Chapter Text
It’s getting to the point where Ben Solo is dreaming of a pool pacing clock in his sleep, which he’ll go ahead and say probably isn’t healthy, by the time he gets his confirmation email for nationals this year. The large plastic face, garish blue and orange hands stretching across the front, ticking down all night in a steady staccato rhythm. Showing him exactly how long he has, every time his head hits the pillow, before the sun comes up and his meticulously scheduled life begins again. The eight and a half hours, if he brushes his teeth in the shower and miraculously gets his eyes closed on time, he has penciled into his planner every night.
He wonders if his own alarm clock, a funny little replica of a classical pacing clock (previously gifted to him by his high school coach before Ben went off to college) is making the problem worse, while he stares at the hellish device with bleary eyes one morning.
It probably is, he thinks, as he sits up and goes lightheaded for a moment. Most likely, the alarm clock isn’t making his funny dreams any less likely to happen, he’d be willing to bet.
Nevertheless, his day starts like it does five days of his seven day workweek- early. A morning swim, an envelope with his qualifiers info in it passed off to him on his way to class one, stop for breakfast, class two, afternoon swim, don’t rest on your laurels, dryland, class three, don’t trip up the stairs of his apartment building, call mom while the microwave heats up his dietician approved meal prepped chicken, eat while doing homework-
He barely has a moment to breathe, between his coach screaming at him from the sidelines that he’s wasting time taking extra breaths and his dad telling him over the phone, for about the thirtieth time, that he’s got one semester left of college, kid, you’re almost there.
He’s exhausted, like he is every night, by the time he flops onto his squeaky mattress and his eyes shut like two leaded weights. His limbs heavy, but his mind well prepared for what happens next. The hell that will be time trials, and all the work yet to come after that.
But he trains, like an olympian, and he doesn’t complain once. Because he’s done this before, he’ll survive the brutality and the nerves. It is what he is trained to do at this point in his life, what he has been working for since he was first plopped in a pool at the ripe age of five and asked to tread water while his mom snapped photos from the sidelines.
Ignore it, push through, don’t let it get to him. He’ll be fine.
Because is a swimmer, is it what he is and what he is good at. It is his identity. Nothing more, nothing less. If he can’t do it, nobody can.
So he goes to qualifiers, does homework on the plane, meets with his coach a couple times, morning swim, go faster, don’t push it, you’re slacking-
He waits in the back the first night, as the electric starting beep from the pool sounds off every so often throughout the facility and down the long hallway separating swimmers from the main floor, while he waits for his events in a plastic lawn chair that might be a little too small for him and his swim jacket combined. The crowd, abnormally large, causing his already abnormally short fuse to be even shorter tonight.
Luckily people stay away from him, and each other, all mentally prepping for the race in their own ways.
So he is, mostly, left to his own nervous thoughts as he takes note of the cameras someone has insisted they put back here. Fucking hell.
Ben's preferred method of prep, sitting in silence as his mind buzzes, currently giving him a good chance to size up the competition. They’re all tall and broad, like him. Some shadow-boxing themselves, others chewing gum and playing games on their phones as they wait in navy swim coats and rubber slides. The logos of universities across the country all plastered across the sides of their swim caps in a, somehow legal, form for free advertisement that makes his skull spin.
And him, wringing out his hands and counting his breaths methodically as he repeats a self-affirmation mantra the team counselor has apparently drilled into his brain hard enough that he’s hearing her voice in his head as he takes a deep breath.
Even if I don’t get in, if I don’t qualify, I am still enough. I am enough. I am enough-
He takes a deep breath, heart still unsteadily pounding against his ribcage in a show of nerves he’s long since learned is actually a good thing , before he is called out to the pool with the rest of his heats swimmers. Loud, vibrant cheering slowly floods his senses as he hears the announcer's voice from backstage. A deep, low sort of boom that rattles him to the core while he walks down the hallway and into the pool area like a gladiator of old.
And he’s not exactly able to understand what the announcer is saying through the muddled speakers, as the bright LED lights from the pool area dig into his senses and immediately send his eyes into overload, but he stretches his lungs and strips down to his suit while somebody he doesn’t know offers to hold his stuff for him. So, as long as he can adjust to the sudden change in his surroundings within the next thirty seconds, he’ll survive. He’ll live, it’s alright.
He waves, somewhere in the general direction of the camera, when he hears his own name being called out; and the pool bursts into a crazed round of applause. Defending gold-medalist. Exactly.
Defending.
Then up to the block, like a dead man awaiting judgement, as he lowers his goggles over his eyes and he tries to stretch out his tense shoulders with a swing of his arms. The muscles in his back elongate before he grabs onto the firm plastic lip of the diving platform with a steadying exhale. The crowd quiets in his periphery with a sudden hush, as his muscle memory takes over and he arches his spine. The balls of his feet dig into the textured plastic, while he listens for the cue to go.
A beep, a jump, a scream from the crowd-
And then absolute silence as cold water rushes against his chest and his body torpedos through the water like a lethal weapon. Moments stretching out into hours, as Ben dolphin kicks under the water and he rises up with a fourth of his first lap already completed.
Absolute focus, and silence, until he rises to take a breath and all of his senses narrow down into this moment, this race -
“C’mon!”
“Solo in-“
“Go!”
A flip-turn against the wall, feet firmly hitting concrete, barely allows him to see how far ahead he is. Just that he is, in fact, ahead as he glances at the timer.
He flies through the water, until his hand slams into the wall and his fingers splay out against the timing pad.
And it’s over, all that build up for less than a minute of race time. A minute of competition.
He pops his head up to breathe, chest heaving as he clings onto the concrete and the rest of the racers come in behind him. His vision briefly whiting out, while he tries to understand what just happened and he stares up at the race results whilst the crowd continues to shout in absolute chaos.
He pants, trying to get a deep breath into his lungs, as the swimmer next to him speaks up through a thick voice. “Dude, you almost just beat the world record.”
He stares at his time, taking a moment to process that fact, before he turns to the competitor in question with a silent nod. Grabbing his hand, awkwardly shaking it in a show of unspoken solidarity, as the announcer reiterates-
Ben Solo is going to the olympics.
Holy shit, he might be able to beat the world record-
Beep , silence, screaming, interview, how are you feeling , rinse and repeat. US Relay, a couple freestyles, don’t forget the Individual Medley-
Ben doesn’t even see his parents until after he’s firmly on the olympic team late that night, greeting them both at the exit of the facility with a tired grumble. The whole day still stubbornly refusing to settle in his mind, as he takes them up on their offer for a late dinner with a slow nod. Not that there’s a lot he can eat at the place they’ve picked, but he treats himself a little with a couple poached fries from his mom's plate, while he gets a whole wheat turkey club and a salad with no dressing for himself.
But he’s so out of it, post-race exhaustion starting to set in, as his mom looks at him and she tucks a lock of wet hair behind his ear. A small part of him outraged at the fact that he doesn’t have the energy to move away from her, as he sighs.
“Hey, Olympian. You alright?” She murmurs, as he nods. He’s fine.
He exhales, while his dad shrugs mid chew on a piece of fried chicken. “You know how he is after races. Gets all of his pent up aggression out. Whole lot of empty real-estate in that brain now.”
Ben snorts, as his mother scolds his father for that statement. How rude that kind of thing is.
But Ben just shakes his head, ignoring his parents' ceaseless bickering, as checks his phone. A quick series of notifications making it buzz in his back pocket, while he gets added to the swim team's official Olympic roster. And although the whole thing is certainly subject to change, it feels really good to officially receive some paperwork in his email; along with some links to calendars that he chooses to automatically sync to his own. The date and time for when they’re flying, along with all the prep days leading up to that, now just a tap away from his home screen.
He hands his phone to his mom, who immediately begins looking for flights to get both her and her father out to the event on her own device. Only pausing her conversation with his father, to ask Ben if they should, “fly out on the same date, or wait until you’re all settled in?”
Ben shrugs, as his mom's thumb hovers over her screen for a second. He would like them to go at the same time as him, but he understands if they can’t. It’s a big ask to put both of their lives down for two whole weeks, even for something as important as the olympics.
His mom nods, before selecting the date Ben flies out and quickly finding flights for both her and his father from their airline of choice.
Three tickets, two separate flight paths, and a couple of planned layovers later?
Ben is firmly planning on going to the olympics.