivander_lane: not that you’re stupid
vivander_lane: i really am sorry and i really hope you’re ok and i will not be throwing anything into a crowd ever again. sorry.

The gall.

Maybe it was the comedown of a deeply strange evening, or the bravery of a basically-anonymous exchange with a man she thought she’d never speak to again, but for whatever reason she responded with:

caitkira: You’d think a professional athlete would have better aim.

She hit send, and the read tick popped up instantly, and then reality smacked her in the face with a frying pan.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

You just.

You just sassed Vi Vander-Lane.

Vi Vander-Lane the footballer.

Vi Vander-Lane the famous person.

Oh god, Mel loves him.

Mel’s going to kill me.

She said he’s brilliant.

And trans.

You just sassed a brilliant trans sportsperson.

You utter disaster.

She was in the middle of typing out an elaborate and profuse apology when his reply came through.

vivander_lane: ahahaha. fair
vivander_lane: unfortunately i’m a footballer. not a throwballer

To which Caitlyn, unhinged as ever, responded:

caitkira: Maybe next time you should try kicking the shoes at your adoring young fan.

It earned her a love heart react.

She truly has no real idea how it progressed from there—none.

She supposes they both wanted to keep talking, and so they… did.

Now they’re in his bed, him nursing his battered head on her lap while an animated show she doesn’t even like plays in the background, and she’s probably, definitely, hardly ever felt more content in her entire life.

Things have barely changed, really. Some even less than others.

“You do know you can text me, don’t you?”

“Mm?”

She looks down at him. She’s been fiddling with one of his earrings, the bottom of his ear showing under the bandage.

God, she does use him as her own personal fidget toy.

“We’ve always used Instagram to message one another,” she says. “I just realised.”

“Don’t have your number.”

“Wh—Yes, you do.”

“Mm-mm.”

She looks back to the TV.

“I hate using Instagram to message people. It makes me feel like a fourteen-year-old.”

“Teenagers use Snapchat. Grandma.”

“Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

“Y’keep talking to me.”

“Sorry.”

“’N playing with my ear.”

“What? Oh.”

She didn’t even realise she’d started up again. She smooths out his hair. Feels him sigh against her, a contented thing. Not just her, then.

“Get some sleep, love,” she says. “I’ll be here.”

////

When her phone buzzes the next day, it looks different.

Levi: thank you for last night
Levi: really x

Levi. How she’d saved his number that morning when he’d offered it, maybe remembering what she’d said, maybe deciding they were long overdue a graduation from their initial method of contacting one another.

She smiles at her phone screen.

Stupid, really, that a text message should feel so intimate.

And yet.

Caitlyn: You’re very welcome xx

////

It takes her too long to notice, but he never messages her on Instagram again after that.

Any time he wants her, needs her, has gotten bored, or the Flares lose and he’s probably seeking some kind of distraction—there he is.

Levi: have you ever had okonomiyake
Levi: probably spelled it wrong
Levi: wait shit your dad’s japanese
Levi: sorry
Levi: we can just get pizza
Levi: have you ever had pizza

Caitlyn enjoys it too much, seeing his name pop up on her screen like this.

Levi.

Little to no association with his legions of fans, the media, the public.

That’s Vi Vander-Lane.

She sometimes feels like they’re two different people.

It’s silly, because they are not, and also because what most people love about Vi is that he is, for the most part, the definition of what you see is what you get. For better or worse, there isn’t a particularly great divide between Vi Vander-Lane, sporting sensation, and Levi, who fell asleep watching Shrek 2 on her couch last weekend. Two pictures, taken from a different angle.

Hardly any difference at all.

Other than, if she’s terribly honest with herself, it sometimes feels as if one belongs to everyone, and one belongs only to her.