Notes & Stuff (That Probably Won't Amount to Anything)

A Resolution

"That's not a resolution. That's a death wish."

That's what Wallace had declared when Ian shared his wild hare fantasy on the 31st of December the year prior.

"Tell me you're joking," Wallace added, knowing by the look in Ian's eyes that he was not joking even the smallest bit. Wallace's stomach flipped.

Now, here they were.

Wallace had been sure that as each month passed away and a new one came on, he would hear nothing more of the silly midnight eve's rush to reply to the ever popular question of what each party present had ordered what for Christmas.

Now, a couple thousand feet up from the ground, a terrible twinkle flitted through Ian's eyes as he watched Wallace cowering back from the door, like a wounded animal who didn't quite trust his master.. "What's the matter, are you scared?" he asked, a challenge to his tone.

Wallace looked over the edge. "Yes," he replied. "Yes I am, and I'm not ashamed to say it, so don't look at me like that, like you think you're going to peer-pressure me into this."

Ian snickered and bent down, scooping up a helmet from the floor and strapping it onto his head. He plucked up another and with a thump, pressed it into Wallace's stomach. "Well, it's up to you," he said. "You can stay here if you like."

Wallace clutched the helmet. "You can't mean to actually go through with this." He glanced at the door.

Ian was shrugging on a parachute.

"I mean, you really, really cannot mean to actually go through with it."

Ian was strapping on the buckles and belts that went over his chest and under his arms, testing out holding the little knob that would deploy the 'chute.

"What if that thing doesn't pop out like it ought to? What if you get caught in a wind and you go falling off into those trees over there? What if you hit the ground too hard and you break your god-damned leg? What if --"

"Wallace," Ian interrupted.

Wallace shifted uneasily, but he stared up at his friend with wide, nervous-looking eyes.

"Honestly, mate, it's going to be brilliant."

Wallace closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them back up again, Ian was holding out a parachute pack to him, one eyebrow cocked daringly, a smirk playing on his lips.

Ian's voice shivered as he spoke. "Once in a lifetime opportunity, this is... and you've come this far already. A shame, really, to let a bit of anxiety stop you now, isn't it?"

Wallace stared at Ian.

Ian reached out and the door opened, rushing air roared into the little aeroplane hull and Wallace instinctively stepped back, his mouth going very, very dry as he watched Ian inch closer to the mouth of the door, his toes already out and over the threshold. Far below, the land was nothing but patches of color, of purples and hazy greens and grays. Cars crawled by on distant interstates and chimneys pumped plumes of smoke among trees that hid their roofs from view. The drop from first step to final resting place seemed too great a plunge to ever calculate, and Wallace felt his insides going green at the very thought of how it would feel to disembowel himself by jumping out of the safety of the plane.

Ian clung onto two metal handles on either side of the door, leaning so that he was dangerously close to actually doing it.

"Wait," Wallace pleaded.

Ian turned to look at him.

Wallace struggled hurriedly to push on his helmet, yanking the strap across his chin tight and fast, not giving himself time to think, to hesitate... He struggled with the pack and Ian watched, his amusement growing with every tug and pull on the straps that bound the parachute to Wallace's body. Ian didn't dare speak - it might waylay whatever was causing this rebellious streak to course through the usually meek Wallace. Instead, Ian just watched as Wallace repeated all the motions of preparation that Ian himself had just done, and then grabbed hold of one of the metal handles himself, standing beside Ian at the door.