They still sat in the same chairs, only now they both leaned forwards, resting their arms on the table between them, each openly interested in what the other had to say. They both smiled as they listened, and the eye contact was natural – held for a few seconds at a time before brief glances away, never uncomfortable.

Somewhere in another world, a girl looking like Adagio but lacking her intellect might have existed, and Spitfire would have gazed at that pretty face and not heard a word it said. Here, though, the words firmly held her attention, and she only occasionally stole quick peeks at other parts she could see of the girl in front of her, when she thought she wasn’t being watched.

“So what’s it like to be so adored?” Adagio asked, batting her eyelids in a way that mocked the vacuousness of some of the girls to have sat in her position previously, but was no less charming for doing so.

Spitfire snorted. “You want me to tell you being famous isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?”

“Oh no, quite the opposite.”

“Ha.” Spitfire pondered the question for a few seconds. “It’s not as bad as people tend to make out. I’ve always been treated differently, so I’m used to that. But the adoration, as you put it...” she trailed off, mulling it over.

Adagio watched patiently as Spitfire tapped a finger against her lips, thinking.

“That mostly just brings pressure to be a good role model,” she concluded, “so in that respect it’s a distraction I could do without.”

“Oh?” Adagio pouted, “You mean it doesn’t spur you onwards, hearing all the fans cheering your name, knowing how much” – her voice dropped to a purr – “they worship you?”

“I hate to break it to you,” Spitfire grinned, “but when I’m competing, I don’t even hear them. It’s just me, in the zone, and it has to be that way or I’d mess it up. To me, being worshipped isn’t nearly as important as winning.” She frowned to herself. “I’m not sure if that’s better or worse,” she admitted, and they both laughed.

“I suppose I can get behind that,” Adagio sighed fondly.

And with that concession made, Spitfire felt she ought add her own.

“But afterwards, on the podium,” she said ruefully, “when you’re already running an adrenaline high coupled with the thrill of winning, then yeah, the screaming applause of thousands is spectacular.”

The smile on Adagio’s face was still as nefarious as it had been throughout their recent exchange on motivations, but there was now something deeper behind it as well; Spitfire guessed it to be the comfort of learning that they had that appreciation of enthusiastic audiences in common, and gladness washed through her at her decision to come clean about it. But after a couple of seconds when no one spoke, an eyebrow raised.

“Go on,” Adagio coaxed, with just a hint of menace.

Spitfire rolled her eyes. Saying this kind of thing out loud was frowned upon. But so are a lot of the things I do, and we drank to banishing consciences, so, out with it!

“...And when you’ve pushed yourself that hard to get there, in the event – and the lifetime leading up to it – then it does feel, in that moment, like you deserve it.”

Across the table, Adagio had a mix of different looks about her, their prominence shifting moment to moment: the beaming smile of a proud parent, the fond reminiscence of happy memories, and smouldering come-to-bed eyes. But shortly afterward she tilted her head to one side in askance, curious and concerned.

“Why ‘always been treated differently?’ ”

“For the same reason you are,” Spitfire smirked.

At that, Adagio’s errant eyebrow wandered upwards again. A second ‘go on’ command did not need airing aloud.

Shrugging, Spitfire said, “I’ve been hot for a lot longer than I’ve been famous.”

Adagio gave a rich, throaty laugh, but certainly didn’t disagree. Then she pouted again, but the edges of her mouth were still upturned, mocking the expression. “You poor thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Spitfire brushed it off with a snort of amusement, “I’m certainly not complaining or saying I’d prefer not to be. But I remember the way I’d be stared at on public transport. Or when I’d go out, and have to spend so long trying to get rid of random people who started chatting to me and couldn’t take a hint, that I’d have no time left to have fun with the friends I’d gone out to see in the first place. And people were always smiling at me...”

“Smiling people are the worst,” Adagio agreed with a despairing shake of her head. They both laughed, but equally both knew that the other was serious.

“So that’s pretty much what it’s like being famous,” Spitfire summarised wryly, “the difference is that you have enough wealth and status to do something about it.”

“I can’t imagine you need to take public transport anywhere these days,” Adagio offered.

“Exactly. And all the places I choose to go have VIP areas like this one.” Spitfire cast her eyes around the room contentedly. The only downside of Adagio having closed the doors was that Spitfire could no longer look over to the bar and signal for more drinks. I might have to get up and order them, like a normal person! She decided to wait a few minutes, happily sat where she was for the time being.

“So the fame is fine,” she finished, “and along with the paperwork it’s a small price to pay for being able to spend my days doing what I love.”

Adagio gazed up and off to one side, lightly furrowing her brow in thought.

“I can’t quite picture you doing paperwork,” she said as she met Spitfire’s eyes again.

For that, Spitfire was silently very grateful, especially if the attempted imagining had overlooked the nerdy reading glasses she had to wear to avoid getting headaches from reading all those forms and letters for hours on end.

“Nor could I,” she grimaced, “before I became captain. Now it takes up far too much of my time. It’s one of the worse bits of the job.”

“One of?” Adagio asked sharply, “What else is on that list?”

Good going, Spitfire, now you’ve done it. Why don’t you tell the nice young lady how lonely it is being in charge of everyone? ‘You poor thing,’ indeed. She wondered if now would be a good time for that trip to the bar.

As she opened her mouth to speak, Spitfire could hardly believe her luck, for at that very moment the lounge door opened a crack and music flooded in, followed by a bartender poking his head around the doorframe and looking in her direction. He held up two fingers, signifying two more drinks, and awaited her response.

“Another drink?” she asked, glancing back to Adagio from the door.

“Thank you,” came the simple assent in return.

Spitfire looked to the bartender again and nodded, smiling. I really love this club. They think of everything. Or they just know me that well because I’m here so often. The barman left and closed the door behind him. Adagio did nothing to fill the sudden near-silence, her last question still hanging in the air. For the first time, Spitfire was reluctant to look in Adagio’s direction, knowing that if she did so, there would be no avoiding the answers she’d have to give.

Too late, Spitfire realised that hesitating had given her position away, and it was now obvious that there was indeed an aspect of her job she disliked and wasn’t eager to discuss. Adagio still said nothing, and a glance in her direction confirmed her to be watching Spitfire patiently, but expecting an answer nonetheless.

“Ok,” she gave in wearily, “there’s no way in which this doesn’t sound like self-indulgent whining, but...”

She left the sentence hanging, because she couldn’t think of anything to finish it with that would imply her whining to be any less self-indulgent. So now I’m self-indulgent and ineloquent. She considered where to start the explanation of her problem; it wasn’t exactly one many had faced or could relate to.

“My teammates are the closest family I’ve ever had,” she began, figuring that family was something most people had in common. “If we’re not competing or training together, we’re hanging out with each other backstage or in the bar down the road.”

She watched Adagio while speaking, and the look received in return said that the sentiment had been understood.

“We do everything together, and we’d do anything for each other. Fleetfoot crashed on my couch for three months after her last breakup; she didn’t have to ask, it was just assumed.” She raided my fridge a lot, too. But when the next breakup rolled around, Fleetfoot would be back, and an overprotective Spitfire would be more than willing to give up her couch again and help her friend get back on her feet.

“Blaze spent at least an hour by my bedside every single day last time I busted my ribs,” she continued, wincing at the memory. Injuries were a common thing in her profession, but that didn’t make them hurt any less. “I’m not even sure she was being nice,” Spitfire chuckled, “I think she just couldn’t handle going a day without seeing me.

“And now,” she paused, looking down at her lap, before drawing a filling breath and making her voice harder, “now she’s a pain in my backside, who keeps missing her target, and it’s my job to make sure she performs in the stadium just as we’ve practised.” Spitfire grew quieter, her brief flare of frustration folding in on itself, “Or I have to find someone to replace her.”

She dropped her gaze again, fiddling with her hands in her lap, and wondered why she’d felt compelled to deliver such an extended monologue, especially as doing so had made her uncomfortable. They’d met barely half an hour ago, it wasn’t like Adagio knew Spitfire well enough to catch her in a lie. So why hadn’t she lied about it, and said there was no problem, or that it was just something minor?

Because, the humbling and shameful truth dredged itself up in her mind, everything you’ve done this evening has been trying to impress her. And if you have to lie about your life, then it can’t be that impressive, can it?

Perhaps that had been her reasoning, subconsciously. It was certainly true that while Adagio had never appeared unimpressed, most of her predecessors had been tripping over themselves in excitement or scared stiff, where she had unswervingly kept her cool. And Spitfire herself had certainly found that behaviour impressive, maybe she’d gone overboard trying to compensate?

She looked up again to be greeted with a tender, reassuring look, seeing compassion where she expected none, and when Adagio spoke, she did so with sad gravitas.

“That’s part of leading people: they become assets, tools shaped to deliver you to victory. And you’re responsible for them – for their successes, their failures, and their wellbeing. Even when they’re people who mean the world to you.”

Spitfire blinked, taken aback at Adagio’s insight, but then let out a groan and set her elbows on the table again, her head in her hands.

“The responsibility isn’t so bad,” she said through her fingers, then put her hands flat on the table so her voice wasn’t muffled, “it’s the detachment that’s hard to stand.” She shook her head. “It’s like I can’t open up to them anymore. I can’t just be me. Everything I do, every interaction I have with them, has to be guided by what’s best for the team.”

Adagio reached out across the table and took Spitfire’s hand in her own, fingers curling around it protectively.

“That detachment is the price of command,” she said, gently but firmly. “You’d be a better friend without it, but a worse leader.”

Spitfire felt a squeeze on her hand, offering her support and strength, and Adagio appeared consoling, but her voice held no room for argument.

“There’s no way around that. You have to decide what you love most: the team, or the people in it.”

All Spitfire could do was nod glumly. That was pretty much the conclusion she’d come to herself, too. She still didn’t like it, and she longed to defy it. But whenever she’d tried, the same concern had struck her, and she’d bailed. Any time she’d been about to go easy on her friends, she hadn’t been able to escape the worry that that event was the act – the mistake – that would cost them at a crucial moment, something they couldn’t afford to overlook.

Or worse, she was scared that if she let something go just once, then that particular incident would turn out fine, but, buoyed on by the elation of the bond with her teammates being a little closer than it had been, she’d convince herself that it wouldn’t be so bad for her to continue with a more relaxed grip on the reins, which would lead to a gradual slip in standards, each time hand-waved away, until she was remembered by history as the captain under whom the Wonderbolts lost their edge.

There really was no avoiding the truth of what Adagio had said, and Spitfire slumped in her seat.

“Sometimes I don’t know why I took this job in the first place.”

She realised as she said it that she was complaining to a girl that might as well have emerged from a dream – about a job that definitely had – and she cracked up mid-line at the absurdity. Her laughter didn’t sound as bitter as she expected, it was more genuinely amused – such towering self-indulgence!

“Yes, you do,” Adagio replied immediately. “You took it because it was too important to leave to anyone else. You were the best person to lead, perhaps the only one who could.” She paused for a second, and then finished more softly, “You still are.”

Spitfire didn’t know whether to smile at Adagio’s belief in her or grimace at the reality it presented her with.

Once again, the door to the bar and the rest of the club opened across the room from her, and the familiar waiter filed in bearing their drinks. Much as before, they both smiled their thanks as he set the tumblers down on the table and made his exit again. For Spitfire, self-conscious and more flustered than she was used to being, the fresh drink could not have come soon enough. She reached for her waiting glass eagerly, holding it to her nose and briefly losing herself and her worries in the comforting aroma she knew so well.

“You’re very knowledgeable about this sort of thing,” she observed, after taking a sip and lowering the glass.

“I’m a singer,” Adagio smiled, swirling the contents of her own glass after a sip, “I front a vocal group made up of my two sisters and I. I know what it is to lead those closest to you.”

A singer, huh? It made sense, with that level of charisma. And it explained the hair, which was magnificent, but would be impractical in many lines of work. How long had she been in that position, though, leading her own sisters? At what age had she had to cut herself off from them to do so?

She tried to think back to all the music videos she’d seen in bars and hotel rooms over recent months, usually on mute in the background, but Adagio didn’t look familiar from any of them. It was hard to believe she’d be unsigned or undiscovered, though, like she wouldn’t become a superstar the second she decided to.

“How come I haven’t heard of you?”

Adagio gave her a wan smile, and Spitfire inwardly flinched. She kind of just took success for granted – she’d had to work harder than anyone to get to where she was, but luck hadn’t really come into it, only her own training and determination. Could Adagio really be struggling to make it, a victim of bad circumstance? In fairness, she could have been a terrible singer, for all Spitfire knew, but still... There was a magnetic allure about Adagio that she found difficult to look away from, and surely any decent record label could turn that quality into sales figures.

“We had a setback a few months ago,” Adagio rolled her eyes. “We were on track for our big break and some touring plans fell through at the last minute.” She shook her head, sardonic disbelief on her face, but then perked back up again. “But it’s ok, things are in motion. And anyway,” she grinned, “the world isn’t ready for us quite yet.”

Every Wonderbolt knew what it was like to be temporarily put on hiatus without warning, although in their case it was almost always thanks to injury rather than management, and Spitfire could only commend Adagio’s resilience in the face of such knocks, wishing nothing but the best for her, confident that she would succeed soon enough.

“I’m sure they won’t know what hit them,” Spitfire responded with a grin of her own and raised her glass in salute, then brought it to her lips once more.

“They may never recover from the shock,” Adagio agreed with an amused expression, gently laughing to herself, then waving a hand dismissively, as if the opinion of something as humble as the world wasn’t nearly enough to concern herself with.

“But, coming back to you,” she continued, becoming more serious but still warm, “all you can do is learn to deal with it. The choice is never a happy one, but it’s worth it.” She leaned an elbow on the table and rested her head on it, cocked to one side and propped up with the palm of her hand supporting her cheekbone as she looked at Spitfire encouragingly.

“How does being captain make you feel?” she asked, and something wistful in her tone made Spitfire think of all those training sessions where she’d pushed hard, but the work had paid off in the shows that followed, and of the times they’d headed out into the arena and she’d watched not the thunderous crowds themselves, but her teammates reacting to them.

“Proud,” Spitfire said without much hesitation, her lips curving upwards unthinkingly into a gentle smile. “Valued and recognised for something that, as you say, only I can really do.” After a thoughtful second, she added, “Happy.” However nice it might be to have her friends back just as they used to be, without the barriers she’d had to put up between them and herself, her life as a Wonderbolt would never fail to bring her happiness. And she was immensely proud of the team she led, and also, all egotism aside, of the way she led them.

There was a sense of accomplishment, too; if she had spent her life trying to be on the team, then being made captain was the pinnacle of her career, above which there were no greater heights she could reach for. All that remained to strive towards was for her captainship to be the best on record. And in that respect, she was confident of her own abilities, and she knew she’d train the rest of the team until one way or another they delivered, so she wasn’t worried about how things would turn out.

“Ordinarily, that is,” she said, remembering the other frustrations of the position, her face falling. “Right now…?”

She thought of the mountains of paperwork on her desk, the evening social events to schmooze with the sponsors and the nobility, which of course she had to be on-duty for, even if it wasn’t on paper as part of her job. And she knew those things wouldn’t let up; they couldn’t be delegated to anyone else, and anything she left out would be likely to come back to haunt her further down the line.

“Overworked…”

This was the first night in three weeks she’d been able to escape to go clubbing. It used to be three times each week. It wouldn’t have been so bad, she thought, if she felt like she was getting older and losing her drive for such things, but she still felt like she was in peak condition; she still had all the energy she’d had at 22, she just didn’t have the time to do anything with it anymore.

“…Undersexed.”

Probably shouldn’t have admitted that. Rarely an attractive trait. But it would have been strange raising her guard again around Adagio, given the conversation they had just had, and so she let the honest assessment pass regardless of the wisdom of doing so. She snorted to herself at the admission, but showing she could laugh at it did nothing to detract from its truthfulness, and she felt warmth rising in her cheeks in response. Adagio, for her part, raised her eyebrows, but in a way that suggested conversational interest rather than scandal.

“I might be able to help you with at least one of those things,” Adagio smirked. Her voice resonated with confidence, before changing, along with her posture, to be more business-like, almost lecturing. “Now, overworking is a serious problem…”