this is the first of my @faenet promo fics!! want one? all you have to do is join the fae net discord, then send me an ask with your name, pairing, and prompt.
Feyre wasn’t really a fan of gym. There were many reasons why, but perhaps the first was reason was situations just like this.
She watched the girl behind her bump the volleyball, then the girl next to her set the volleyball, leaving Feyre in charge of spiking the volleyball. That wasn’t really her forte. In fact, nothing in the realm of organized athletics was really her forte. Gym wasn’t really her forte.
But Coach was watching, and she knew she had to do something, so she jumped off the ground and smacked the volleyball with all of her strength. The ball went over the net, as it was supposed to, but then rather than hitting the ground and scoring the team a point, it hit one of her opponents in the face and sent him launching backwards and onto the floor.
Coach blew the whistle, but Feyre was already running, ducking under the net and sliding across the floor until she was level with the guy she’d hit. He had one large hand covering his face, but she could see blood starting to trickle out underneath.
All the other players watched with bated breath.
His shoulders shook, and she heard tiny hiccups coming from his mouth. Oh my god, she thought, I made him cry.
“Please don’t cry,” she said, rushing through her words, “because then I’ll start crying. I am a very empathetic crier.”
He pulled his hand away from his face and, though there was blood trailing from his nose, there were no tears. Instead, his eyes were crinkling with laughter.
She sputtered, seeing his bloody, laughing face, then started laughing herself.
It bubbled out of her and crescendoed until the both of them were gasping for breath, kneeling on the gymnasium floor.
“Is he bleeding?” the coach asked, making the two of them laugh harder. When he leaned forward with one laugh, blood trickled off his chin and onto the linoleum, floor.
Her emotions were running at the height of irrationality, and seeing his blood hit the floor reminded her that she’d hit him. The weight of the guilt was suddenly crushing and her laughter turned into tears.
She knew she must look completely hysterical, but she couldn’t seem to stop the waterworks.
“I’m so sorry,” she said through thick tears. The boy looked up and saw her crying and his laughter stopped abruptly.
“Oh no, don’t cry,” he said, comforting her, which only made her cry harder.
“You’re the one with the bloody face; you’re not supposed to be comforting me!” she cried. He put one of his warm, broad hands on her shoulder.
“Rhysand,” Coach called, “you need to get to the nurse’s office. And why don’t you… just take Archeron with you.”
The boy, Rhysand must be his name, stood slowly, still covering his bleeding face with one hand. Feyre felt supremely dumb and embarrassing as she wiped some of her tears to stand.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again as they walked out of the gym. “Like, so so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “Really.”
“What if I broke your nose?” she asked, appalled.
“Well then I guess my modeling career is over,” he sighed, making her laugh. It was a nasally, wet sound escaping through her tears.
“I’m Feyre,” she said, offering a hand.
“Rhysand,” he said, taking her hand with his free one.
When they opened the door to the nurse’s office, the nurse looked from Rhysand’s bloody face to Feyre’s teary one and asked, “Okay, which of you is hurt?”
“I hit him in the face with a volleyball,” Feyre said, launching another onslaught of stupid tears.
The nurse looked Feyre’s shaking, crying form up and down, trying to assess why she was here too.
“She’s taking it a little hard,” Rhysand said gently. The nurse sat him down on the small bench and pulled his hand away from his face. There was more blood than Feyre was anticipating, but his nose didn’t appear crooked or deformed. In fact, it was beautiful. His whole face was beautiful.
The nurse began pressing her fingers to different points along his nose and the surrounding area, making Rhysand wince once or twice.
“I’m so sorry,” Feyre said again.
“It’s really okay,” Rhysand said, waving her off.
“The good news is, it doesn’t appear to be broken,” the nurse said. “It’s definitely bruised, and you’ll probably notice some swelling on the bridge. There will definitely be tenderness for the next few hours, but if it doesn’t stop in the next 48 hours, go get an x-ray.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Rhysand said.
“You, dear,” the nurse said, pointing at Feyre, “come help. I have to go wash up.”
The nurse handed Feyre a gauzy pad soaked in water with what looked like a little bit of soap.
“Clean up his face,” the nurse said. “Be gentle.”
Then, she stood and left to go do god knows what else.
Feyre wiped her tears away, then moved to sit on the now vacant wheeling stool. She wheeled the stool in closer, until she was angled between his splayed legs.
She lifted the gauze and began delicately wiping away the blood from his jaw, his chin, his cheek, his lip. She was so focused on making sure she didn’t hurt him further, she didn’t notice she was biting her lip with concentration.
She also didn’t notice quite how close they were. Not until she glanced up and saw the way his eyes were staring at her so intently. It was funny; she’d just assumed given his dark, bronze skin and raven-black hair, that he’d have brown or black eyes to match. But now, seeing them so close, she saw they were a blazing dark blue.
She was so trapped in his eyes, in the minty scent of his breath, in the warmth emanating from his body which was so close, she forgot to breathe. She watched his gaze flicker from her eyes to her bitten lip. She thought for a moment that despite the circumstances that brought them here, she might do something dangerous.
The door to the nurses office opened and they flew apart so fast that Rhysand smacked his head against the wall behind him and Feyre’s stool went wheeling away from the bench.
Rhysand rubbed the back of his head with a hand.
“I’m so sorry!” Feyre said, sounding more than ever like a broken record.
The nurse gave the two of them a pointed look.
“I just wanted to bring the two of you some clean shirts,” she said, dropping them and leaving.
Feyre looked down and sure enough, her t-shirt had small specks of rust.
“No, I’m sorry,” Rhys said, looking at her shirt.
“Please, after everything today, do not apologize,” she said.
“But I ruined your shirt!” he said.
“It’s just a shirt,” she said. “I ruined your face.”
“Okay, rude,” he said with a laugh.
“Come here,” Feyre said, “I have to get the rest of the blood off your face so we can change.”
She sidled the stool back up next to him, this time taking care to keep a little more distance. She worked gingerly but quickly, wiping up all the blood from his face. Thankfully, the bleeding seemed to have stopped as well.
“If you won’t let me apologize for ruining your shirt,” Rhysand said as soon as Feyre stepped away, “would you at least let me take you out for a coffee?”
“I’d like that.” She smiled warmly.
The bell rang, signalling Gym was over. Feyre grabbed one of the two grey t-shirts the nurse had left and put her hand on the doorknob.
“I’m sorry again,” she said.
“No need to apologize,” he said.
“It was really nice to meet you, Rhysand,” she said.
He gave her a stunning half-smile. “Call me Rhys,” he said.
“Rhys,” she said, feeling special calling him by a nickname.
“Feyre,” he responded. Her heart skipped a beat, just one, as she closed the door behind her.
