Will O Wisp | YA Novella

Chapter 3: Intermission

If Will had a penny for every time he's seen Ocean panic, he could make a hundred copper medals and give them to the Olympians who'll make fourth place.

"Did you forget how to breathe?" he asks, but it comes out less biting than expected.

Ocean stumbles against the side of the elevator, creating a clang that echoes throughout the empty space. There's a telling slide against metal and a collision against the bottom of the elevator, which can only mean that Ocean is in his usual panicked position—sitting with his knees up to his chin. His breathing is rushed and shallow. And in the moment, Will forgets about all the biting remarks he could say. All he knows is that his partner needs to get out—fast.

Maybe this was karma, caused by the hotel housekeepers who cursed them for shattered lamps and clothes strewn across rooms.

In the dark, Will feels his way toward the door. He reaches for the buttons on the side and starts to press them at random. Cringing at his own stupidity, he remembers the phone in his pocket. The flashlight is enough to find the red emergency button, in the same shade as a firetruck or an ambulance's sirens.

And it's enough to see Ocean just as how he pictured him—sitting huddled in one corner of the room. With his forehead resting on his knees, he looks much smaller than he actually is. The sight reminds Will of when they were kids. He would sit exactly like this whenever he was bullied by an older competitor.

"Are you okay?"

Will used to sit with him. 

Like when they competed in the junior nationals in Los Angeles. They were fourteen years old, barely used saying each other's name. A skater, maybe a year older than them, shoved Ocean against the side of the rink during a practice session. No one knew why it happened, but Will's heart burned in anger toward the older skater. You'll have it coming to you, he thought. 

At the actual competition the next day, they pushed him back in a different way. Harder. He and his partner were knocked clear out from first place, and Ocean and Will took the championship title.

"I asked you a..." Will starts, then thinks against it. "They should be on their way soon. A place as giant as this should already have decent protocol for civilians stuck in elevators. Even though we're relatively high, nothing seems wrong with how the elevator is holding. It could just mean that the power—"

"Shut up."

Will refuses the temptation to bite back. He sighs then sits at the opposite corner of the elevator, turning off his phone's flashlight. He rather not see his friend—there, he said it—close to tears of anguish.

Here they are, the golden boys of figure skating. Will it be like this for the rest of their careers? Sitting in the dark, on opposite corners, in terse silence?

"I wasn't...."

Will barely hears the words, because they sound completely unlike Ocean's usual chatter—a barely-there Irish accent that he picked up from both parents. He wouldn't be surprised if the noise came from a ghost; he doesn't believe in ghosts, as they antagonize everything he loves about science. But maybe spirits dressed in porcelain white would be easier to encounter than their friendship ever mending back together.

Will clears his throat. Despite himself, he's allowed some of the panic to set in. It's like waiting for the overall score to be revealed by the judges, where he feels as if liquid concrete is being poured down his throat. "What, Ocean?"

The other boy coughs; his throat must feel just as constricted. "I didn't mean that I would drop you when we're competing."

Thank God you can't see me roll my eyes. "I know that you didn't mean it, O."

Ten grueling minutes pass before the lights flicker back on. With the sound of gears grinding, the elevator ascends once more. They let out a synchronized sigh. Now that they've been rescued—no doubt by some quick-acting electrician—their fears dissipate like salt in water, leaving only an unpleasant aftertaste. 

"Get up, Ocean," Will says. "More reporters will be waiting outside. You don't want to be seen like this."

Even though Ocean listens by getting to his feet, there is still an aura about him that makes Will feel sick—like his partner has given up before the competition has even started. His hair is ruffled as if ten different hands ran through it violently, the collar of his Olympic jacket is twisted upward, and his forehead is covered in a thin layer of sweat.

I haven't seen you like this since our first nationals.

"Why isn't the door opening?" says Ocean, once they've arrived at the designated floor. "Shouldn't everything be working properly?"

"The sensors are probably dead," says Will, taking out the bandana that he never fails to carry with him—always tucked neatly into his right pocket. 

He uses one end of it to wipe away the sweat on Ocean's forehead, cringing when the dampness seeps through to his palm. He stuffs the red sheet of fabric, a gift from his mother, into the hem of Ocean's jacket . 

"Keep it. I don't want it any more." Then he uses both hands to adjust the taller boy's hair, smoothing the locks into their usual style. Swept neatly to the right, with some bangs still showing through. "Great—now my hands are covered in your hair gel." Finally, the collar is the last thing to fix. A year or two ago, wearing the jacket was an unreachable dream.

Will likes to dwell on the future, to plan ahead. It keeps his mind active and free from anxiety. But he didn't imagine a moment like this. Where Ocean is averting his gaze while he fixes him. Where they must look like the two most unfitting Olympians in the Game's history.

Outside, the yells of emergency responders echo like human sirens.

"Careful," a man shouts on the opposite side of the door. "We're about to wrench it open. Stay pressed clear against the back wall. " 

A/N : Thank you for reading, and please vote and/or comment if you enjoyed!