Will O Wisp | YA Novella

Chapter 16: Slide Into One

Why are we always stuck and running from the bullets, the bullets?

Will and Ocean have flipped their short program on its head—with the last-minute help of Coach Burnaby—and now the main changes are occurring, in the second half of the main program. Will runs through all the sequences in his mind, aligning them so that there's no room for mistake or confusion.

So far, the crowd has been enthralled, holding on to their American flags for the exact moment they can hold them up in triumph.

Like always, Will counts the drumbeats, holding up his arm to reach for something unseen. But instead of Ocean swooping in to propel them from the side, Will reaches instead to take hold of Oceans hand, using their strength to pull each other close instead of putting more impact on the bad knee.

They spin, watching the world around fade into muted color. Will thinks of the first time they practiced a spin together—when Will tripped on the side of Ocean's blade, tangling their limbs together until they fell in a heap. Coach Burnaby had burst into laughter as they fell, saying that they were like wrestlers practicing an elaborate takedown.

They don't fall today. They adjust their camel spin to the crescendo of the music, shifting into a sitting position. Ocean flies to gain momentum while Will stays centered underneath. And they shift weight to follow along to the same speed. Like this, they appear like two beings morphed into one—the taller hovering over like a protector while the one stooping low forms twists by lowering and extending his arm.

Just barely, Will manages to leap up and rest his blades on Ocean's thighs, soaking in the crowd's screams. Does the crowd see me as I imagine? A lost angel like our choreographer had in mind?

Their left hands grip a bit tighter than usual—more taut than last time in light of their biggest element looming overhead. 

We never learn we been here before, Why are we always stuck and running from, The bullets, The bullets?

Will fakes the axel jump, purposely stopping in the ascendance halfway, and Ocean catches him midway off the takeoff. He lifts Will—once in a loop around his neck and then until all of his limbs are suspended in midair. Will twirls around Ocean's back again, resting his palm's against his partner's shoulder on his way down. And he breathes a sigh of relief as he transforms from the spinning starfish back to the angel on the ice.

We don't talk enough, we should open up, Before it's all too much

Their step sequence might just be Will's favorite part of the routine, how they put all their emotion into the footwork and facial expressions. They lean in just the right spots to show weakness, combating it with either a strong puff of the chest or a dramatic sweeping gesture with their hands. They skip and twirl across the ice, emulating the supernatural beings that inspired the routine.

Will we ever learn? We've been here before

They've changed the next part completely.

Will rarely is nervous, but he recognizes the feeling now—the pounding in his chest that tells him that he hasn't practiced the element enough, that he'll fall face first onto the ice and completely blow the serenity of the program.

But he does it anyway.

It's just what we know

Will almost stumbles over his crossovers as he skates backwards, but the momentum is enough to carry him anyway, and Ocean is there behind to guide the misstep—with a steady palm pulling barely against his partner's elbow.

Back into sequence—no matter how many mistakes, they'll always finish like they've made a promise to do so. A pact found in between all the fighting, shouting matches, and objects thrown across hotel rooms. Shoot me, every time when it counts.

When Will twists around, his toepick slams down while Ocean propels him up and out. 

Will has to commit. When he jumps, there's no room for an inkling of doubt that he won't land it effortlessly. So when he's rotating like a spinning top, he tucks in and prays to the God of clean landings.

Clean. He follows the triple lutz with a double toe loop, barely completing the rotations. As he glides out from the impact, he swears that Ocean breaks character for a moment.

Angels in war shouldn't smile, he wants to say aloud.

The synchronized double axel, triple toe loop follows soon after. Clean and clean.

They're so synchronized, Will can swear, that even the flurries of ice rising from the blades are twins matching.

We got to get away

They've changed their last element as well, trading their barrage of triple loops for another lift.

Ocean, weaving behind then in front of Will, grabs the smaller boy by the waist, lifting him so that his blades are barely off the ice. Then, Will forces his back to arch and mold around Ocean's left shoulder, holding onto the side of the blonde boy's skull as they turn the corner of the rink. Sinking further down, Will's completes two revolutions in a horizontal spiral, then Ocean catches him again—just barely getting a firm grip around both wrists. Will's body becomes parallel to the ice—and their figures form a "T" flipped on its head.

One twist around, then he's upright with the blood rushing straight into his skull.

The song ends with the scream of guitar and the piano fading slowly out. Instead of standing with their arms crossed between them, Will breaks the distance—not sure whether he's breaking character or changing the entire narrative of their program.

He grabs both sides of Ocean's jaw and pulls him close—and neither of their skates show resistance as they slide into one.

Will kisses Ocean on the cheek, pressing against him until the music fades out, and Will notices their faces are blood-hot from the recent exertion. It's so much different than their first—so much more innocent the one that happened by "accident." This time, they're ready for the world to see. Let the news flashes come in blinding, let the Olympic viewers hypothesize until their dizzy in the head. None of it matters when all the words between Will and Ocean finally come to a mutual understanding—that they love each other and always have.

And this time, Will doesn't care when the camera's begin flashing—like broken spotlights underneath the bleachers. And he hopes that Ocean doesn't either.

Judging by the way their bodies are interlocked into an embrace, and how they stay like that long after the program ends—when the bouquets of roses and lilies come raining down, along with the multi-colored stuffed animals—Will imagines that he doesn't care at all.