Chapter Text
He is gliding.
The ice is under his feet. Cold. The air is pooling around him, grabbing at his ankles and keeping him steady, throwing him in every direction and lifting him into the sky. This is his life. This is what he lives and breathes, and would, if needed, die for. It’s ridiculous and maybe it’s foolish but he is willing.
Tommy used to love this. He isn’t so certain anymore. Whether it’s love or not, he isn’t certain he cares, either.
“Keep steady,” Dream tells him, and he listens. He steadies himself. He is angry he allowed himself to falter in the first place, so he tries to even out his breath, balance his limbs. “Tommy, you’re falling out of the turn. I taught you better than this. You’re better than this.”
He is better than this. He hasn’t eaten in seven hours, however, and he can feel it biting away at his endurance. Tommy’s been busy. That isn’t an excuse, of course; they practice during camp lunches on occasion, but he doesn’t have anyone to sit with, anyways. He isn’t being watched for so he isn’t missed.
Tommy’s breathing is tight in his chest, and he struggles to swallow, but his throat is unbearably dry. He can feel it, feel the way he hollows himself out.
Dream is done with his failures. He frowns, scoffs, then spits out, “Double lutz, land it, and I’m finished here. If you know best, Tommy, you’ll stay after I’m gone.”
He knows he isn’t supposed to speak. He doesn’t. Tommy brings his arm back, finding his balance, and he pushes up, pulls his arm close, and spins once, twice. He lands. His chest is heaving. It shouldn’t be.
Dream stands at the gate to the rink, watching.
Tommy knows what this means. He skates towards him, even though he can barely feel his feet moving at all. He bows low, one arm behind his back, the other holding his stomach. “Thank you, coach.”
He’s fine. Tommy is fine.
Dream nods approvingly, and leaves. Tommy appreciates the small mercies, but he curses himself how much he’s failed. Dream may be strict, but his methods were perfect, and he’s given Tommy all the tools to be perfect.
It is his fault he isn’t.
Tommy turns around and goes back to the middle of the rink.
—
It was his idea to go to camp in the first place.
Tommy’s parents love him, in their own way. They also love success, and even though he loathed the idea of proving them right, he had been even more elated at the chance to attend. He’d been scouted during one of his later practices, and when he’d gotten the letter in the mail, all it took was his parents agreeing glances for him to pack his bags and leave. It was for six months, and even if he knew he’d miss home, odd as it sounded, the opportunity was too good to reject.
The director was a man named Phil Watson. He was, in simpler terms, the best skater to date-- and he was retired.
Apparently, he’d wanted to witness the youth's talent with his own eyes. He wasn’t coaching, but he had hired some of the most revered of the job to teach the ones attending.
Phil was looking for talent. He was looking for the very best, and apparently, that meant most were older. The ones Tommy had seen speaking about it on the internet were around seventeen or eighteen-- he tried not to let it bother him, but the idea of being some of the youngest among them made something twist in his stomach.
Tommy is fourteen.
He feels dumb, looking back on it. This should’ve been an easy decision. It was revolutionary in his career, of course, and that hasn’t changed.
Tommy feels different. He wishes he didn’t.
He is a better skater than he could’ve ever been if he’d stayed home, however. He hears what other students say about him; they’re mostly angry. Tommy isn’t exactly social, and while he doesn’t avoid them deliberately, they assume he is, and a rumor is almost the same as the truth once it’s spread enough. They are angry that he’s stealing all of Dream’s attention, but he is Dream’s student, and Dream’s alone. It is explained to him constantly and he loves the way he is special.
Tommy shouldn’t, he knows. Three months ago, he might’ve felt differently. He doesn’t know. He’s changed, and he’s a better skater. He has a chance at being the best.
That’s all that matters, he thinks.
Someone runs into his shoulder.
He flinches back immediately, recoiling. On instinct, he moves his eyes up, meeting a dark, contemplative brown, before looking down to stare at his feet. He hasn’t seen this man before, and if he’s a skater, he sure seems like he’d be a good one. Despite his lanky frame, he holds himself with grace. Tommy assumes he deserves respect. “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
The guy-- teen, maybe-- in front of him doesn’t speak for a beat, then another. Tommy is foolish, so he spares one more glance, and the look on the man’s face forces him to keep his eyes there.
He is curious.
“No need to apologize, kid. It’s my fault, too,” The man insists, sticking his hand out. “I’m Wilbur.”
This has never happened before-- it doesn’t seem common for people to introduce themselves after bumping into him, and Tommy fears he isn’t hiding the look of concern on his face well enough. He struggles to cool it, before sticking his hand out to reach the man’s-- Wilbur’s, apparently-- hand. “I’m Tommy, sir.”
Wilbur’s eyes widen. He’s never seen that shade of brown before, he realizes. “Tommy Simons?”
He pauses, before nodding once. “Yes, sir.
“My dad spoke about you,” Wilbur is smiling now. It’s unusually bright. He’s almost blinded. “He told me you’re an anomaly, Tommy Simons. He doesn’t say that often. In a good way, I mean. And you don’t have to call me sir. I’m not that old.”
And that- that throws him.
Tommy doesn’t know this man’s father. He has never been told he was an anomaly before. He has been Tommy, the one that never speaks. Tommy, the dedicated one. Tommy, the skater, the mess, the screw up. The perfect mess. They don’t think he’s a mess here. They believe he is perfect, here, and they believe he is cruel, and they believe he could be the best. He has to be the best. Because he has been Tommy, the son, that we need to succeed, and it’s because we love you. We want the best for you. We want you to be the best, Tommy-- you can’t afford to be anything but the best.
We want the money, you living dollar sign, is what he thinks his parents were trying to say, but he can pretend otherwise. Maybe he should’ve been an actor. Surely it would’ve been easier.
He just swallows as a response. Nods again. Smiles politely. Maybe all of that just makes him an anomaly, and no one ever gave him a word for it. He supposes he can thank Wilbur for that now.
Wilbur clears his throat, obviously reading what the silence may mean. “Well, I’d best be off. Have a nice rest of your day, kid.”
Tommy smiles up at him, polite, eager to leave. “You too, s- Wilbur. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Wilbur smiles back, but it’s strained. Tommy resists the urge to flinch. “You didn’t do anything bad.”
He nods once more, turns around, and walks the other way. He doesn’t know where he’s going.
—
When Tommy wakes up, he’s panting.
He was gifted a room by himself, per Dream’s request. When he’d first started working on Tommy, he hadn’t been sure, but after a few weeks, he apparently saw something in Tommy’s potential and began making edits in his life. Tommy didn’t complain. He doesn’t know how to be any better than his parents made him, and apparently, Dream is an expert at it.
The first time Tommy has talked to someone other than Dream in the past nine days was Wilbur. It felt odd, hearing another voice, and it made him oddly uncomfortable. Wilbur had been kind, however, and Tommy didn’t know how to take it.
He’s had nightmares lately.
He can’t pin down a cause, but he’ll wake up in the middle of the night, sweaty and sticking to the sheets. It feels like he’ll drown in his own suffocation, and it always takes him a few minutes to calm down and feel like himself again. Tommy isn’t certain he knows what that should be, but he takes a guess and tries to imagine what Dream would tell him.
Tommy can’t remember what happened in the nightmare, and he’s grateful.
His parents wrote him letters at first, but lately, they’ve stopped. When he told Dream, he nodded sympathetically, but told him that it would ultimately be for the best. He explained to Tommy that their expectations just weren’t high enough, because their bar was ‘placed differently.’ Dream told him that once he’s finished with Tommy, his parents will be too baffled with his talent to ever be disappointed in him again.
Tommy would be lying if he said he didn’t savor the idea.
He knows that this isn’t normal. In most cases, coaches are at least shared among a few, and it rattles him to know that he is the exception. He can’t waste it. If he did, it would eat away at him until there was nothing left.
Tommy gets dressed and heads to the rink before the other’s morning practices begin.
—
When they meet again, it’s in a rather unconventional place. For him, at least.
Tommy is outside. He’s rarely outside; he barely has any memories of him spending time in nature, anyways, but Dream had told him to go on a walk, so he isn’t keen on doing anything else. The majority of the camp is indoors, but there are a few walkways, lined with the greens of buds and the whites of petals that he hasn’t seen before.
The weather is generously ideal. He’s lucky; their practice had gone well, and Dream had been in a good mood even before they started. Those days were the best he could remember. Apparently, Dream had thought that a walk would be nice for him. A breath of fresh air. Tommy has been breathing from artificial air for so long that he wasn’t sure the taste of nature would fuel his lungs, keep his heart beating, keep his pulse thrumming steady.
He’s dragging his feet along, staring at the very ends of his converse as he walks; those were a gift from Dream, too-- but only because Tommy requested. Back at home, one of his childhood friends had worn these constantly. They haven’t talked in ages. Tommy doesn’t know if she’s happy, but he hopes she is. She was outgoing, and almost overbearingly lively. For him, however, it had been perfect, and he thinks he misses her. It’s been too long for him to know if the pictures of their memories were tainted by his own longing, or if she’d truly made him feel that colorful.
Tommy is, now, used to whites and clears, ice and cold, and he likes the way it feels. He doesn't know if that, too, is something he grew to like, or if he taught himself. The more he thinks about it, the less he knows anything at all.
The breeze blows his shirt, and he wraps his arms around his torso.
“Nice evening, dontcha’ think?” A voice speaks, and from the rasp and the hint of amusement, he somehow knows who it is.
He turns his head up, eyes blinking once. “Wilbur. Hi.”
“Anomaly. Hi.”
The name takes him aback, but he remembers that Wilbur asked him a question, so he nods, thinking that’s the right thing to do. “Yeah. It is. Nice, I mean.”
Wilbur laughs. Tommy isn’t sure what he finds so funny, so he smiles back up at him, lips pursed and teeth hidden. That’s how Dream says stars should smile. Humble, kind, welcoming.
“I think so too. What’s your favorite weather, kid?”
The question startles him. He isn’t certain he even has a favorite; he allows time to change with the seasons, and it pulls him with it without protest. “Rain,” He blurts out, even though he thinks it’s a lie. Or maybe it isn’t. He says so anyways.
“Oh, really?” Wilbur smiles the bright smile again. “I love rain, too. Especially the loud kind. When it pounds on the roof here, you have to go to the auditorium. There’s glass for the ceiling, so you can see and hear it all at once.”
Tommy smiles back. He feels guilty for lying, because now, he wants to be like Wilbur. Like that makes him better, more alive, more unique. Wilbur feels contagious, inviting. “I’ve never been inside of there before.”
Wilbur pauses for only a brief second, as if he’d been slapped. His jaw hangs agape. “You’ve never been inside the auditorium?”
He shakes his head. He’d already answered the question. There really was no point in Wilbur asking twice.
“Oh. Oh, shit, man, I’ve gotta take you! Even if it’s not raining, I swear, it’s fuckin’ sick.” His movements are animated, like he’s telling a story, and his eyes light up. The brown looks almost yellow outside. “Sorry. I’ll watch the language.”
Tommy, unusually, feels guilty about denying. He swallows once. “It’s okay, really, but I’m not sure-- about the auditorium thing. My coach-”
“Your coach isn’t even here. What’s he care? Do you have practice soon?”
“...No.” He answers eventually.
“An errand?”
“No.”
“A bedtime?”
“No.”
Wilbur throws his hands up, outraged but smiling, and Tommy can feel the way his teeth are trying to fight into view within his own. It’s a terribly invigorating battle. “Then why not, Anomaly?”
And maybe it’s the flowers, with their green buds and white petals, or maybe it’s the weather, or the way nature fills his lungs-- or maybe it’s Wilbur, with his yellow-brown eyes and electric smile, but for some reason, Tommy shrugs haphazardly. “Sorry. Uh- I guess I can give it a chance.”
He thinks he is saying I guess I’ll give you a chance, but that is terrifying and he won’t admit it.
Wilbur whoops celebration, and Tommy feels like the strain in his smile isn’t because he’s forcing himself to pretend, but because trying to be anything but light would prove much too hard.
—
The auditorium had been wonderful, not to Tommy’s surprise.
Even if it hadn’t been as grand and expansive as Wilbur had made it out to be, his excitement was palpable, and Tommy couldn’t help but feel amazed. It was invigorating.
Unusually to Tommy, but expected from Wilbur, the auditorium had been empty. Wilbur had yelled at the top of his lungs, screaming indiscernible words, letting the sound echo, and the breathy laugh he’d released in the aftermath had almost convinced Tommy to give it a try himself. Almost.
There had been Greek paintings lining the ceiling, with pinks and yellows and whites mixed into a sky of flying arrows and gliding men. There was someone playing a lyre, he assumed, with golden hair and solid shoulders, and there had been another, with dark chocolate curls delicately stroking a piece of the gold behind the other’s ear. It caught Tommy’s eye, and he stared for just a moment. Wilbur noticed and smiled but said nothing more.
There were seats lining the inside, and a magnificent stage in the front, and he hadn’t been sure they were even allowed in there without a performance or a ticket. But Wilbur had shaken his head, and admitted, “No one ever comes in here. There’s never a show.”
Tommy had thought to himself what a waste. As if sensing his thoughts, Wilbur shrugged. He told him that they were keeping the beauty preserved, because they were the only ones who ever looked at it, and that they could stay the only ones ever looking at it. He’d told Tommy that he could visit even if Wilbur wasn’t with him.
He’d gone back to his room soon after, and Wilbur had bid him a kind farewell.
They happened to run into each other more often after that-- in hallways, in between practices, on the brief occasions that Tommy went to the mess hall. It was odd, but not unwelcome, and Tommy began to enjoy what it felt like for someone to willingly spend time with him.
Eventually, they started hanging out intentionally; at first, Tommy’s hesitance was practically palpable, and it took Wilbur’s insistent personality for him to finally cave. Using free time felt like something he shouldn’t have done.
He doesn’t know why Wilbur is so adamant; it’s unfamiliar.
Tommy doesn’t know at all.
His practices were edging into intensity once more. At the end of the season, there was a mass competition between all the skaters of age at camp. It was a highly esteemed event, and it was live-streamed across continents. Tommy had seen how some of the winners ended up; few of them even went on to compete in the Olympics.
He knew he needed to win.
So did Dream.
The date of the competition was three months away. Dream decided they needed to start now with beginning his routine-- Dream had sat down with his team on a call for quite some time, he told Tommy, and went through a rigorous process of picking his music. He said it would be perfect. It would make him look perfect.
It was all Tommy wanted.
—
His phone didn’t ring often; when it did, it was Dream, either giving him updates on what he needed to do in his solo practices or instructions on how he needed to spend his time. Today, however, it’s neither of those things. It’s Wilbur.
He had insisted Tommy give him his number. He said if there was ever an emergency, or he just needed someone to hang out with, Tommy could give him a call and Wilbur would do his best to answer whenever. Ever since Tommy gave him the number, it wasn’t him calling. It was Will.
And it was ringing right now.
He was sitting on his bed, and for once in a while, he wasn’t doing anything. He’d already practiced with Dream, and he’d practiced on his own. It wasn’t getting dark just yet, and he knew it would soon, but it felt wrong to ignore Wilbur at all. When he picked up, he was met with instant chatter.
“How’re you, kid?” Will said quickly, and he sounded like he was outside. Tommy could hear the crickets in the background.
“Good.”
“I know we haven’t talked in a little, yeah?”
“I- yeah. I guess. Sorry.”
“No worries. Anyways, I was thinking,” He began, “do you wanna fly a kite?”
And Tommy felt a small smile on his face when he answered, “What?”
Will laughed, as though he could see Tommy’s face right then and there. “Kites. I get it if you don’t want to, and all. You’re super busy. But the wind is perfect today, and y’know how Easter was a few months back, so I still have kites leftover.”
“So…you want us to fly kites?” he answered eventually. “Me and you?”
“If we’re being grammatical, it’s you and I, but yeah. Us.”
He sat for a moment, and in truth, he wished he could say he debated on his answer. That he knew he should go and practice some more, and that Dream would hate that he was going out so late to do something so pointless. Tommy knew this was bad; he wasn’t an idiot.
But he was already climbing out of bed, and walking to the door to put his shoes on, so he let out an anxious, “Yes.”
“Yes as in you want you and I to fly kites?” Will prodded, and Tommy could hear the teasing in his voice. “I need a verbal, grammatical confirmation, please.”
Tommy sighed, but it didn’t sound as angry as he’d intended. “Sorry. Yes. I- yeah, I want you and I to fly kites.”
“At seven o’clock?”
“At seven o’clock.”
“On a Thursday?”
“Will-”
“Okay, alright, I get it,” He relented, laughing again. “I’ll be outside the mess hall. Meet in, like, ten?”
“That works.”
Wilbur clapped, and Tommy truly didn’t know how; he was holding the phone with one hand. But before he could ask, Will simply said, “Fantastic,” and hung up.
He was out the door moments after.
The walk was quick. For as close as he was to the mess hall, he barely ever ate in it. Dream was adamant on the idea that he shouldn’t be mingling with other skaters competing. Tommy understood. Being friends with the people he was supposed to beat didn’t sound like it would have the greatest outcomes.
So he was content on either getting food delivered to his room, or going out on his own and finding little restaurants around camp. Nobody tended to recognize him, because not many here knew what he looked like in the first place. It was convenient in an odd, unlikely way.
“Tom! Over here!”
He turned his head quickly, and there Wilbur was, leaning against the wall with two kites in hand and an obnoxious smile on his face. He called him a nickname. Tom. Only his mother says that. It sounds kinder when Wilbur does. Softer.
Tommy waves hesitantly back.
Even though this isn’t the first time they’ve been together, it feels wrong to be so-- him. He knows he needs to make sure he doesn’t ruin his entire reputation. He’s spent months building this. In reality, his whole life.
“You got here fast,” Will asks when he gets closer. “How was practice today?”
“Good.”
Wilbur smiles. “Great. Good.” He pauses. “So, have you flown a kite before?”
Tommy thinks for a moment, before shaking his head. “No. Um- sorry.”
Something indiscernible crosses Will’s face, but he nods. “It’s all good, Tom. I bet you’re a fast learner.” He turns around, and Tommy follows, so that their backs are to the way the winds blowing. “I unwind the string like this, yeah? Then, when I get enough slack, I let go and run so the breeze catches it.”
Wilbur hands Tommy one, and he does what he’d instructed, unwinding the string. “Like this?”
“Like that.”
And Wilbur’s taking one step forward, then another, and soon, he’s starting to genuinely run. He throws the kite up behind him, and it catches air. It’s got ribbons and colors and stars spread all across it, and it blends with the sunset.
Will’s laughing, and again, the sound is like honeyed wine. “C’mon, kid!”
So, just like Wilbur, he takes one step, and another, and he’s running just behind him and he throws the kite in the air. He isn’t sure it’s going to work for a moment, but then it’s soaring, and the wind is pulling at the handle. He turns around, and his has ribbons, too. They twist and spin, and it’s wild, but he thinks it's pretty.
“I got it,” Tommy yells without thinking, and he feels a smile spread across his face, wide and new. “Oh. Oh, it worked!”
He hasn’t spoken that loud in front of anybody else in ages, but he doesn’t have time to consider what he’s done, because Wilbur is whooping in celebration and Tommy turns around to face him. Their kites are close together, but not too close, and soon enough they both stop their jogs, watching the kites move back and forth in the air.
Wilbur is panting. Tommy isn’t, and apparently, Will finds that offensive, because he nudges Tommy with his free arm. “You work out too much. Go eat a cake or something.”
“That might not be the only problem,” he says, and he’s mumbling it because it’s risky. It’s bold and he’s regretting it already and he should’ve just stayed quiet-
Wilbur only smiles again, however. “Oh, shut up, you professional athlete. You’re too good for me to handle.”
For once in a very long time, Tommy doesn’t think someone is angry when they tell him this. Will isn’t forcing any professional athlete stereotype; he’s just saying what he thinks. He thinks Tommy is good.
And right now, while he isn’t giving himself time to wonder about anything at all, he doesn’t believe the memory of what this smile feels like will ever go away.
“You’re pretty alright,” Wilbur admits, before quickly adding, “for an amateur.”
“It’s a kite.”
Will frowns. “So?”
Tommy just shrugs smugly, turning away.
“Anyways, what’s your favorite color, kid?”
The question catches him off guard. He doesn’t know the answer, and on reflex instilled by Dream, he says, “Pardon?”
“Color. Your favorite,” Wilbur repeats. “I never hear you talk about yourself. I’m curious.”
Tommy shrugs. “I dunno. I guess- I’ve never thought about it. What’s yours?”
“You won’t get by just changing the subject with me.”
It should be an easy answer. It should be, and it isn’t, and for some reason, that’s bothering him.
Tommy blows out a slow breath, trying to calm his racing heart. His heart shouldn’t be racing in the first place. It’s embarrassing. “Sorry.” He doesn’t know if he is saying that to himself or to Wilbur.
“Nothing to apologize for.”
No ones ever asked him this question before. It’s little things like that that bother him; he should be normal, and he should know his favorite color. Yet he doesn’t.
“Green,” He blurts out.
Wilbur turns to him, and he gestures for them to start walking, so he does. “Tom, if you really don’t know, you don’t have to make it up. We’ll just have to find you one.”
He turns his head down, looking at his feet. “Sorry.”
Will sighs. “You say sorry too much, kid.
He feels himself about to apologize, so he says nothing.
“Okay, okay, whatever,” Will puts his hands in his pockets, and the grin on his face is wide, as always, but it seems almost strained. Like he’s unsure about something. “Sunrise, sunsets, night, or day?”
“What?”
“These questions will help narrow down future questions. Trust the process.”
“Uh, alright,” Tommy shrugs. “Sunsets, I dunno.”
Wilbur smiles. “I guessed so.”
He raises his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Irrelevant. Mountains or beaches?”
“Wilbur, I really don’t know-”
“Quick answer! Five seconds!”
Tommy throws his hands up frantically, and Wilbur is laughing at him again, and Tommy is mumbling unintelligible things. Finally, he sputters out, “Beaches.”
Wilbur nods, then taps his temple like he’s thinking. “Perfect. Perfect. Final color question of the night; summer or winter?”
This one’s easy. Dream loves winter, and after he explained why, Tommy was certain he would too. “Winter.”
“Of course,” He says, smiling. “Thanks, Anomaly. It might take awhile to figure out your color, but I promise we’ll get it.”
Tommy doesn’t get why it’s so important, but it’s making Wilbur happy, so he isn’t going to argue. “You’re welcome, I think.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Tommy shoves his hands in his pockets.
“It’s getting late,” He says quietly, hesitantly. It doesn’t feel right to leave before Wilbur does, but it feels even worse to stay out without telling his coach. “I just- I think I should be getting back.”
Wilbur looks down at his watch, and curses to himself. “It is. You’re right. Sorry I kept you out so late, kid. But I am glad you came.”
Tommy feels wrong. He feels mean. Like a switch was flipped, he gives Wilbur the smile that he knows he should’ve had plastered all night. The one Dream told him he needed. He’s feeling guilt because he’s realizing everything he’s done; he talked too much. Shit. Shit. Shit. “Thank you for inviting me.”
And before Will can say anything else, he walks away. He knows if he stays any longer the tightness in his chest will only get worse.
—
One afternoon, when they’d been together at the park, Wilbur had told him that he’d never skated in his life. He admitted he was seventeen. He also said he had a brother, and that his hair was bright pink, and he was stoic and nerdy and one of Wilbur’s favorite people in the whole world.
He had said that his father is the kindest man he’s ever met, and that his passion for anything is practically palpable. Will admits that he was only here to get a break from the stress of college, but he then winks at Tommy, and tells him, “I think it’s a good idea I came, though. I’ve made some pretty cool friends, haven’t I?”
Tommy had sputtered, and he was fairly certain that he’d turned bright red, but he had never heard someone call him a friend in so long. It’s pitiful and it’s embarrassing, so not soon after Wilbur says it, he runs off and says he has practice.
He doesn’t have practice. Instead, he goes back to his room, and he stands in the shower with the heat turned down very low.
He didn’t hang out with Wilbur for a few days after that.
And that brings him to today, where he’s in one of the many ballet classes Dream has insisted he attend. The teacher is different in a way he can’t quite get-- she instructs him strictly, and not without force, but she smiles when she sees something she likes. She claps, and she even tells him to clap with her, to support a success that he assumes she is proud of because she created it. But she isn’t smiling at her own reflection. She is smiling at him.
He has never clapped with her, but sometimes, he finds a grin pulling at his lips. Niki is a kind girl; she’s young, but she’s extremely experienced. She has too many wrinkles for someone her age, and he doesn’t mean it was an insult-- they’re lines from stress, and from worry, and from pain. Sometimes, he has to resist the urge to reach out his hand and soften the creases between her eyebrows.
“Great work, Tommy,” She nods once, then twice, “that was a perfect landing.”
Niki dismisses him soon after. She tells him he’s been doing so well for so long that he deserves to end class early. He smiles, and thanks her, before leaving without another word.
Dream told him he needed more time on the ice today. He heads there next.
They’d already practiced this morning, but he’d almost fallen out of his turn once, and he knew that was going to cost him. So when Dream began speaking to him after they’d finished, he was nodding before he even heard what the assignment was going to be.
There aren’t many practice times at the rink they’re using. He’s able to get slots in without registering with anybody on the days he knows it’s free; he’s the only one who comes to this specific rink outside of his own slot.
He pushes open the door easily, and he smiles to himself when the familiar rush of cold air fills his lungs, and spreads across his arms. It’s freezing in the best kind of way. Waking him up, telling him he’s real.
Tommy is on the ice within moments, and he gives himself a few laps around. He’d already stretched before his dance class; his limbs aren’t as sore as they usually are, and he’s relishing in the freedom it’s allowing him. He knows it won’t be like this when practices pick up even more.
Quickly, he’s lost in his own movements, and all he can hear is his breath in his own chest and the sound of skates scraping against ice. He remembers what Dream had told him earlier. That landing, Tommy, you have to get those landings. Just falling on your feet from the air doesn’t make it right. I need the perfection.
So he pushes off of the outside of one foot, and he throws his arms to his chest, and he feels the ice move up, and up, and he’s flying and spinning and it’s not enough, yet, it’s not enough. And he’s landing quickly and he steadies his ankles, holding himself sturdy all on his own, and he’s jumping again. He’s facing forward, and he’s attempting what Dream says he’s worst at.
Tommy has been working on axel’s for years. He was able to master doing only one within weeks, which his mother had been proud to explain. The triple is the one that’d taken longer, but he got it eventually. Dream, however, insists on its perfection-- he says he needs it for the competition in the coming months.
So he throws his leg back, then quickly pulls it forward, and he’s pushing off and pulling his arms to his chest again, and he’s twisting so fast he can hardly breathe and he’s tried this so many times it should be easy but its not, and he spins once, twice, three times, and he’s finally landing. His feet are shakier than they should be.
Tommy pauses and he takes one breath, then a second, then a third.
And then he hears the applause.
He whips around, and Will is standing there, clapping his hands together frantically and yelling at the top of his lungs, “That was fucking amazing, Anomaly, holy shit! I haven’t- I’ve never seen someone pull that off at your age. You’re, what, fifteen?”
Tommy doesn’t respond. His tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of his mouth, and he’s silent for so long that he feels like Wilbur will just start talking again, but he doesn’t. He’s waiting for Tommy’s answer.
“Fourteen,” He says eventually, and somehow, he’s heard.
“Holy shit,” Will whispers. “Holy shit. Tommy, kid, c’mere.”
And then he’s running on the ice, and he’s got sneakers on, and Tommy would almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, but then Wilbur is right in front of him and he somehow didn’t slip. He’s got his hand on Tommy’s shoulder, and he’s smiling so big. It’s Will’s smile. The one that spreads across his whole face, and it lights up everything around it. Before he knows it, Tommy’s smiling too, and Will’s laughing, and Tommy hears one, small breathy laugh leave his own chest.
Wilbur laughs even harder, then, his eyes brightening, and Tommy can’t help himself. He’s laughing. It’s quiet, and it can’t nearly match the elation he feels in his chest, but he loves the sound of Wilbur’s happiness and he can’t help but try to share it. To tell him thank you, thank you, thank you.
After they’ve collected themselves, and Wilbur shakily asked Tommy to help him back to where they can both walk in a straight line, they sit on the bench. Wilbur turns to him, and he speaks suddenly, like the words are making him nervous, but they can’t do anything but leave his mouth. “Tommy, are you doing anything tonight?”
He shakes his head before he even considers if he does.
“Do you think-” Wilbur cuts himself off, then sighs. “Do you wanna have dinner with my family?”