Will and Luka
by SalientLane
Package Deal
Luka traces the yellow-green bruise on his ribs, surprised by how little it hurts now. Three days since those boots collided with his skin, and already his body is erasing the evidence. He's always healed quickly, but this recovery surprises even him—almost as much as the realization that dawned on him in the pale light of yesterday's morning, when he woke to find Will's arm draped protectively across his chest, fingers splayed like he was afraid Luka might somehow slip away in the night.
The bathroom mirror reveals the last visible reminders of Tuesday's ambush. A faint shadow beneath his left eye. A small scab on his bottom lip that's almost healed. For someone who just took on three bigger boys, he looks remarkably intact.
"You look better," Will says, appearing in the doorway of his bathroom, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. His eyes travel over Luka's face, cataloging improvements with a mix of relief and lingering concern.
"Told you I'd be fine," Luka says, shrugging with a casualness he doesn't entirely feel. "I'm tougher than I look."
He remembers the surprise on the tallest bully's face—Ryan Freeman, that waste of perfectly good oxygen—when Luka's fist connected with his solar plexus. How the second one (whose name Luka never bothered to learn) had fallen back against the wall as Luka's kick landed squarely in his stomach. Even the third, built like a small bulldozer, had yelped when Luka had connected with his jaw in desperate retaliation.
Not that any of it had been enough, ultimately. Three against one rarely ends well for the one.
"Yeah, you are," Will agrees, stepping into the bathroom. He reaches out, his fingers hovering near the fading bruise on Luka's cheekbone before dropping away. "But you shouldn't have had to be."
The guilt in Will's voice is an old song by now, one Luka has heard on repeat since Will found him lying curled on his side, battered and bleeding, after disposing of the bullies who had tormented him.
"Not your fault," Luka says for what feels like the hundredth time.
But Will's expression doesn't change. He just nods, the movement small and unconvincing, before turning to grab a fresh towel from the cabinet. "My mom made pancakes. You hungry?"
Luka is, suddenly and ravenously. "Starving."
The memory of that first afternoon is a blur of gentle hands and quiet words. Will had practically carried him the four blocks to his house, Luka's arm slung over those broad shoulders, Will's arm around his waist, holding him steady. Will had been so careful—opening the door, helping Luka up the stairs when his parents weren't home, easing him onto the closed toilet lid in the bathroom.
"Arms up," Will had instructed, and Luka, too sore and exhausted to argue, had complied. Will had peeled off his shirt with the delicacy of someone handling fragile glass, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of Luka's bruised torso.
The shower that followed might have been embarrassing if Luka had the energy for self-consciousness. Instead, he'd just stood there under the warm spray, let Will wash his hair, rinse away the dirt and blood, help him into borrowed clothes that smelled like detergent and Will.
Later, Will had heated up his mother's lasagna from the night before, buried with parmesan cheese the way Luka secretly preferred. He'd called Luka's mom while Luka dozed in Will's bed, arranged for Luka to stay over, making up some story about a late-night project. Will never mentioned the bullies or the assault, on Luka's orders.
"You feeling okay?" Will asks now, breaking into Luka's thoughts.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime," Will quips, but the joke feels hollow, his eyes too serious.
That night, Will had insisted Luka take his bed instead of the usual sleeping bag on the floor. And when Luka admitted in a whisper that he didn't want to be alone, Will hadn't hesitated. He'd slid in beside him, carefully arranging himself so as not to jostle Luka's injuries.
"I've got you," Will had whispered in the dark, his arm tentatively coming to rest across Luka's middle.
"I know," Luka had whispered back, and something in that exchange felt different—weighted with meaning neither of them could articulate.
They'd fallen asleep that way, and woken at dawn tangled together. Luka remembers the moment clearly: opening his eyes to find Will already awake, watching him with an expression so tender it made his chest ache in a way completely unrelated to his bruises. Will's fingers had been idly tracing patterns on his shoulder, and when their eyes met, neither had looked away.
No words were exchanged, but something shifted between them in that moment—a tectonic movement so profound that Luka is still feeling the aftershocks. He knows, with a certainty that surpasses language, that they are no longer just best friends. This is something else entirely. Something that feels like the answer to a question he didn't know he'd been asking.
Their names blur together in the hallways—Willnluka—as if they're a single entity moving through the world. In many ways, they are. Luka can't remember a time when Will wasn't there, can't imagine a future where they aren't side by side. Since they were five, building wobbly block towers in kindergarten, they've been a matched set, like shoes that don't make sense when separated.
Mrs. Hernandez, their third-grade teacher, once sent a note home saying she'd tried to separate them during group activities, but they'd developed an uncanny ability to find each other across the classroom within minutes. By fifth grade, their mothers had given up arranging separate playdates for them, understanding that any invitation extended to one would inevitably include the other. Brothers, everyone called them, though they look nothing alike—Will with his sandy hair and broad shoulders, Luka slighter, darker, quicker to smile.
Brothers, but something else too. Something without an easy name.
Luka sees things that others miss. It's both his gift and his burden. At thirteen, he notices the way their history teacher's voice catches when discussing certain battles, suggesting personal connection rather than academic interest. He catalogs the subtle shifts in his mother's posture when work calls interrupt dinner—shoulders rising incrementally with each ring, a muscle twitching near her jawline. He understands why Claire Matthews always takes exactly fourteen seconds to answer questions in math class (counting breaths to manage her anxiety), though no one else seems to have realized.
This perceptiveness makes him the smartest kid in class, though "smart" feels too simplistic. It's more that his brain processes the world in high definition while others seem to watch through fogged glass. Sometimes, this makes him lonely—seeing so much, understanding so deeply, with no one to share the view.
No one except Will.
Will, who might not notice Claire's fourteen-second breathing pattern but will casually mention that she only wears blue on test days, a detail even Luka had overlooked. Will, who can keep pace with Luka's racing thoughts, matching him concept for concept in late-night conversations that leap from black holes to baseball statistics to Byzantine architecture without missing a beat. Will isn't traditionally academic the way Luka is—his worksheets often return with doodles in the margins—but his mind connects dots in patterns that leave even Luka breathless sometimes.
"You need someone who gets you," Will had said once, when Luka wondered aloud why they clicked so well. The simplicity of the statement belied its truth. Luka does need someone who gets him, and Will does, in ways that sometimes border on telepathic.
Will's personality unfolds like origami—what looks simple from a distance reveals intricate folds upon closer examination. He's the boy who carries spiders outside rather than squashing them but turns ferocious when Ryan and his friends appear. He cries at movies with happy endings, not sad ones, because "feeling good hurts more sometimes, you know?" He speaks rarely in class but, when he does, the entire room falls silent, even the teacher pausing to listen.
One afternoon a few years ago, they'd been building a treehouse in Will's backyard, and Will had suddenly said, "I think my mom is sad about something." No context, no explanation. Three days later, his parents announced they were in counseling. When Luka asked how he'd known, Will had just shrugged. "The way she folded the laundry changed." That's Will—noticing the extraordinary in the ordinary, just as Luka does. A matching set.
But the most remarkable thing about Will is his transparency—with Luka, at least. While other boys their age build walls and adopt personas, Will has never tried to hide himself. He shows Luka everything—his fears (heights, disappointing his father), his dreams (designing buildings, traveling to Japan), his secrets (he sometimes sleeps with his childhood stuffed tiger when anxious). When they're alone, Will's face is an open book, each emotion clearly written for Luka to read.
And what Luka reads most clearly, what he's been reading for months now, is love.
Will smiles at him now across the breakfast table, passing the syrup without being asked. Luka takes it, their fingers brushing, and neither pulls away too quickly.
Mrs. Shaw ruffles Luka's hair as she passes, murmuring something about having seconds, and Luka feels a peculiar fullness in his chest—like his heart has expanded to accommodate this new understanding of himself, of Will, of them together.
Something has changed. Something has begun. And as terrifying as it should be, all Luka feels is a quiet certainty, an inevitability as natural as gravity.
Something has shifted between them, delicate as spun glass but just as unmistakable. Luka notices it in the way Will's gaze lingers now, in how their fingers find excuses to touch—passing homework, reaching for the same controller, adjusting each other's collars before school. They're still best friends, still a package deal as everyone calls them, but there's something new layered over that foundation now, something that makes Luka's heart stutter when Will smiles at him across the classroom. They've crossed an invisible line, and neither of them seems to know how to talk about it in the daylight.
But in the privacy of their bedrooms, during sleepovers that have become more frequent, something closer to the truth emerges.
It started three weeks ago, the night after the bruises began to fade. Will had insisted Luka take the inside of the bed, away from the edge, "just in case." Luka hadn't argued, though they both knew his injuries no longer warranted such caution. Will had switched off the light, slid under the covers, and for a few minutes, they'd lain there in silence, not touching, a careful foot of space between them.
Then Will had whispered, "Are you cold?"
"A little," Luka had admitted, though the temperature in the room was perfectly comfortable.
Will had shifted closer, his arm finding its now-familiar place across Luka's middle. But something had been different that night—a restlessness, a seeking. Will's fingers had brushed against the hem of Luka's borrowed t-shirt, tentative, questioning.
"Can I—?" Will had started, then stopped.
"Yeah," Luka had whispered, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to, but certain he wanted it.
Will's hand had slipped beneath the shirt, palm flat against Luka's stomach, warm and steady. The contact had sent a wave of something unnameable through Luka's body, and he had exhaled a shaky breath.
"This okay?" Will had asked, his voice barely audible.
"More than okay," Luka had managed.
The next morning, neither had mentioned it. But the following sleepover, at Luka's house, they'd reached for each other more quickly in the dark. And when Will had tugged questioningly at Luka's shirt, Luka had simply pulled it off himself.
Will's eyes had widened momentarily before he'd followed suit, removing his own shirt and dropping it beside the bed. When they'd lain back down, the press of skin against skin had been like nothing Luka had ever felt—a connection so profound it had made his throat tight with emotion.
Now, weeks later, it's their unspoken ritual. The lights go out, shirts come off, bodies find each other in the darkness. On colder nights, like tonight at Will's house, they turn on the small space heater in the corner rather than resorting to more layers.
"Better than wearing shirts," Will had said the first time he'd plugged it in, his cheeks slightly pink. Luka had agreed, not trusting his voice for more than a syllable.
They've formed a silent language in these nights—a brush of fingers meaning stay closer, a shift of weight saying I'm here, the synchronized rise and fall of their chests translating to I want this too. It's innocence wrapped in intimacy, a closeness neither has words for yet.
It's only in these moments, cocooned in darkness and the steady sound of each other's breathing, that they dare to speak what daylight keeps contained.
"I love you," Will whispers now, his breath warm against Luka's shoulder, the words so quiet they might be mistaken for the rustle of sheets.
"I love you too," Luka whispers back, equally soft, equally true.
They don't elaborate, don't qualify these declarations with "as a friend" or "like a brother." The silence that follows feels sacred, full of possibility.
But when morning comes, they return to their daylight selves—best friends, inseparable but safely categorized. The night's confessions retreat like tide marks, visible only to those who know where to look.
The hardest part, Luka finds, is being apart. The nights he spends in his own bed, alone, are increasingly unbearable. He tosses and turns, pillow clutched to his chest in poor imitation of Will's solid warmth. His body aches with absence, a hollowness behind his ribs that nothing else can fill.
Will confesses to the same affliction, in oblique references that skirt the edges of what they're really saying. "Couldn't sleep last night," he'll mumble, dark circles beneath his eyes after nights spent in separate houses. "Bed felt too empty."
They count days between sleepovers like prisoners marking walls. Three days until Friday. Two weeks until Fall Break, when Will's parents have agreed to let Luka stay for four consecutive nights while his own parents attend a conference in Chicago.
Their parents indulge them with fond amusement, unaware of the intensity fueling these requests. "The dynamic duo needs their time together," Luka's mother says with a laugh when he asks, yet again, if Will can stay over. Will's mother is equally accommodating, always setting an extra place at dinner, always making up the bed in Will's room with two pillows instead of one.
Luka sometimes wonders if he should feel guilty about the secret they're keeping, this unspoken thing blooming between them. But in the quiet of his thoughts, he can't bring himself to regret a single moment of it.
Will is his anchor, his north star, the person who makes sense of a world that often doesn't. When Will looks at him, Luka feels seen in a way that's both terrifying and exhilarating—like someone has found all his missing pieces and handed them back to him, saying here, you are whole.
Sometimes, catching Will's eye across the lunchroom or feeling their shoulders press together as they walk home, Luka thinks: This is it. This is the thing people spend their whole lives looking for. And we've found it at thirteen.
Tonight, as they lie facing each other in the blue-tinted darkness of Will's room, Luka watches the fan of Will's eyelashes against his cheeks and thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Will's fingers trace idle patterns on Luka's back, and Luka allows himself to imagine a future where this—this closeness, this certainty—never ends.
"What are you thinking about?" Will whispers, eyes still closed.
Luka considers telling him the truth, but settles instead for the part of it he can say aloud. "Just that I'm glad you're my best friend."
Will's eyes open, midnight blue in the darkness, and his smile is slow and knowing. "Me too," he says, and pulls Luka closer until there's not even air between them.
It happens again at lunch on Thursday. Jeremy Mercer, captain of the swim team, stops by their table with a casual "Hey, Shaw, Coach was asking about you again," and Luka watches the shutters come down behind Will's eyes, swift and absolute. Will's fork pauses halfway to his mouth, then resumes its journey as if nothing has interrupted it. "Cool," he says, noncommittal as fog, before launching into an elaborate story about his history project that Jeremy didn't ask about and clearly doesn't care about. Jeremy leaves with a confused shrug, and Luka feels that now-familiar twist of discomfort in his stomach. This is the third time in two weeks that Will has deflected any mention of the swim team, and Luka knows exactly why.
The attack happened on a Tuesday. "I can't walk home with you today," Will had said. "Coach Donovan wants to talk to me about joining the swim team."
"Where's your bodyguard, Hirschberg?" Ryan Freeman had sneered, and Luka had known, with a sinking certainty, that the only reason they'd ever dared approach him was the absence of Will.
What followed is a blur of adrenaline and pain in Luka's memory, sharp fragments that don't quite fit together: being ambushed by three larger boys near the hospital's multi-level parking garage. Fighting back. Getting a few good punches in himself. Falling. Being kicked by all three boys, in his back and ribs. Will finding them. Will the avenging angel breaking Ryan's arm. Ryan howling. Three bullies scurrying away like rats.
And then, Will finding him curled on the pavement, Will's face draining of color, Will's hands gentle but shaking as they reached for him.
"I'm so sorry," Will had said, over and over, "I'm so sorry I wasn't there," and Luka had been too dazed to tell him it wasn't his fault.
Now, weeks later, Will still carries that guilt like a stone in his pocket, reaching for it whenever the swim team is mentioned. He's constructed an equation in his head that Luka can almost see: Swim team = Luka alone = Luka hurt.
"You know," Luka says carefully, pushing his cafeteria fries toward Will in offering, "Jeremy's right. Coach keeps asking about you. Why won't you talk about the swim team?"
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Coach Donovan said you had the best freestyle time he's seen in five years."
A small muscle jumps in Will's jaw. "That doesn't matter."
"It mattered to you before."
Will finally looks up, his eyes meeting Luka's with an intensity that makes Luka's stomach flip. "Before," he says, the word heavy with meaning.
"Before I got jumped," Luka clarifies, because someone needs to say it.
Will's expression softens slightly, but his voice remains firm. "If being on the team means not being there when you need me, then I don't want any part of it."
"Will, that's—"
"End of discussion, Luka." Will goes back to eating Luka's fries, a curtain of sandy hair hiding his eyes. The set of his shoulders is a fortress wall, unscalable and unyielding.
The thing is, Will loves swimming. Has loved it since they were seven and Will outswam every kid at summer camp, cutting through the lake water with natural grace while the counselors watched in amazement. Luka remembers Will's face when he emerged from the water that day—flushed with accomplishment, eyes bright with the discovery of something he was truly good at.
For years, Will has talked about swimming competitively. About college scholarships. About Olympic trials someday, maybe. "When I'm in the water," he told Luka once, "everything makes sense. It's like the world slows down and speeds up at the same time."
And now he won't even say the word "swimming" without changing the subject.
Yesterday, Luka spotted Coach Donovan's sign-up sheet on the activities bulletin board. Final swim team roster. Will's name was conspicuously absent, though a spot had clearly been reserved for him—a blank line at the top of the list, waiting for a signature that will never come.
Luka feels the weight of this sacrifice like a stone in his stomach. It's one thing for Will to walk him home every day, to position himself between Luka and any perceived threat, to text when they're apart: "You ok?" But giving up swimming—that's different. That's Will sacrificing a piece of his future, a dream he's nurtured for years.
All because he wasn't there for twenty minutes on a Tuesday afternoon.
Luka has tried arguing. Has pointed out that what happened wasn't Will's fault, that the odds of it happening again are minimal, that Will can't protect him every second of every day. Will listens patiently each time, his face calm, and then says the same thing: "I'm not joining the team, Luka."
His lips form a stubborn line when he says it, his eyes steady and sure. There's no anger in his refusal, just quiet determination. The matter is settled for Will. Swimming can wait. Luka can't.
For someone who prides himself on seeing everything, Luka isn't sure what to do with this—this fierce, uncompromising protection that both warms and troubles him. How do you tell someone to stop caring so much? How do you convince them that your safety isn't worth their sacrifice?
Luka doesn't have an answer. Not yet. But he's looking for one, because Will shouldn't have to choose.
Later that afternoon, they're sprawled on Will's bed doing homework when Mrs. Shaw calls up the stairs, "Will, Coach Donovan's on the phone for you!"
Will freezes, pencil hovering above his math worksheet. Luka watches as he closes his eyes briefly, steeling himself, before calling back, "Tell him I'm busy with homework, Mom!"
There's a pause, then: "He says it'll just take a minute, honey!"
Will's expression darkens. He tosses his pencil down and stands with a muttered curse that would earn him a lecture if his mother heard it. "Be right back," he says to Luka, not meeting his eyes.
Luka listens to Will's footsteps retreating down the stairs, followed by the murmur of conversation too distant to decipher. He stares at their abandoned homework, at the half-completed problems on Will's paper, and feels a heaviness settle over him.
This is wrong. Will loves swimming. He belongs on that team, belongs in the water where his body knows exactly what to do, where other boys watch him with a mixture of admiration and envy. Luka has seen the way Will's entire being lights up when he emerges from the pool, dripping and triumphant, has heard the joy in his voice when he talks about different strokes and techniques.
And now he's giving it all up, because of Luka. Because he thinks he needs to protect Luka every minute of every day.
When Will returns, his expression is shuttered, lips pressed into a thin line. He drops back onto the bed, picks up his pencil, and says with forced brightness, "Where were we?"
Luka takes a breath, then asks quietly, "What did Coach want?"
"Nothing important." Will's pencil moves across the paper, numbers appearing in his neat handwriting. "Just some school stuff."
The lie sits between them, awkward and obvious. Luka wants to push, wants to tell Will that he doesn't need a bodyguard, that one bad day doesn't mean Will should sacrifice his dreams. But the memory of Will's decisive "I'm not joining the team, Luka," keeps him silent.
Instead, he watches his best friend pretend to focus on algebra, and thinks: This is my fault. I need to fix this.
Because Will might think he's protecting Luka by staying away from the swim team, but all he's really doing is hurting himself. And Luka can't bear to be the reason for that hurt, not when Will is the person who matters most in the world to him.
Something needs to change. And Luka, with the determined clarity that has always been his strength, decides he's going to be the one to change it.
Luka lies awake in his own bed that night, the emptiness beside him as tangible as another person. His mind races through possibilities, discarding each one as quickly as it forms. Will needs to be on that swim team—it's as obvious as gravity. The way his entire being lights up in the water, the natural grace of his movements, the quiet pride in his voice when he explains different techniques—all of it adds up to an undeniable truth: Will Shaw was born to swim. And Luka Hirschberg, self-appointed keeper of Will's happiness, needs to find a way to make it happen without triggering Will's overprotective instincts.
The problem, Luka thinks as he punches his pillow into a more comfortable shape, is separation. Will has created an equation in his head: Swim team means time apart, and time apart means Luka vulnerable. It's faulty logic—one incident doesn't establish a pattern—but Will's not thinking with logic. He's thinking with the part of his heart that winced at every bruise on Luka's body, the part that whispers "I love you" in the safety of darkness.
Luka stares at the ceiling, where glow-in-the-dark stars he and Will stuck up in fifth grade form lopsided constellations. The solution materializes suddenly, fully formed and blindingly obvious.
He'll join the swim team too.
Luka sits up, mind racing. It's so simple he almost laughs. If Will's concern is leaving Luka alone, then the answer is to eliminate the separation entirely. They'd be together during practices, together during meets, together in yet another dimension of their intertwined lives.
There's just one small problem.
Luka Hirschberg cannot swim. Well, that's not entirely true. He can technically stay afloat and move from one side of a pool to another without drowning. But compared to Will's dolphin-like abilities, Luka's aquatic skills are embarrassingly subpar.
Just last summer, watching Luka thrash his way across the lake at Will's grandparents' cabin, Will had laughed and said, "You swim like you've got anchors tied to both feet." It was said with affection, the kind of teasing that forms the comfortable background noise of their friendship, but it wasn't inaccurate. Luka's body seems to fight against water rather than work with it. His arms windmill, his legs kick with more enthusiasm than effectiveness, and he inevitably emerges from the water gasping and disheveled.
The swim team would expect significantly more finesse.
But here's the thing about Luka Hirschberg: he excels at whatever he truly applies himself to. His mind is a precision instrument, capable of breaking down complex problems into manageable parts. When he decides to master something, he approaches it with a methodical determination that borders on obsession.
He's done it with chess, with coding, with the saxophone his parents insisted he learn (he made first chair within six months). He even did it with fighting, after the first time a bigger kid tried to shove him around in elementary school. Will doesn't know about the martial arts videos Luka studied late at night, practicing moves in his bedroom until they became muscle memory—which is why Will was so surprised when Luka managed to land effective punches on all three of his attackers before being overwhelmed.
Swimming is just physics applied to biology. Technique and practice. And Luka has the perfect teacher already in his life.
He'll ask Will to train him. It's brilliant on multiple levels: It gives Will a project to focus on instead of his guilt, it allows Luka to spend even more time with Will, and it culminates in both of them joining the team together. No separation. No vulnerable Luka. No Will sacrificing his passion.
Luka flops back onto his pillow, a smile stretching across his face in the darkness. He can already picture it: early mornings at the community pool, Will's patient instruction, the gradual transformation of Luka's awkward paddling into something resembling proper form. It will be hard work—probably the most physically demanding thing Luka has ever attempted—but the payoff will be worth every aching muscle and chlorine-scented hour.
Will might resist at first. He'll probably say Luka doesn't need to do this for him, that it's not necessary, that Luka has his own interests to pursue. But Luka knows how to handle Will's objections—has years of experience navigating the particular terrain of Will's stubbornness. And beneath any resistance, Will won't be able to hide his excitement at the prospect of sharing the water with Luka, of bringing him into this world that means so much to him.
What Will doesn't fully understand yet is that Luka would do just about anything to see that particular light in Will's eyes—the one that appears when he's truly, completely happy. Luka would learn to swim, to dance, to fly if it meant preserving that light. It's not a sacrifice when it's for the person who holds your heart in his chlorine-scented hands.
Tomorrow, Luka decides, turning onto his side and curling around the pillow, that poor substitute for Will's warmth. Tomorrow he'll set this plan in motion. He'll approach it casually, make it seem like a random idea rather than the carefully constructed solution it is. Will responds better to things he thinks are spontaneous, believes are his own idea.
Luka smiles into his pillow, already drafting the conversation in his head. This will work. It has to work. Because the alternative—Will continuing to distance himself from something he loves out of some misplaced sense of duty—is unacceptable.
As sleep finally begins to pull him under, Luka's last coherent thought is a simple one: For Will, he'll become a swimmer. How hard can it be?
The opportunity presents itself on Saturday afternoon. They're in Will's room, sprawled across his bed with textbooks and snacks scattered between them, supposedly working on their history assignment. But Will's been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes, and Luka's been watching the sunlight trace patterns across Will's blond hair for just as long. The house is quiet—Will's parents are at some neighborhood function—and Luka can hear his own heartbeat, a nervous percussion in his ears. Now or never, he thinks, and clears his throat.
"Hey, Will," Luka begins, trying to sound casual even though his heart pounds like a war drum inside his chest. "I've been thinking... about the swim team."
Will's shoulders tense immediately, his pencil pausing mid-tap against his textbook. He doesn't look up, but Luka can see the subtle tightening of his jaw, the careful neutrality that slides over his expression like a mask.
"What about it?" Will asks, his voice deliberately light.
Luka sits up, crossing his legs beneath him, suddenly unsure how to proceed. He's rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in his head, but now that the moment has arrived, the carefully crafted words scatter like startled birds.
"I was just wondering..." Luka picks at a loose thread on his jeans, giving his hands something to do. "Why do you really not want to join anymore?"
Will sighs, finally looking up. His blue eyes are clouded with an emotion Luka can't quite name. "You know why," he says quietly.
"Because of what happened," Luka states, not a question.
Will nods, his gaze dropping back to his textbook. "I shouldn't have left you alone that day."
"That wasn't your fault," Luka insists, leaning forward. "And it was one time, Will. One time in how many years of us walking home together? I'm not some fragile thing that needs constant protection."
Will's expression suggests he disagrees, but he doesn't argue the point. Instead, he shrugs one shoulder and says, "It doesn't matter. I'm not interested in the team anymore."
Luka takes a deep breath before plunging into the conversation that means everything to him. "What if... what if I try out for the team too? You know, *with* you."
He looks right at Will, his large eyes pleading and hopeful.
Will stares at him, confusion evident in the furrow between his brows. "You want to join the swim team?" he asks slowly, as if ensuring he's heard correctly. "You?"
"Yes, me," Luka says, aiming for indignant but landing closer to nervous. "Is that so hard to believe?"
Will's confusion gives way to a small, incredulous smile. "Luka, last summer you nearly drowned in three feet of water because your swim trunks got caught on a pool ladder."
"That was a mechanical malfunction, not a reflection of my swimming abilities," Luka protests, though his cheeks warm at the memory. "And anyway, I can get better. If I had the right teacher."
Understanding dawns on Will's face. "You want me to teach you to swim?"
"I know how to swim," Luka corrects him. "I want you to teach me to swim well. Team-level well."
Will studies him for a long moment, and Luka forces himself to meet that searching gaze without flinching. He can almost see the calculations happening behind Will's eyes—weighing sincerity against pity, considering possibilities and pitfalls.
"Are you serious?" Will finally says, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice. "You want to do it with me? I mean, really do it and not just for me?"
Luka nods vigorously, grinning from ear to ear. This is exactly what he wanted to hear. "Yeah, Will! I'm serious. We could train together, support each other... and well, who knows? Maybe we can make a great team."
Something shifts in Will's expression—a lightening, a brightening, like clouds parting to reveal blue sky. It's the look Luka has been missing, the one that appears when Will is genuinely excited about something.
"You'd have to train hard," Will says, but there's a new energy in his voice. "Like, really hard. The team has standards."
"I can work hard," Luka insists. "You know I can."
Will looks at him for what feels like forever, his expression cycling through skepticism, consideration, and finally, something close to hope. Luka holds his breath, waiting.
"Okay," Will finally says. "Let's go down to the basement."
"Now?" Luka asks, surprised by the immediacy.
Will is already standing, tossing his textbook aside with newfound purpose. "No time like the present. If we're going to whip you into shape, we need to start immediately." A grin spreads across his face, that particular Will Shaw grin that's always made Luka's stomach do a little flip. "You're going to regret this, Hirschberg."
But Luka doesn't regret it. Not when he follows Will down the stairs, not when Will starts rummaging through the storage closet for the free weights his dad keeps in the basement, not even when Will turns to him with a gleam in his eye that promises exhaustion and sore muscles. Because beneath all that, barely contained, is the excitement Luka has been missing—Will's passion reigniting like a banked fire given fresh fuel.
"First things first," Will says, rolling up his sleeves with determined precision. "Swimming is about more than just technique. It's about strength, endurance, and discipline." He hands Luka a set of five-pound weights, far lighter than the ones he selects for himself. "We're going to build you up, starting now."
Luka takes the weights, their cool metal solid against his palms. "I'm ready," he says, and he means it. For Will's sake, for his own—for them, together—he's ready.
Will smiles, bright and real and unreserved for the first time in weeks. "Then let's get started."
The basement air feels thick with dust motes and determination as Will guides Luka through the proper form for bicep curls. "Back straight," Will instructs, his voice taking on a new timbre—something between coach and protector. "Elbows tight against your sides. Don't swing the weight." His fingers press gently against Luka's spine, making minute adjustments to his posture that somehow feel monumental. Luka focuses on the burn building in his arms, on the sweat beginning to bead along his hairline, on anything except the distracting warmth of Will's hand at the small of his back.
Within ten minutes, Will has Luka warmed up and moving through a routine of free weight training. The basement transforms into their private gym, the old weight bench Will's father rarely uses becoming the centerpiece of their efforts. Will spotting for Luka, his shadow falling across Luka's straining form as he pushes through another set of chest presses.
"Four more," Will says, his voice steady and encouraging. "You can do this."
Luka's arms tremble from exertion, but he grits his teeth and pushes the bar upward again. And again. And again. One final, agonizing push, and Will helps guide the bar back to its resting place.
"Good," Will says, and the simple praise sends a wash of pride through Luka's exhausted body.
They move methodically through exercises for shoulders, core, arms, back, legs—a comprehensive circuit that leaves no muscle group unchallenged. Will demonstrates each movement first, his own body moving with practiced ease, muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt in ways that make Luka momentarily forget why they're doing this at all.
By the time they finish, Luka is drenched in sweat, muscles quivering with fatigue, but his determination hasn't wavered. Will hands him a water bottle, and their fingers brush, sending a different kind of tremor through Luka's tired limbs.
"That's just the beginning," Will says, a gleam in his eye that's part challenge, part pride. "We'll do this three times a week, and swimming four times. You game?"
Luka takes a long drink, then grins through his exhaustion. "Absolutely."
They establish a ruthless routine. Mornings before school, evenings after homework, weekends whenever they can squeeze in time. The community center's indoor pool becomes their second home, Will's family membership allowing them access even during the off-season.
In the water, Will is transformed—not just physically, though that too is remarkable. It's something in his essence, a confidence and grace that emerges the moment he breaks the surface. Watching him demonstrate strokes is like watching poetry written with limbs and water, a fluid language Luka is desperate to learn.
"Keep your movements efficient," Will explains, treading water effortlessly while Luka clings to the pool's edge. "No wasted energy. Every motion should propel you forward."
He's a demanding coach. When Luka's form slips, Will doesn't hesitate to correct him, sometimes physically repositioning Luka's arms or legs to demonstrate the proper technique. But he's also endlessly patient, adapting his instruction to fit Luka's learning style, breaking down complex movements into manageable parts.
"Think of the water as your partner, not your opponent," Will says one afternoon, after Luka surfaces gasping from another failed attempt at a proper butterfly stroke. "You're not fighting against it. You're working with it."
Luka nods, pushing wet hair from his eyes. "Show me again?"
Will does, his body undulating through the water with serpentine grace. Luka watches, memorizing the rhythm, the timing, the particular angle of Will's arms as they slice into the water. Then he tries again, and though it's far from perfect, something clicks—a momentary harmony with the element he's been struggling against.
"That's it!" Will exclaims, genuine excitement brightening his face. "You felt that, right? That moment when everything aligned?"
Luka nods, unable to suppress his grin. "I did."
Day by day, lap by lap, Luka improves. The weights become easier to lift. His lungs stop burning quite so fiercely after each set. His body, already lean, begins to develop new definition—subtle changes that he notices most when he catches Will looking at him with an expression that makes his stomach flip.
There are setbacks, of course. Days when Luka's body refuses to cooperate, when frustration builds like pressure behind a dam. One particularly disastrous session ends with Luka hurling his goggles across the pool deck in a rare display of temper.
"This is pointless," he snaps, water streaming from his hair into his eyes. "I'm never going to be good enough."
Will simply retrieves the goggles, returns to the pool's edge, and crouches beside him. "Yes, you will," he says with quiet certainty. "You're already better than half the guys on the team. You just can't see it yet."
"You're biased," Luka mutters, but accepts the goggles when Will presses them back into his palm.
"Maybe," Will agrees with a small smile. "But I'm also right."
He is. Three weeks into their training, Luka completes a 200-meter freestyle in a time that would have seemed impossible before. His form isn't perfect—he still tends to lift his head too high when breathing, still occasionally reverts to his old habit of windmilling his arms when tired—but the transformation is undeniable.
"I can't believe it," Coach Donovan says when he stops by the community pool one evening and Will convinces him to time Luka's laps. "You've got actual technique now, Hirschberg. What happened?"
Luka, breathless from his sprint, just grins and points at Will. "Him."
Will beams with pride, the expression so bright it seems to illuminate the entire pool deck. Later, as they're changing in the locker room, Will bumps his shoulder against Luka's in that casual-but-not-really way they've developed.
"You're going to make the team," he says with absolute conviction. "You know that, right?"
Luka tugs a clean shirt over his head, hiding his smile in the fabric. "Maybe."
"Not maybe. Definitely." Will's hand finds Luka's shoulder, squeezes once. "You're amazing, you know? What you've done in three weeks... it's incredible."
The compliment settles warm in Luka's chest, a pleasant weight. He's used to praise for his academic abilities, for the things that come naturally to him. But this—recognition for something he's fought and struggled and bled for—feels different. Better, somehow.
"I had a good teacher," he says simply.
Will's smile turns softer, more private. "I had a determined student," he counters. "All I did was point the way."
That night, when they tumble into Will's bed, exhausted and aching in the best way, their usual positions reverse. It's Luka who pulls Will against his chest, Luka's arm that drapes protectively over Will's side.
"Thank you," Luka whispers into the darkness.
Will's hand finds his, fingers interlacing. "For what?"
"For believing I could do this. For helping me prove it."
Will squeezes his hand, and Luka doesn't need to see his face to know he's smiling. "Always," Will whispers back, and in that single word, Luka hears a promise that extends far beyond swimming pools and training sessions.
Luka's stomach performs a series of increasingly complex gymnastics as they approach the pool where Coach Donovan stands timing Jeremy Mercer's laps. Will walks beside him, shoulders squared with a confidence Luka wishes he could borrow. Four weeks of intensive training have transformed Luka's body and technique, but standing here, at the edge of possibility, doubts resurface like air bubbles in still water. What if all their work isn't enough? What if the coach takes one look at him and laughs? Worse yet, what if the coach says yes to Will but no to him, forcing Will into an impossible choice?
Will must sense his apprehension, because he bumps his shoulder gently against Luka's—their silent language for I'm here, I've got you. "We've got this," Will murmurs, just loud enough for Luka to hear. "Together."
Coach Donovan looks up as they approach, his stopwatch momentarily forgotten. His expression brightens when he spots Will, then dims slightly when his gaze lands on Luka. He's a compact man with salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that miss nothing, especially in the water.
"Shaw," he acknowledges with a nod. "Decided to stop avoiding my calls?"
Will steps forward, his stance casual but purposeful. "Yes, sir. I'm ready to talk about joining the team."
The coach's eyebrows lift in obvious interest. "That's what I like to hear. We could use you, especially with regionals coming up."
"Great," Will says, and Luka hears the subtle shift in his tone—the one that means he's about to say something the other person won't like. "If you want me, Coach, give my buddy a tryout too. We're a package deal."
Coach Donovan's expression flatlines. His gaze flicks to Luka, assessing and dismissive in the span of a heartbeat. "A package deal," he repeats, voice flat.
"That's what everyone calls them," Jeremy chimes in, hauling himself out of the pool. Water cascades from his lean frame as he reaches for a towel. "Shaw and Hirschberg. Package deal. Not sold separately."
The coach sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, Shaw, I appreciate team spirit, but this isn't a buddy system. This is a competitive swim team."
"I understand that, sir," Will replies, unfazed. "And Luka's good. Really good. Just give him a chance to show you."
Luka stands straighter under the coach's scrutiny, trying to project a confidence he doesn't entirely feel. Coach Donovan's lips press into a thin line as he considers the situation.
"Michaels and Parker both quit last week," Jeremy points out, toweling his hair. "We're down two swimmers."
Something in the coach's expression shifts—resignation mixed with calculation. "Fine," he says after a moment. "Both of you, get changed. Five minutes. We'll see what you've got."
As they head to the locker room, Luka whispers, "You didn't have to do that."
Will just shakes his head, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Yes, I did."
The tryout is both less and more frightening than Luka anticipated. Less, because the familiar rhythm of warm-ups and drills calms his nerves; more, because Coach Donovan watches with laser focus, his expression betraying nothing as Will and Luka move through a series of tests designed to showcase speed, endurance, and technique.
Will, predictably, excels. His body cuts through water with effortless precision, each turn executed with textbook perfection. Several times, Luka catches the coach nodding appreciatively, even making notes on his clipboard.
When it's Luka's turn for the 200-meter freestyle, he steps onto the starting block with legs that feel simultaneously leaden and hollow. The pool stretches before him, an expanse of blue that seems both inviting and intimidating. From the corner of his eye, he sees Will give him a thumbs up.
"On your mark," the coach calls, and Luka assumes the position, muscle memory taking over. "Get set... Go!"
He dives, the cool embrace of water momentarily disorienting before instinct kicks in. Four weeks of Will's patient instruction echo in his mind—Streamline your body, powerful kicks, long pulls, breathe every third stroke, keep your hips up. His arms and legs respond accordingly, finding the rhythm Will has drilled into him through countless hours of practice.
The first lap feels good. The second, challenging but manageable. By the third, his lungs begin to burn, but he pushes through it, remembering Will's voice: The difference between good and great is what you do when it starts to hurt. The final lap is pure determination, every muscle screaming for relief, but Luka forces himself to maintain form, to finish strong.
When his hand touches the wall, he surfaces gasping, immediately looking for the coach's reaction. Coach Donovan stares at his stopwatch, then at Luka, then back at the stopwatch. His expression is unreadable.
Will squats at the pool's edge, grinning wide. "You did it," he mouths.
"Not bad, Hirschberg," the coach says finally, scribbling something on his clipboard. "Not bad at all."
The remaining tests blur together—butterfly, backstroke, endurance laps. By the end, Luka's arms feel like overcooked spaghetti and his legs threaten to buckle with each step. But beneath the exhaustion is a growing certainty: he's done well. Maybe not as brilliantly as Will, but well enough.
Coach Donovan calls them both over when they've finished changing, his expression inscrutable. Jeremy and two other team members hover nearby, pretending not to eavesdrop.
"Shaw," the coach begins, "your technique is excellent, as expected. Your times are consistently strong across all strokes, and your endurance is impressive for someone who hasn't been training with a team." He pauses, turning to Luka. "Hirschberg. Your form has room for improvement, particularly on your butterfly turn, but your freestyle is solid and your backstroke shows promise. More importantly, you clearly put in the work, and that's something I value on my team."
Luka holds his breath, hardly daring to hope.
"Both of you are in," the coach says finally. "Practice starts Monday, 6 AM sharp. Don't be late."
The simple declaration sends a wave of elation through Luka so intense it's almost dizzying. He's dimly aware of Jeremy and the others clapping Will on the back, of Coach Donovan handing them each a packet of information, but all he can really focus on is Will's face—bright with a joy that mirrors his own.
"Told you," Will says when they're finally alone in the hallway, voices echoing off the tiled walls. "Package deal."
Luka laughs, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep and genuine. "Package deal," he agrees, and when Will's arm drops across his shoulders, it feels like victory and belonging all at once.
As they push through the double doors into the crisp afternoon air, Luka realizes that what started as a scheme to get Will back to what he loves has become something more—a shared passion, a joint achievement, another thread in the intricate tapestry that binds them together. It's no longer just about Will not being separated from Luka; it's about them moving forward together, side by side, in all things.
"We should celebrate," Will says, squeezing Luka's shoulder. "Pizza? My treat."
"Only if you get pineapple on your half," Luka teases, knowing full well Will's stance on fruit as a pizza topping.
Will groans dramatically, but his smile doesn't dim. "The things I do for you, Hirschberg," he sighs, but the fondness in his voice makes it clear—he wouldn't have it any other way.
The natatorium thrums with competitive energy—the sharp scent of chlorine hanging in humid air, the echo of cheers bouncing off high ceilings, the splash and surge of bodies cutting through water. Luka adjusts his goggles, watching as Will steps onto the starting block for his third event of the day. Despite the six weeks of intensive training, despite the early mornings and aching muscles, despite even the satisfied glint in Coach Donovan's eyes when he looks at their times on the board, there's still something surreal about being here—about both of them wearing the navy and silver of Westlake Middle School, about belonging to something that once seemed impossibly out of reach.
"Shaw's up again," Jeremy says, dropping onto the bench beside Luka. "Think he'll break his own record this time?"
Luka smiles, eyes never leaving Will's focused form. "Probably."
Will has been nothing short of phenomenal today. His first event—the 100-meter freestyle—ended with him touching the wall a full three seconds before his nearest competitor. His second—the 200-meter individual medley—showcased the effortless grace with which he transitions between strokes, earning gasps from the crowd and grudging nods from opposing coaches. Now, poised for the 100-meter butterfly, he looks like something out of a sports magazine—all coiled power and liquid confidence.
The whistle blows. Will's dive is perfect, his body arcing into the water with barely a splash. Luka holds his breath without meaning to, captivated by the underwater streamline, the powerful dolphin kicks, the moment Will surfaces into his first stroke. He's magnificent—there's no other word for it. His arms windmill in precise arcs, his body undulating with serpentine grace, each breath timed to the millisecond.
"He's something else," Jeremy murmurs, and Luka can only nod, throat tight with a strange mixture of pride and awe.
When Will touches the wall, the crowd erupts. Another first place, another record broken. Will surfaces with a triumphant grin, water streaming from his hair, his eyes immediately seeking out Luka in the crowd. When their gazes lock, Will's smile widens, and he pumps his fist—their private signal that morphed into a team tradition: This one's for you.
Luka's own events have gone better than he dared hope. He placed third in the 200-meter freestyle, a result that stunned both him and Coach Donovan. His contribution to the 4x100 relay was solid—not the fastest leg, but not the slowest either. For someone who could barely complete a lap without gasping for air six weeks ago, it's nothing short of miraculous.
"Hirschberg," Coach calls, beckoning him over with a clipboard. "You're in for the final relay. Lane four."
Luka blinks in surprise. The final relay—the 4x100 medley—is the prestige event, the one that often determines overall meet standings. He'd assumed his spot would go to Collins, whose backstroke is consistently stronger.
"Are you sure?" he asks, and immediately regrets the question.
Coach Donovan raises an eyebrow. "You questioning my lineup decisions now, Hirschberg?"
"No, sir," Luka says quickly. "Just... surprised."
"Your times have improved. Your turns are cleaner. And," the coach adds, his voice dropping slightly, "Shaw swims better when you're in the water with him. I don't know why, and I don't particularly care. I just want to win."
Luka nods, warmth spreading through his chest at the offhand revelation. Will swims better when he's there. The knowledge feels like a gift.
The final relay is a blur of noise and motion and heart-pounding exertion. Jeremy leads with backstroke, building a narrow lead that Collins maintains with breaststroke. Luka dives in for the butterfly, the stroke he's struggled with most, and somehow—through determination or adrenaline or the knowledge that Will is waiting to anchor—executes the cleanest 100 meters of his life. When his fingers touch the wall, Will is already diving overhead, a streak of motion that barely disrupts the water's surface.
What follows is nothing short of poetry. Will's freestyle is transcendent—powerful yet effortless, each stroke eating up distance with predatory efficiency. The gap between him and the next swimmer widens with every turn, until his final touch is met with a roar from the Westlake section that nearly drowns out the electronic buzz of the timer.
First place. Meet champions. The scoreboard flashes the results in uncompromising red digits, and the Westlake team erupts in celebrations that teeter on the edge of chaos. Jeremy, soaking wet, lifts Luka in a bear hug that briefly cuts off his air supply. Coach Donovan actually smiles—a rare sight that several team members pretend to document for posterity. Parents flood down from the stands, cameras flashing, voices raised in congratulations.
In the midst of it all, Will finds him. Their eyes meet across the churning sea of bodies, and then Will is there, arms wrapping around Luka with enough force to lift him briefly off his feet.
"We did it," Will breathes against his ear, his voice thick with emotion. "We actually did it."
"You did it," Luka corrects, but Will shakes his head, water droplets flying from his hair.
"We did," he insists. "Package deal, remember?"
Later, when the chaos has subsided and they've changed into dry clothes, they sit side by side on a bench outside the natatorium, sharing a victory milkshake from the Five Guys across the street. The late afternoon sun paints everything in gold, including the drops of water still clinging to Will's hair.
"Did you see Collins' face when Coach put you in the final relay instead of him?" Will asks around his straw, eyes dancing with mischief.
Luka winces slightly. "Yeah. He wasn't thrilled."
"Who cares? Coach made the right call." Will bumps his shoulder against Luka's, that familiar gesture that's become part of their physical vocabulary. "You were amazing out there."
"I was adequate," Luka corrects, but he can't help the smile that tugs at his lips. "You were amazing."
Will shrugs, never comfortable with direct praise, but his cheeks pink slightly. "We make a good team."
The simplicity of the statement belies its truth. They do make a good team—have always made a good team, since the day they met in kindergarten and Will shared his animal crackers with Luka when a bigger kid stole Luka's snack. Back then, it was puzzles and pillow forts. Now it's swim meets and shared secrets. Tomorrow, who knows? But Luka is certain of one thing: whatever comes next, they'll face it together.
"Hey," Will says suddenly, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "I never really thanked you."
Luka looks at him, confused. "For what?"
"For this. For making me try out for the team. For training so hard." Will's fingers tap a nervous rhythm against the milkshake cup. "I was being stupid, thinking I had to choose between swimming and... and you."
The admission hangs between them, more direct than they usually are in daylight. Luka's heart gives a peculiar flutter.
"You weren't being stupid," he says softly. "You were being Will. Always taking care of everyone else."
Will's gaze drops to his hands. "I thought I'd failed you once. I didn't want to do it again."
"You've never failed me," Luka says with such fierce certainty that Will looks up, startled. "Not once, not ever."
Their eyes hold for a long moment, something unspoken but understood passing between them. Then Will smiles—that particular smile that seems reserved just for Luka, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and reveals the small chip in his front tooth from a biking accident in fifth grade.
"Package deal," Will says again, soft and certain.
"Package deal," Luka echoes.
They sit in comfortable silence for a while, passing the milkshake back and forth, watching as families and teammates trickle out of the building, carrying gym bags and trailing conversations. Coach Donovan emerges, spots them, and gives a rare thumbs-up before heading to his car.
"My mom's making her special lasagna tonight," Will says eventually. "To celebrate. She told me to invite you, of course."
"Of course," Luka grins.
"Sleepover?"
"Do you even need to ask?"
Will's answering smile is like sunrise. "Just checking."
As they gather their things and begin the walk to Will's house, Luka feels a profound sense of rightness settle over him. Six weeks ago, he set out to solve a problem—to get Will back to swimming without sacrificing their time together. What he didn't anticipate was how much he'd come to love the sport himself, how satisfying it would be to push his body to new limits, to accomplish something that once seemed impossible.
But more than that, he never expected this deepening of their already profound connection. Swimming together has given them a new language, a new way to understand and appreciate each other. Luka seeing Will in his element, excelling with natural grace. Will witnessing Luka's determination, his refusal to give up even when progress seemed painfully slow.
They've always been inseparable, but now there's an added dimension to their bond—a shared passion, a mutual achievement, another facet of their lives intertwined. Luka watches Will as he walks beside him, gesturing animatedly as he recounts Jeremy's near-disastrous turn in the relay, and feels a certainty deep in his bones: nothing will ever come between them. Not bullies, not separate interests, not the complex future that awaits them as they grow older.
Some connections are simply unbreakable.
Will turns to him suddenly, mid-sentence, a question in his eyes. "You okay? You got quiet."
Luka smiles, the warmth in his chest expanding until it feels like it might burst through his ribs. "I'm perfect," he says, and means it.
Will's hand finds his, fingers intertwining with casual confidence now that they're away from the crowd. The contact sends a familiar spark through Luka's body—not static electricity this time, but something more essential, more profound. A recognition, a belonging.
"Race you to my house?" Will suggests, eyes bright with challenge and something softer.
"You'll win," Luka points out.
Will just grins. "Maybe. Maybe not. You've been surprising me a lot lately."
"On three?"
They count together, then take off down the sidewalk, gym bags bouncing against their sides, laughter trailing behind them like banners. And if anyone had asked Luka in that moment to define happiness, he wouldn't need words at all—just this: running beside Will in the golden afternoon light, their futures stretching before them, bright and limitless and inexorably shared.
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