The shooting hall felt different when Willy walked into it knowing he didn't have to prove himself today.
That realization sat strangely in his chest, half relief, half unease. He was already through. His place in the final was secured, his ranking unquestioned. The pressure that usually coiled tight around his ribs before every training session was… quieter now. Not gone, but shifted.
Today wasn't about him.
Today was about Tim.
Tim stood near the lockers, methodically checking his equipment with calm, deliberate movements. His expression was focused but unreadable, a mask he wore well. Willy knew him well enough to see past it the faint tension in his shoulders, the way he exhaled a fraction too slowly.
Willy approached without a word and rested his hand gently at the small of Tim's back.
Tim startled slightly, then relaxed instantly when he realized it was him.
"You don't have to hover," Tim murmured, amused.
"I want to," Willy replied softly. "You hovered for me for years."
Tim glanced at him, something warm and grateful flickering through his eyes. "I'm not nervous."
"You're lying," Willy said gently.
Tim sighed. "Okay. I'm a little nervous."
Willy smiled and leaned in, brushing their foreheads together for just a moment. "You'll be fine."
Across the hall, Seb was loudly narrating his own existence.
"Just saying," Seb announced, "if Tim doesn't qualify, I will personally riot."
Al deadpanned, "You failed the physical assessment."
"I can riot emotionally."
Logan stood quietly nearby, arms crossed, observing everything with his usual quiet sharpness. Ethan lingered close to Tim, offering him a bottle of water.
"You ready?" Ethan asked.
Tim nodded. "Yeah."
Ethan smiled softly, encouraging. "Good."
Willy watched the interaction closely. Ethan wasn't worried. That alone should've told him something, but Willy brushed the thought aside. He trusted Tim. Whatever Tim carried inside him, he would reveal it when ready.
The coach called the qualifiers to the line.
Tim stepped forward.
Willy stayed back.
That, somehow, was harder.
He folded his arms loosely, eyes tracking every movement Tim made. The way Tim set his stance. The way his breathing slowed. The way the noise of the hall seemed to dull around him.
Tim lifted the pistol.
The first shot cracked sharp and clean.
Willy's breath caught.
It wasn't a surprise, it was recognition. The kind that comes when you see someone you love doing exactly what they were meant to do.
Tim didn't rush. He didn't overcorrect. Every movement was efficient, controlled, precise. His shots landed cleanly, not flashy, not aggressive. Just… right.
Seb leaned closer to Willy. "Is it just me," he whispered, "or is Tim terrifyingly calm?"
Willy didn't look away. "He's always been like that."
"Yeah," Al muttered. "But this is different."
Willy frowned slightly, but said nothing.
Between rounds, Tim glanced over his shoulder and found Willy watching him.
Their eyes met.
Willy smiled.
Not big. Not dramatic. Just steady.
Tim's shoulders loosened.
That was all he needed.
The second round was harder. Pressure crept in. A shooter two lanes down swore under his breath after a missed shot. Another slammed his case shut in frustration.
Tim inhaled slowly.
Exhaled.
Shot.
Dead center.
Ethan let out a quiet breath of relief.
Logan nodded once.
Seb clasped his hands together dramatically. "I knew it. I knew he was built differently."
By the time the whistle blew, Tim lowered his arm slowly, muscles relaxed, expression unreadable. He stepped back from the line and removed his ear protection.
His eyes searched the room.
Found Willy.
Willy was already walking toward him.
"You okay?" Willy asked, voice low.
Tim nodded. "Yeah."
"How do you feel?"
Tim hesitated, then smiled small and real. "Lighter."
Willy reached out without thinking, squeezing his hand. "I'm proud of you."
Tim's throat tightened. "You always say that."
"Because I always mean it."
Their friends gathered around them, noisy and relieved.
Seb clapped Tim on the shoulder. "Welcome to the nightmare, buddy. You did great."
Al smirked. "Understatement."
Ethan met Tim's eyes, something knowing there, something quiet. "Told you," he said softly.
As they left the hall together, snow falling gently outside, Tim slipped his hand into Willy's. Willy squeezed it back, grounding him, steady.
"Next time," Willy said quietly, "I'll be waiting for you in the final."
Tim smiled, eyes bright. "Count on it."
Willy believed him.
Even if he didn't yet know just how right Tim was.
They walked on together, the snow crunching under their boots. Willy felt lighter with every step. He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding himself until now how much of his energy had been spent worrying for Tim, watching him from the sidelines.
"I hated not being on the line with you," Willy admitted softly.
Tim smiled. "You were there."
"It's not the same."
Tim slowed, forcing Willy to match his pace. "You don't always have to stand beside me," he said gently. "Sometimes you just have to believe in me."
Willy swallowed, then nodded. "I do."
And he meant it.
By the time they reached the parking area, the sky had darkened, clouds thick and low. Their breaths puffed visibly in the cold air. Seb was still talking something about food, something dramatic but Willy barely heard him.
He was watching Tim.
Not in the anxious way he used to, but in a quieter, more thoughtful one. The way Tim moved now calm, steady, confident was familiar, but also… different. Like someone who had finally stepped into something he'd been carrying all along.
Willy slipped his hand into Tim's again, thumb brushing against his knuckles.
"No matter what happens next," Willy said, "we'll handle it together."
Tim squeezed his hand, grounding and warm despite the cold. "Together," he echoed.
Behind them, the lights of the shooting hall glowed softly through the falling snow. Ahead, the path stretched forward, uncertain but open.
And for the first time in a long while, Willy didn't feel like he was waiting anymore.
He was walking forward with Tim into whatever came next.