Will O Wisp | YA Novella

Chapter 12: Interlocked

Get out of my face. How many times has Will said these five words—spitting the syllables like venom—this morning, while a stampede of reporters were waiting for them. In the same lobby of the apartment, they were like over-sized beetles with a camera and microphone as their two horns. It would be his luck for the media to explode in rumors, images of the kiss, and theories about Ocean and him. And it just has to happen on the day the doctor clears him to test his strength.

Ocean accompanies him as they finally navigate into the weight room, where a security guard can stand in front of the locked door like a human barricade. "Why did you do it?" Will asks his partner, limping over to sit on one of the weight benches. "And don't tell me the same thing you've been since last night."

Ocean shakes his head. Perhaps an outside observer would think that nothing has changed between them. There was no such thing as a kiss—someone or everyone hallucinated what happened in yesterday's interview—or Ocean slipped on the leather of the couch. But it wouldn't explain how Ocean kept his lips on his, savoring the moment as if he was called to the top of the podium. The lights were hot on their skin—or was that the heat of their bodies fitting together—while Ocean's hand gripped his jaw more seamlessly than a custom piece of their costumes.

"You said do it, which can mean anything. It was a spur of the moment, a mistake," says Ocean. "And maybe you should be clearer when you try to order people around."

There's no more avoiding the question—it's like a dagger in Will's throat. "Do you like me?" He stands up, ignoring that he's supposed to sit two minutes between every five minutes of being on his feet. And while he waits for the answer, he turns toward the full display of weights and mirrors and flat screen televisions. When they were younger, Coach Burnaby used to make them train together, standing on matching balancing boards or alternating the same weights to bench. Now, all their strength training is allocated to separate hours, so they can spend as little time together as possible.

Ocean, finally showing an emotion besides indifference, uncrosses his arms and takes a few steps toward Will. Up close, under the yellow-toned fluorescent lights, Will notices just how exhausted the other boy is. Dark circles are beginning to find their home under bright blue eyes, his posture is more sloppy than usual, and even his skin looks sucked out of its usual glow. Will thinks that he might look exactly the same—even worse maybe, with his injury.

"So what?" Ocean ends up saying.

"So what what?" Will clenches his teeth together.

"Does the answer even matter anymore? I know what you're planning to do—to just ignore yesterday and tell everyone that it was just a joke. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't and I really do like you." Ocean pauses, looks toward the very knee that is haunting not only Will but their entire skating career. "But it will go back to normal as you want. This injury will heal, people will forget about the kiss, and we'll skate for another few years. And who knows what will happen before we retire? We might win a few championships if we don't kill each other first."

Another slew of emotions from Ocean, something Will should've been prepared for—the words take on a light Irish accent that he's learned from his parents. "Just calm down and answer my question."

Ocean hauls the balancing board from the corner of the weight room—a round board with a blue half-circle comprising the unsteady base. And as expected, he doesn't answer the question. Instead he jumps on the board and runs through the drill they were introduced to as young teenagers—crouching on it, shifting one's weight so that the board stays as level as possible. It's a good introduction to what you'll face on the ice, when you're blades seem to have a life on their own. The words of their first coach. Then you have to take control. You have to grasp this being called balance and make it your own.

Skates aren't the problem, Will thinks. When the skaters are losing the world beneath them—all by themselves.

Will sits again, unable to bear the pain. Even though he's recovering, the days until their individual event are counting down quickly. And even a minor tear doesn't heal in a few days. "Your lips tasted like potato chips," he says. He surprises himself at how resigned his tone is—like they've already finished their season, accepting their fates.

Ocean keeps on the balance board, holding his hands in a prayer while adjusting his feet whenever he tilts forward, backward or sideways. "And you didn't kiss me back," says Ocean. He sounds just as resigned. In this empty gym room—where there are no athletes or pounding music—Will can count almost every one of their breaths, alternating.

That's what you think. Didn't he lean into him? Was Ocean so high on his own emotions that he missed how their chests fit together?

When Ocean hops off the board, and a bead a sweat is a rivulet on his forehead, Will holds out his hand, spreading his fingers out to be easily interlocked. "Come here, Ocean. Then maybe you'll feel close enough to tell me the truth." The usual bite in his words are gone, replaced with something neither cold nor warm.

They've held hands—interlocked them even tighter than now—many times in their performances.

He's standing, he's sitting, and even now the question isn't answered. But why is Will even asking? Shouldn't the fact that Ocean's hand is shaking be enough evidence as it is? 

"I'll make it easy for you then," says Will. "If you like me, keep holding my hand." 

Ocean doesn't let go.