Will O Wisp | YA Novella

Chapter 11: Shockwaves

"He's just a wannabe Nathan Chen," says Ocean. He exchanges a laugh with the interviewer—a pretty lady in business attire and a light layer of makeup. Will was rolled out on a wheelchair to the apartment's lobby, where the couches have been arranged in a makeshift circle. Crew from NBC's film studio have been assigned to interview the Olympic athletes, and now all Will can see is a panorama of umbrella lights, the huge microphones hanging above their faces, and the camera crew rushing around the frame. Here, they are meant to smile brightly and say nothing remotely controversial—it's all about saying the right thing at the right time, as they've always been trained to do.

And now Ocean has thrown him onto the hot plate. Will rummages through his mind for a funny retort, coming up with nothing but a mental note on how the pain in his knee is fluctuating—going from sharp, needlelike to a softer ache—with every few minutes. How could he heal in time for their event, six days from now, when his body is refusing to cooperate?

"Oh really?" says the interviewer. She gives a forced laugh and crinkles her green eyes, all in the same mechanical motion. And the sight makes Will a bit queasy—or perhaps it could be his being locked away with Ocean for the past 48 hours, with nothing to watch but the commentators butcher the terminology of every single winter sport there is.

"I'm just playing around," says Ocean, flashing his signature I'm-everyone's-favorite-teenage-boy smile. Queasy. Queasy. Queasy. "I would be nothing without him. Like that Whitney Houston song. Isn't it bud?"

A flash of blonde hair wavers in Will's peripheral, and a fist bumps against his shoulder. The gesture should be brotherly, really, but he can't help a blush rising in his cheeks—for either the leftover heat of the insult, or how he's already being contrasted to Ocean's ease with the media.

"We both need each other," says Will, admitting to the interviewer what he never would in private. Perhaps it's a lie, now that he's injured and isn't worth a dollar on the ice. "And even though I've injured myself, the doctor says it's more of a bruise than a tear. If things go well I'll be able to perform in the next event. Hopefully."

"Hopefully," echoes Ocean. He places a hand on Will's opposite knee, tapping his fingers against it.

Will can almost visualize the steam coming out of his ears, making his sight an angry blur. Out of the corner of his eye, a florescent timer counts down from a half minute—the seconds until freedom, until back to the hotel room, until everything turns back to normal and they wait for the next event in their career.

"We have one last question." The lady adjusts the collar of her shirt, flashing a demure smile. "We notice that you two are very, very close. Some of your fans apparently have theories that you two are together? I'm not proposing anything either way, but what do you have to those people?"

Here it comes. If Ocean doesn't shut this down God knows I will.

"I—" starts Will, at the same time Ocean says "Well—"

They stare at each other for a moment, until Will gestures a hand to his partner—to say Go ahead.

"We appreciate the dedication of all the fans of our skating." Ocean looks straight into the camera lense. "But these allegations are actually false. Maybe one of us has feelings for each other, I don't know. But the love definitely isn't mutual."

Will envisions the next headlines gracing the front of page of gossip websites—Ocean has feelings, but his partner does not return them? Read on for the latest on our star-crossed lovers.

"Ocean, now isn't the time to joke around." He looks straight into Ocean's blue eyes. Sometimes he wonders whether he was named for the color—a mix between the softness of the sky and the deep jewel tones of the waves beneath. Other times, he wonders whether the name represents the emotion he brought into the world, crying and beautiful and so infuriatingly likable.

"What?" says the other boy.

"I said that you shouldn't say things like that. And next time I'll shove my fist up your mouth to answer instead."

The interviewer scuffles in her seat, adjusting her collar once again. "Boys, we're still filming."

Ocean ignores her and turns to face Will, the smile of a golden boy replaced with something much darker. "Excuse me? You always tell me that I'm much too sensitive for eighteen years old. Who knew that you were even worse."

Suddenly, the film crew, shuffling out of frame in the apartment's lobby, begin to shuffle slower. Their footsteps turn from a stampede of beetles into a bunch of hesitant ants. "Just do it already," says Will. Tell me you hate me, you idiot.

"Do what?"

Tell me that you're done skating with me. That you're off to find another partner.

"Do it."

Ocean leans sideways on the couch that they share, clutching the side of Will's jaw, bringing their lips together in something so rushed it shouldn't even be called a kiss. But Will feels everything—the smoothness of Ocean's lips moving against his, the heat of his palm sending shockwaves down his cheek and his neck, his breath being shared with his own—in and out at the same time, exactly like their routines. And when Will closes his eyes, he wants to glue them shut and stay in this moment—anger and love all exploding into this one action. Just a few seconds where they are both silent, where Will leans forward to press their chests together—almost like one of their spins, the one they practiced for last year's national championships.

I can't stand you, and I adore you, and this is not what I meant, Ocean.

Somewhere a thousand miles away, the film director's voice rings hoarse. "Did we get that?"