You've Got This, McCoy

We Ran Out of Closet-space

We were dragging the net inside off the field for the night, the last two stuck with the job, and he cussed out the snow under his breath, I could almost pretend we were normal as I looked up to the night sky, put on edge almost unconsciously from the way my breath made tendrils of mist from my mouth. It was true when coach said we were unstable. Even if we worked well together on the field through some kind of rivalry now, there was no normalcy to us, no sweetness that I was frightened by and ached for at the same time.

I didn't know how he felt; he did not speak about it despite him being the one between the two of us to have that skill. It was wasted.

All I knew was that it did not feel over when I looked at him. No matter how hard I tried, I could only see my best friend as he took over lugging the goal through the cleared path through the snow, taking out his seemingly perpetual anger out on the ground he walked upon, teeth grit. He was still not an enemy.

I stretched my tired arms above my head with a sigh, closing my eyes as I let out the breath, looking down and away.

It was warm and nearly humid inside the locker room once we got to it after the shed. And blessedly empty. No eyes.

I pulled open my locker and shook out my hoodie from earlier, making to pull my sweaty practice jersey off.

The back of my neck tingled. I was wrong. There were eyes upon me. And when I looked around slow, all I could see suddenly were how dark A.W.'s eyes had gotten from the shadows on his face. As much as I would have liked to, I was unable to ignore him now. So why was I trying to pull off my shirt regardless in the heavy silence?

I did not hear his footsteps. I felt his warmth, though he did not touch me. When I turned, there he was. With slow determination, not taking his eyes off mine, he blocked me in with his arms, hands pressing on the locker beside my head, making the world consist of only him, his front, and my own damnable uneven breathing.

With a groan, he landed his forehead to my shoulder, shaking his head, and it was instinct that made me hold him closer.

There were too many things happening, from how close he was, to his forearm beside my face, to his soft and wet his hair was against my palm, old and new sweat somehow very different from the locker room musk.

"I swear I'm going crazy," he growled, fingers curling up on the locker. "Every time I think I quiet the voice down in my head, it comes back when I see you." He was rougher in pushing his forehead into my shoulder, practically pinning me against the locker. I did not heed the bruising pressure, insides ripping themselves apart. "'Milo. Milo. I want Milo.' Fuck, I can barely stand it when Wendy touches me anymore..." He lifted his head, my name somehow a question, somehow a curse, "Milo."

I was too tense to cry. Had this been any ordinary fight that had broken us, I might have. I wanted to apologize. I didn't know how.

Before I knew it, his mouth was on mine and I was attacking him with just as much ferocity.

The fighting had taken itself to a different ring.

The aggression was there in how he gripped me so hard and how his cold hands ran, unbidden up under my shirt.

My mouth was clumsy as I drank him in, as I held him closer, too, nails biting behind his ears, shoving him back for breath before yanking him right back as he pushed forward as well.

I didn't even realize I was making sounds or how heavy my breathing was until I tried to flip the situation. He kept me pinned up against the wall as much as I tried to wrestle my way into doing the same to him, expression grim. In retaliation, I kissed him once more, too quick for him to really react and try to win his dominance.