Tell Me Our Story

He nodded once.

“I won’t believe you unless you look at me.”

The first time they’d met—on a class trip, in their first year of high school—O’Hara had coaxed him across a terrifyingly high swing bridge with exactly that teasing kindness in his voice.

The elevator swayed, and Jonathan flinched.

O’Hara’s three fingers on his arm became five and a squeezing palm.

Jonathan lost his sense of gravity. The cables holding the elevator must have snapped; they were freefalling. His breath came out harsh, jagged. He snapped his head up just as the lights turned back on, and the elevator resumed its ascent.

Their eyes clashed, and O’Hara’s hit him with their deep ethereal green. The green of a forest reflected in shining water.

Lips turned up into a dimpling smile. “Safe now.”

Jonathan nodded and hastily made to exit. O’Hara leaned against the chrome, keeping the doors wide open for him and Mira.

Jonathan charged down the hall and O’Hara’s energy followed behind, compelling him to look up.

They had stopped twelve feet away.

Mira flashed a key card, but O’Hara wasn’t paying attention; his gaze was fixed on him.

Jonathan tucked the weight of that look to the back of his mind.

Brusquely, Mira pushed O’Hara against the door, breaking his concentration. He laughed again, a nervous precision to it, and again his eyes skated to Jonathan—

They tumbled into the room, Mira’s words travelling. “Was that Jonathan Hart? God, he didn’t smile once. He’s already living up to his Ernst reputation.”

“In all fairness, Mira, he just survived death by plummeting elevator.”

“Let’s keep an eye on him. Fifty bucks says he never laughs.”

“Oh, he laughs.”

“Looks like he needs to.”

“Needs to?”

Jonathan pursed his lips and then his eye caught on two bright blue-headed figures rushing up the hallway. The lean, mean Sapphire Twins. They’d come in fourth before O’Hara in the Social Challenge.

They wore matching jeans and tight white t-shirts. Only their tattoos distinguished them. Leaves on a gust of wind down one arm, identical but for the colour: one in black, the other in dark reds.

Looked like O’Hara and Mira wouldn’t get much alone time.

As Jonathan closed himself up in his room, the twins banged on the neighbouring door. Voices and laughter swelled, and Jonathan’s golden hair and icy eyes flashed in the mirror on their shared wall.

Ernst.

Yes, he had a slight cold air about him. Yes, he kept his emotions close to his heart.

But once upon a time, O’Hara hadn’t minded that.

The first workshop the following day discussed personal branding, and the absence of laughter was . . . notable. The second workshop, Jonathan kept glancing toward the door, expecting it to burst open any moment.

It didn’t.

The day passed without . . . without much of note at all.

After dinner, he overheard a group heading toward the hotel bar and glimpsed Mira among them. He followed and seated himself in a corner armchair. A fake fireplace gave off a golden glow and the lights set a warm living-room atmosphere. A dozen other attendees had rearranged the couches and armchairs into a large U and were happily gossiping about their esteemed judges and the workshops so far.

Jonathan observed, using his phone as a shield against the odd look cast toward “that Ernst guy.”

The Sapphire twins sat on the arms of a chair, feet on the middle cushion, elbows resting on the back. Their blue heads matched the upholstery, making them look like a strange extension of the furniture, and their loud voices carried throughout the bar. “We overheard the judges talking about this year’s Social Challenge theme.”

That caught ears.

“Spit it out then,” someone demanded, but the twins had mastered delay tactics. They held the audience rapt, adding to the supposed suspense, and then—

“O’Hara,” they called across the room, and Jonathan froze. “Finally. We missed you. Grab a drink, we’re about to drop some news.”

O’Hara’s answer came jovially from somewhere close behind him. Then that corded arm and wristband came into view at his side. The air crackled, and Jonathan raised his eyes to dark green ones drinking him in—

Sapphire twins hollered out their news, ripping their attention toward the U. “The theme for this year’s Social Challenge is, wait for it . . . LOVE.”

This was met with groans, O’Hara’s not among them.

“That was last year’s theme,” someone said.

The red-tattooed twin shrugged. “Apparently there’s a twist on it this year.”

“What’s the twist?”

“We don’t know.”

“What are the weekly challenges?”

“We don’t know.”

“Where will the semi-finals be?”

“We don’t know.”

“What do you know?” another snickered.

“Shut up,” said the twin with black tattoos, and the announcement fizzled into bickering.

O’Hara looked at Jonathan again, and gestured his head for him to follow.

Jonathan rose from his armchair. O’Hara didn’t look back, but Jonathan caught the edge of his dimple.

“Port still your poison?”

It’d never been his poison. It had been what O’Hara had declared he’d have the first time they went to a bar, just before the end. Port, to sweeten him up.