The world didn’t end with a bang. It ended with a mechanical *clunk*, followed by a sickening, pendulum sway.
Will felt the vibration travel up through the soles of his boots—heavy, expensive snowboarding boots that felt like concrete blocks now—and settle in his teeth. The hum of the cable, that constant, reassuring baritone that had been with them for the last ten minutes, simply cut out. Silence rushed in to fill the vacuum. It was aggressive silence. Heavy.
"We stopped," Kyle said. He was sitting on the opposite bench, knees drawn up. He didn't look at Will. He was staring at the Plexiglass, at the frost forming fern-like patterns on the corners. "Why did we stop?"
"Wind," Will said. He kept his voice flat. Grounded. He was the anchor. That was the role, wasn't it? Even before everything went wrong last year, he was the one who carried the map, the one who checked the weather reports. "They probably put the lift on hold. It happens. Gusts trip the sensors."
"It’s been five minutes."
"Three," Will corrected, checking his watch. It was a bulky digital thing, scarred from abuse. 4:14 PM. The sun was already giving up, surrendering to the bruised purple of the horizon. "It’s been three minutes, Jules."
Kyle turned then. His face was pale, framed by the dark fur of his parka hood. He looked… breakable. That was the word that always floated to the surface of Will’s mind when he looked at Kyle lately. Porcelain with hairline fractures. He had these eyes—wide, dark, always moving, tracking invisible threats. Right now, they were fixed on the floor, on the scuffed rubber matting where a discarded candy wrapper skittered back and forth with the gentle swaying of the cabin.
"It feels like longer," Kyle whispered.
The gondola groaned. Metal on metal. A lonely, industrial sound that seemed too loud for the vast, empty space they were dangling in. Outside, the world had turned into a kaleidoscope of white and grey. The blizzard wasn't just falling; it was swirling, dancing. Flakes the size of quarters slapped against the window, sticking for a second before sliding down like melting stars. It was almost pretty, in a terrifying, indifferent way. Whimsical. Like being inside a snow globe that someone had shaken too hard and then forgotten on a shelf.
Will leaned back against the cold fiberglass seat. He could feel the chill seeping through his jacket, hunting for his skin. He focused on the sensory details to keep his own mind from sprinting off the edge. The smell of the cabin: damp wool, stale wax, the faint, sharp tang of cold copper. The sound of the wind: a high-pitched whistle, like a teakettle left on the boil in another room. The taste of the air: thin, dry, metallic.
He watched Kyle. He was always watching Kyle. It was a habit he couldn’t break, like biting his nails or checking the exits in a crowded room. Kyle was fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, pulling it up, then down an inch, then up again. *Zip. Zip. Zip.* The sound was scratching at Will’s nerves.
"Stop fidgeting," Will said, softer this time.
"I can't feel my toes," Kyle mumbled, ignoring him. "Is that normal? It's not supposed to be this cold. The heaters... are the heaters off?"
"Power's out on the line. No power, no heat."
"So we freeze. That's the plan? We just sit here in a plastic box and turn into popsicles?" Kyle’s voice cracked. It wasn't a teenage voice break; it was the fracture of panic. He stood up suddenly, the gondola rocking violently with his movement.
"Sit down," Will commanded. He didn't shout. He didn't have to. He put that heavy, unmovable weight into his tone. The Seme voice. The one that said *I am the wall you lean on, so stop shaking.*
Kyle froze, half-crouched. He looked at Will, eyes wide, breath hitching in visible puffs of steam. For a second, he looked defiant, his jaw tight, a flash of spark in the reactive panic. Then the fight drained out of him, and he collapsed back onto the bench, burying his face in his gloved hands.
"I hate this," Kyle said, his voice muffled by the leather. "I hate this place. I hate snow. I don't know why I let you talk me into this."
"Because you needed to get out of the house," Will said. "Because staring at his empty room wasn't helping."
The mention of *him* hung in the air, colder than the draft leaking through the door seals. They hadn't said the name in months. Not since the funeral. Toby. The third point of their triangle. The loud one. The one who would have been laughing right now, making jokes about yetis or trying to rock the car even more just to scare them. Without him, the geometry was wrong. It was just a line now, a tense, stretched wire between Will and Kyle, vibrating with things they were too cowardly to say.
Will looked out the window again. The visibility was dropping. The pine trees below were just jagged charcoal sketches against the white canvas. Fifty feet down? Maybe sixty. Enough to break every bone in your body. Enough to end the story.
"He would have loved this," Will said. The words tasted like ash.
Kyle looked up, eyes red-rimmed. "Don't."
"He would have. He’d be filming it."
"He’s dead, Will. He’s not filming anything. He’s in a box in the ground and we’re in a box in the sky and I think... I think the universe is trying to be funny."
"Funny?"
"Yeah. Irony. Or... symmetry. Whatever." Kyle wrapped his arms around himself, shivering violently now. It wasn't just the cold. It was the adrenaline crash. He was vibrating, a high-frequency tremble that shook the fabric of his coat. "I can't stop shaking. Make it stop."
Will looked at him. Really looked. He saw the blue tint starting to form on Kyle's lips. The way his knuckles were white where he gripped his own sleeves. The survival manuals—the ones Will read because he was the guy who read manuals—were clear about this. *Hypothermia Stage 1: Shivering, reduced circulation, confusion.*
Protocol. Focus on protocol. It was safer than feelings.
"Come here," Will said.
Kyle blinked. "What?"
"Body heat. We need to conserve it. You're shaking too much. Come here."
Kyle hesitated. He looked at the empty space on the bench next to Will. It was only two feet of grey plastic, but it felt like a canyon. They hadn't touched—really touched—in a year. Not since the hug at the graveside, which had been stiff, awkward, full of patting hands and quick withdrawals. Before that, it was different. Wrestling, leaning on shoulders, the casual, thoughtless skinship of boys who grew up together. But grief had made them radioactive to each other.
"I'm fine," Kyle lied. His teeth chattered, ruining the effect immediately.
"Kyle. Get over here. Now."
It wasn't a request. Will leaned forward, grabbed Kyle’s wrist, and pulled. The contact was electric—a shock of heat even through the layers of Gore-Tex and fleece. Kyle stumbled, losing his balance as the gondola swayed, and fell into the seat beside Will.
Will didn't let go. He maneuvered them, shifting his bulk to create a shelter. He unzipped his own jacket halfway, pulling Kyle’s shoulder against his chest. "Lean in. Closer."
Kyle was rigid at first. A board. He held his breath, his body tense, fighting the proximity. He smelled like cold wind and that expensive vanilla shampoo he always stole from his mother. It was a dizzying, familiar scent that hit Will in the gut like a physical blow.
"Relax," Will murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest, right against Kyle’s ear. "I'm not going to bite you."
"You're... warm," Kyle whispered. The resistance broke. He slumped against Will, melting into the heat. He tucked his head under Will’s chin, his forehead resting against the pulse point of Will’s neck. The fit was perfect. Terrifyingly perfect. Like a puzzle piece snapping into place after being lost under the couch for a year.
Will wrapped his arm around Kyle’s shoulders, pulling him tight. He could feel the tremors running through Kyle’s frame, rapid-fire spasms of muscle. He rubbed Kyle’s arm, generating friction, generating heat. Up and down. Rhythmically. *Rough wool. Smooth nylon. Rough wool.*
"Better?" Will asked.
"Yeah. Maybe. A little."
They sat like that for a long time. The wind howled outside, buffeting the gondola, making it dance on its wire. But inside the huddle, it was quiet. The silence changed. It wasn't aggressive anymore. It was heavy, yes, but heavy like a blanket.
Will closed his eyes. He was hyper-aware of everything. The weight of Kyle against his side. The way Kyle’s breathing was starting to sync with his own. The heat building between them, a furnace stoked by proximity. It wasn't just survival. He knew that. He hoped Kyle didn't know that. But God, the feeling was overwhelming. It was a physical ache, a tightness in his throat, a desire to wrap himself around this shivering, broken boy and never let go.
"I miss him," Kyle said softly. The words were vibration against Will’s ribs.
"I know," Will said.
"I feel... guilty," Kyle confessed. The words were tumbling out now, dislodged by the shivering. "I feel guilty that I'm here. That I'm alive. That I can feel this cold. He doesn't feel cold anymore. He doesn't feel anything. And sometimes... sometimes I forget his voice. Just for a second. And then I hate myself."
Will tightened his grip. "That's normal, Jules. It's how brains work. It doesn't mean you don't care."
"It feels like betrayal."
"It's survival," Will said firmly. "You’re surviving. He would want you to survive."
Kyle shifted, turning his head slightly so his nose brushed against Will’s jaw. The touch sent a spike of adrenaline through Will’s blood, sharper than the cold. "Do you?" Kyle asked.
"Do I what?"
"Want me to survive?"
Will pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at Kyle. The question was absurd. It was offensive. It was the stupidest thing he had ever heard. "Are you kidding me?"
Kyle looked up. His eyes were wet, swimming with tears that hadn't fallen yet. His face was flushed, blotchy with cold and emotion. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful. "You've been... distant. Since it happened. You treat me like I'm made of glass, but you never... you're never actually *there*. You're just... watching."
"I'm watching because I'm terrified," Will snapped. The mask slipped. The calm, grounded protector cracked open, revealing the jagged edges underneath. "I'm watching because if I look away, you might disappear too. You think you're the only one who's scared? You think I'm just... what? A statue?"
Kyle blinked, stunned by the intensity. "You never said..."
"I don't say a lot of things," Will muttered. He looked away, staring at the frosted window. The whiteout was complete now. The world outside didn't exist. There was only this box. "I can't lose you, Kyle. I can't do it again. I can't do the funeral suit again. I can't do the empty chair again. So yeah, I watch you. I watch you breathe. I watch you walk. I watch you to make sure you're still solid."
The silence that followed was thick, charged with the static of the confession. It wasn't just about grief anymore. The dynamic had shifted. The subtext that had been running beneath their friendship for years—the lingering glances, the jealousy, the gravitational pull—was suddenly surface text. It was right there, sitting on the rubber floor between them.
Kyle shifted his hand. He moved it from his own chest to Will’s. He placed his palm flat over Will’s heart. He could feel it hammering. *Thump-thump. Thump-thump.* Fast. Frantic. Not the heartbeat of a statue.
"You're racing," Kyle whispered. His voice was filled with wonder, not fear. "Your heart. It's going a mile a minute."
Will didn't pull away. He couldn't. He was paralyzed by the contact. "Adrenaline," he lied weakly.
"Liar," Kyle said. He pressed harder, his fingers curling into the fabric of Will’s sweater. "You're not scared of the height. You love heights. You're the one who climbs the water tower."
"Maybe I'm scared of the cold."
"You run hot. You're like a furnace."
Kyle looked up, his gaze locking onto Will’s. The distance was zero. The air between them was so thin it crackled. Kyle wasn't shivering anymore. Or maybe he was, but it was a different kind of shaking now. The kind that comes from standing on a precipice, looking down, and deciding to jump.
"Tell me the truth," Kyle whispered. "Why are we really here? Why did you drag me up a mountain in a storm?"
"Because I wanted to be alone with you," Will said. The truth fell out of his mouth before he could check it. It hit the floor like a stone. "Because down there... with school, and your mom, and the memories... I can't reach you. You're always drowning. Up here... it's just us. I thought... I don't know what I thought. I just wanted you to look at me. Not through me. At me."
Kyle’s breath hitched. A small, ragged sound. He leaned up. The movement was slow, tentative, giving Will a thousand years to push him away. Will didn't push. He froze, his whole body tense, waiting.
"I see you," Kyle breathed. "I see you, Si."
The nickname. He hadn't used it in a year. It broke something inside Will. A dam. A wall. He moved his hand from Kyle’s arm to the back of his neck, his fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape. His grip was possessive, desperate. He didn't pull Kyle in; he held him there, anchoring him.
"Don't say it if you don't mean it," Will warned, his voice rough, scraping like gravel. "Don't play with me, Kyle. Not right now. I can't take it."
"I'm not playing." Kyle’s eyes dropped to Will’s lips, then back up. The signal was unmistakable. It was a flare gun fired in the dark.
The wind slammed into the gondola again, a massive, invisible fist. The cabin swung wildly, tilting twenty degrees. Kyle gasped, clutching at Will, burying his face in Will’s neck again.
"It's okay," Will said, his arm tightening like an iron band. "I've got you. I've got you."
"Don't let go," Kyle mumbled into his skin. The heat of his breath was scorching.
"Never," Will vowed. And he meant it. It wasn't a platitude. It was a fact. A law of physics. As long as he had breath, he would be the gravity that kept Kyle from floating away.
They stayed like that as the light faded completely, plunging the box into a grey, ethereal twilight. The frost on the glass grew thicker, intricate patterns of ice that looked like maps of unknown cities. The cold was still there, biting at their extremities, numb and sharp at the same time. But the core—the space where their bodies met—was burning.
Will’s mind drifted. Stream of consciousness again. The sensory input blurring. The smell of Kyle. The sound of the wind. The feeling of the zipper pressing into his chest. The memory of the funeral—black umbrellas like mushrooms in the rain. The memory of Toby laughing. And now this. This strange, suspended moment. A pause button on the world.
He thought about the nature of grief. How it wasn't a straight line. It was a spiral. You circled the drain, over and over, but maybe... maybe you didn't have to go down. Maybe someone could reach in and grab you. Maybe the hand grabbing you was rough and calloused and shaking just as much as you were.
"Si?" Kyle’s voice was small, sleepy. Hypothermia? Or just exhaustion?
"Yeah?"
"If we fall..."
"We're not going to fall. The cable is steel. It's two inches thick. It can hold ten tons."
"But if we did..." Kyle paused. "I'm glad it's you. I'm glad I'm with you."
Will closed his eyes, resting his chin on the top of Kyle’s head. He felt a tear track hot down his cheek—his own, or maybe Kyle’s, he couldn't tell anymore. "Me too, Jules. Me too."
The radio on Will’s belt, which had been silent static for the last hour, suddenly crackled. A burst of noise. A voice, distorted but human, cutting through the whimsical, deadly silence.
"...station to Gondola 4... copy... wind dying down... restart sequence..."
Will didn't reach for it immediately. He stayed still for one more second, holding the moment, memorizing the weight of the boy in his arms. The rescue was coming. The world was coming back. The noise, the lights, the expectations, the grief. It was all waiting for them at the bottom of the mountain.
But for now, in the dark, in the cold, in the static and the snow, they had found something else. Something warm. Something that felt, for the first time in a long time, like the truth.