#goldvsblack

Wells was on the first flight out of the Golden City.

Toronto greeted him with cold air and gray light. He stepped onto the sidewalk in tight blue jeans and black winter boots, gold-and-black plaid flannel fitted across his shoulders, a gold puffy jacket catching what little light the morning offered. Civilian, but unmistakably himself.

By the time he reached his condo, the city felt quieter.

He shrugged off the jacket, moved through the space with purpose. Fresh sheets on the couch. Blanket folded clean. Pillow placed just right. A glass and a water bottle set side by side.

Prepared. Intentional.

Wells paused, hands on his hips, then gave a low laugh.

“Get it together.”

The Toronto Speed Skating Club smelled like cold air and sweat. Wells changed quickly, sealing himself into the metallic gold skin suit, tight, aerodynamic, black strips cutting clean lines down his legs. Gold helmet. Gold eyewear. When he stepped onto the ice, he felt fast before he even moved.

He pushed off for his first warm-up lap, gold flashing as his skates bit clean lines into the ice.

Coach arrived shortly after, tight black jeans. Black winter boots. Red-and-black fitted plaid flannel. Black vinyl puffy jacket shrugged off shortly after he stepped inside. Baseball cap worn backwards. Calm, grounded authority.

Coach watched Wells warm up without comment.

When Coach joined him on the ice, the shift was immediate.

Black skin suit. Glossy, almost liquid under the rink lights. Gold accent strips mirroring Wells without matching him. Black helmet. Dark eyewear. Control made visible.

They stood side by side at the boards for a moment, gold and black, speed and restraint.

Wells pushed off hard, gold flashing as he carved the ice.

“Inside edge,” Coach called.

Wells adjusted, smirk visible even behind the eyewear. “You watching me that closely?”

“I’m watching everything.”

They ran drills back and forth—Wells fast and loud, Coach precise and quiet. Every correction landed sharper in skin suits, nothing hidden.

“You’re leaking control,” Coach said.

Wells laughed breathlessly. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

Coach glided closer, close enough to feel without touching.

“It is when it costs you speed.”

Coach’s bare hand came briefly to Wells’ lower back. Firm. Corrective.

“Hold.”

Wells held.

The line sharpened instantly.

Wells exhaled. “Okay. Yeah. That’s better.”

They changed quickly after training, the cold still clinging as they stepped back into civilian layers. Wells pulled on his gold-and-black flannel and jacket. Coach returned to black jeans, red plaid, jacket zipped, cap still backwards.

The coffee shop was warm and quiet, steam rising between them.

Wells stared into his cup of hot cocoa before finally saying, “About the kiss.”

Coach didn’t look away. “Yes.”

“You said it was wrong.”

“It was.”

“But.”

Coach exhaled once. “I’m attracted to you.”

Wells’ breath caught. “Okay.”

“And I’ve been teasing you,” Coach added. “Deliberately.”

Wells smiled. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“Because you respond.”

The honesty settled between them, direct, controlled, real.

Back at the condo, jackets came off and were hung without ceremony. The space felt smaller without winter as an excuse for distance.

Wells moved easily in flannel and jeans, boots heavy on the floor. Coach stood across from him, red-and-black plaid stretched over a broad chest, cap still backwards, authority intact without armor.

Coach glanced at the couch. The prepared bed.

“You set this up.”

“Didn’t want you uncomfortable.”

Coach stepped closer. Not touching. Just presence.

“Tomorrow,” Coach said quietly, “we run the same drills.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“And you’re going to stop pretending you don’t like the control.”

Wells smiled, no bravado now. Just truth. “Not a chance.”

Coach huffed softly. “Good.”

The tension didn’t dissolve.

It settled.

Structured. Intentional. Ready to be used.

The Golden Chalice hummed with low music and warm light. Wells leaned against the bar, gold tank top clinging to his chest, sweat catching the glow. WELLS 58 sat in black across the front, bold and unmistakable. He laughed easily, loose from a couple of drinks, shoulders relaxed for once.

Then the room shifted.

Coach stood at the entrance.

Still. Black-clad. Watching.

Wells felt it before he fully registered it, the weight of that attention, familiar and grounding. He turned, grin faltering just a fraction as their eyes met across the room.

Coach moved closer, presence cutting through the noise. They ended up side by side at the bar, close enough that Wells could feel the heat from him.

“You’ve been training well,” Coach said quietly. Not praise. Assessment.

Wells straightened without thinking. “I’ve been doing what you told me.”

A pause. Then, “It shows.”

The words landed heavier than any compliment.

Coach’s hand came to rest on Wells’ shoulder, bare, deliberate, steady. Not a pull. Not a shove. Just enough to correct his posture. Wells felt his chest lift, spine align, breath slow.

He didn’t move away.

They left the pub together without discussing it. The alley behind the building was narrow, damp, lit by a single hazy streetlight. Mist hung low, the air quieter here.

They stopped a few feet apart.

Coach stood tall in black. Wells faced him in gold, chin lifted, heart beating harder than it ever did on the field.

No one spoke.

Coach stepped in first.

The kiss was controlled. Still. Brief, but charged. No hands wandering, no rush. Just contact, intentional and restrained, like a line crossed with full awareness.

Coach lingered for a minute, both of the, still hugging and holding each other.

Coach pulled back almost immediately.

“This is wrong,” he said, voice steady but tight. “I shouldn’t do this with someone I’m training.”

Wells stood there, stunned, breathing hard, gold fabric rising and falling against his chest. He didn’t argue. Didn’t apologize. Just absorbed the moment as it settled into him.

Behind him, Coach turned slightly away, already pulling himself back into control.

Coach stepped back in the alley, footsteps measured. He spoke, barely loud enough to carry, he spoke more to himself than to Wells.

“That kind of tension doesn’t come from nowhere.”

He didn’t look back.

Wells remained under the streetlight, alone now. The mist thickened. His breathing slowed. Whatever had shifted didn’t feel like loss, it felt like alignment.

Gold against the dark. Grounded. Changed. Wells was still in awe over the unexpected kiss and wondered what would happen at their next training session.

Coach’s silhouette faded deeper into the alley behind him.