Icing Those Hurts (NOT MY STORY. READ DISC)

part 8

Turn, pull the left leg back, drag, strike the ice, jump- arms in for four full rotations, land, arms out, leg out. Grace, balance, poise.

Don't show them that you're out of breath. No one wants to see that.

Tommy slides backward down the rink, gaining back his balance and straightening out.

"Hey!" The door slams, Wilbur comes running up, loud and clumsy. If Tommy was anyone else he would've been startled. Luckily, he's used to yelling and loud slams as he practices. His coach makes sure of that. "You're already here!"

Tommy stops gliding backward and turns abruptly, cutting the ice and stopping. "Yeah. I hope that's okay. I figured that you don't have to sneak in if you're here past closing so-"

"Jeez, I didn't think of that." Wilbur laughs, and Wilbur, Tommy's noticed, has a habit of that. Laughing. Making normal things funny. Keeping things casual. Tommy admires that. He throws his bag down outside the rink, stretches his arms out. "Guess committing crimes was a bit unnecessary. Ugh, how long have you been out here practicing, man? I didn't see you at dinner."

Tommy doesn't answer. "I ate. Are those hockey skates?"

Wilbur pauses, his eyes down on his bag. There's a moment, in which Wilbur looks like he's struggling to think of something to say, or whether or not he should say anything at all, but it passes, as all moments do. "Yeah," he nods instead, a bit quieter now. "Yeah, they're my practice ones. I hope that's cool, I don't really have figure skates so-"

"That's alright."

"Cool," Wilbur finishes lacing them up and then reaches up a hand expectantly.

And for a second Tommy just stares at it.

He can't remember the last time he held someone's hand. Touched fingers that weren't correcting his form or pushing him into his proper place. But here is Wilbur. Here is this open hand. He's expecting Tommy to give him some help- of course he is, as someone who has always had teammates around to lift him up. Of course he knows how to ask for help.

Tommy always has to get up on his own.

He reaches down and meets Wilbur in the middle, pulling the man to his feet. He doesn't let himself linger, but he can't help noticing- Wilbur's hands are warm. Much, much warmer than Tommy's.

Wilbur can clearly feel that, because when he lets go and hobbles over to the gate, he's frowning. "You ought to get some gloves, Tommy. Especially if you're gonna be out on the rink for hours and hours."

Tommy curls his cold fingers into a ball. A bit ashamed of himself. He doesn't really know why. "I'll think about it," he says quietly. He has them- he just doesn't use them unless he can't stand it. Practicing through the cold is good for him, or so he's been told. It makes you focus on your form. The cold bites, but all the best figure skaters are numb. Tommy's got to be the best. And to be the best, Tommy's got to be numb.

Wilbur is pretty smooth on the ice, which makes sense, his whole sport happens on it, Tommy would be more concerned if he couldn't skate and made it to the Olympics.

"A lot of the moves are hard to do with your type of skate," Tommy says, curving around Wilbur, trying to think. "The toe pick is pretty important to make sure you can do things like hop across the rink and jump and stuff."

"Jump?"

"Yeah, all the- uh- technical stuff." Tommy nods. The important stuff. "That's what you get points for."

"Oh," Wilbur tilts his head, rolls his shoulders. "Well, I don't need to know any of that. I want to do the fun stuff."

"The...fun stuff?" He repeats, truly confused.

"Yeah, what do you consider to be the most fun part of skating, Tommy?"

Tommy curves another circle around Wilbur, trying to think. What does he have the most fun doing as he skates? Jumps, is his first thought, but that isn't true, is it? He likes landing a jump. He likes the points that he gets. Because those matter. He never feels like he's having fun when he's doing Quad toe loops. He doesn't even like the spins as much.

He realizes he's skated another circle around Wilbur and not given him his answer.

"I don't know," Tommy admits. He feels sick. He should have an answer. "The- I like- um-"

"Hey," Wilbur says softly, stopping Tommy in the middle of his next revolution. "I get it. If you don't know, that's cool. That's alright."

Tommy looks down at the ice under his feet. "Sorry."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," He reassures. "Teach me something basic then. The easiest thing you can."

So Tommy does- he shows him bunny hops and forward swizzles and then a rocking horse. Easy level things that Wilbur can try. He bumps around, way too broad shouldered and not at all delicate in the way that figure skating is supposed to be. His coach would hate this. His coach would run Wilbur off the ice.

But Tommy isn't his coach.

When Wilbur's legs shake and he nearly throws off his own balance trying to overcompensate, Tommy doesn't reprimand him, doesn't nudge him with a finger, and make him learn his lesson the hard way.

"How was that?" Wilbur asks, a huge, proud smile on his face. His cheeks are red and his eyes are sparkling in delight.

Sloppy, he thinks in a voice that isn't his own. Careless. Shaky.

His coach would have a million things to say, none of them good. Tommy doesn't say any of that.

"Good job," Tommy says, which is the only thing his coach wouldn't.

Wilbur just grins breathlessly in response.