room enough

he can't pull away—the living, breathing sea moves as one to fill the space he's evacuated. he can't do anything but hold on to the other. startled eyes lock with jonah's for the pause between breaths, then his gaze snaps down to his feet.

the proximity's deafening. the clamor of his hammering heartbeat drowns everything else out. heat floods his face, thankfully obscured.

tate doesn't dare look up. his grip tightens, scrunches up the front of the coat. "i'm f-fine," he stutters out. and then barely audible, "sorry. i, um, can't move."

his heart stutters arrhythmically when jonah's arms snake around to the small of his back. he jerks forward instinctively at this new contact, but shying away only presses him closer into jonah's front.

he's trapped, encircled. "uh huh," tate breathes out, lips barely moving, and it's all he can manage at the moment: to keep breathing.

eventually, unconsciously, his pulse settles down again, his breathing deepens and slows. it isn't until the train halts at their stop, the multiplex mall, that tate realizes the embrace has grown comfortable, a calm that's draped over his bones like a blanket.

as the passengers begin to shuffle out he pulls apart too quickly, though his fingers are slow, reluctant to uncurl.

he nods mutely in reply, doesn't trust words yet. they're still coated with embarrassment and jumbled all the way down in the pit of his stomach, finally untwisting itself.

they step off onto the station platform, and suddenly his stomach flip flops again, does acrobatics when jonah holds out his hand.

the crowd presses forward, pushes in, and there's no time to stand and stare like a deer in the headlights, to hesitate. "okay." palms clammy, tate takes jonah's hand, lets the other lead.

he bites his lip and wills his face not to flush again, reminds himself it's so they won't be separated.

he ignores the airiness in his chest, like a filling balloon, the vertigo of free-fall. it isn't a problem until he hits the ground—inevitable, tate thinks. but he doesn't know why he's thinking in vast, vague terms at all.

the touch of jonah's hand both grounds and uplifts him. lost in brumous thoughts, tate doesn't notice they've arrived at the rink until jonah's voice cuts through. apprehensively, he watches the skaters whiz by. "yes."

they sit on the outer benches to put on their skates. laces done tightly, tate stands up, takes a hesitant step and wobbles like a newly birthed fawn, knock-kneed and graceless.

he isn't sure how he'll fare on ice, doubts he'll manage anything but fall.