"By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes."

The last time that Mack played against one of Will's little merry men, he'd gotten elbowed in the fucking face. So sue him for being a little on edge before the game against the Caps. Don't get him wrong, he fucking loves rage baiting Leno - he's so fucking easy and stupid and meat headed. He’s like a brick wall made of testosterone and idiot. One of his best memories of Leno is back when he’d been playing for Chicago Steel - Mack had been mouthing off at him at the net just before a power play, and Leno had gotten his big mitts on him. Sure, Mack’s ass had hit the ice when Leno shoved him like a fucking child, but he had gone down grinning and Leno took a penalty. Leno was so fucking easy.

The SAP is bright and loud in all the familiar ways it always is before a match - he and Will have already done their routines, Toff’s jokingly knocked him into the boards and the count down for the players to get off the ice drips downwards. The SAP smells different to all other rinks to Mack; he’d asked the maintenance team about it once, and had learnt that it’s just because of the cleaner that gets used in the stands. For some reason, it always settles something in his chest, no matter the opponent - somewhere along the way, it had become the smell of home.

“Dude,” Will has to lean all the way in so Mack can hear him, the heat of his breath on Mack’s face. It smells like the coffee he’d downed, mixed with the warm ‘cool mint’ gum that Dickie had offered him in the locker rooms. Mack should be grossed out, but he lets his eyes slide over the jut of Will’s lip anyway, before looking back up at his stupid blue eyes. “D’you wanna come to dinner after with me and Leno- oh c’mon, it won’t be that bad,” Will tries immediately when Mack fails to hide the scowl that crosses his face. “Hutty’ll be there.”

“I don’t see why I have to come,” Mack mutters. He doesn’t get Will’s obsession with trying to get him and Leno get along. Mack gets along fine with Gabe even after the elbow to the face. Shouldn’t one outta two be good enough for him?

Will raises a disapproving eyebrow, bumping into him a bit harder as they slowly skate in lazy loops on the ice again. “Because you’re my best friend?” Will tries. It’s dirty and he knows it. Mack fights the urge to let the scowl pull on his face anymore than it is.

“Smitty-”

“You’re coming,” Will says this time, instead, firm. People like to think that Mack’s the only one that’s a brat - but Will can be just as bad, if not worse. He’s had people orbiting him, embarrassing themselves for his attention, begging for crumbs for years. So no, he doesn’t take ‘no’ well. He pretends he does that frustratingly laid back attitude, that calm grin of his. But Mack knows that Will likes the way people are desperate for him, and even though he follows Mack around, he expects it from Mack. It should piss Mack off, but Mack looks for him after every joke, every goal, every moment with the burning hope that Will is looking back at him.

Mack hates that it works on him. He knows it’s cheap. Worse, he knows that Will knows it’s cheap. ‘Best friend’ gets tossed out like it’s nothing. It should be nothing - Mack isn’t twelve. But he folds for it, like he always does - it settles somewhere under his ribs, heavy and warm and irritating all at once. He doesn’t answer right away, skating another loop, edges biting clean against the ice, jaw ticking tighter with his shoulder to Will’s. He can feel Will watching him - he always can, like there’s a string tied between them and Will just tugs whenever he wants Mack’s attention.

“Fine,” Mack mutters, finally, like it’s been dragged out of him. “But if he pisses me off by saying one stupid thing-”

Will’s grin shows off his bunny teeth, truly victorious. “He probably will.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Mack shoots back, but there’s no real heat in it. Not for Will, anyway. But for Leonard? That’s a wildly different story.

Mack exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake out before the game. His head needs to be on right. Because this is the problem. Not Leno being a dumb, oversized wrecking ball on the ice who has a shitty plus-minus. It’s that Mack can’t ever keep it just on the ice when it comes to Leno. He likes it too much. Not the hits or actually getting rocked. But the chirping, the pushing, the way Leno reacts like fucking clockwork. It’s so easy to get under his skin, so easy to wind him up until he’s playing sloppy and mean. Mack’s always been good at that - finding the edge, leaning over it and dragging someone else down with him. Sure, he’s a clean player most the time and tries to avoid fighting when he can, but he’s never kept his mouth shut and he never will. It’s fun. It’s winning, in a way that doesn’t show up on the score sheet.

And yeah, okay, maybe there’s something else in it too, that he tries not to look at too closely. Leno’s always right there, looming and loud and impossible to ignore. It’s that bitter reminder over and over again that Will had a life before him. Which, frankly feels so childish, it’s embarrassing enough that it makes his face feel warm. Of course Will had a life before him. All that should matter is that he’s the most important person in Will’s life now. It’s WillMack now, after all. But Leno was there first and has left his grubby hand prints all over Will’s life.

Mack scrunches his face as he knocks his helmet down, sharp, like he can knock the thoughts loose.

It doesn’t matter, Mack tells himself viciously.

He taps his stick on the ice, twice. Grounding, or something. The noise in the SAP swells as the counter ticks lower still - it slides under his skin, into his bloodstream all buzzy and familiar along what will soon be adrenaline. He’s good at this part- win your draws, move your feet, be faster, be smarter. Be better.

When he glances sideways again, just for a second, Will’s already watching him. He gives Mack a quick nod, stare firm and unwavering in that unspoken I’ve got you that makes Mack’s gut tighten - Will does have his back. Will’s always where Mack expects him to be, even when he’s not looking. His chest loosens a fraction. Will’s with him, his team. Not Leno’s.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Will grunts, jostling him a little.

“Says you.”

Across the ice, the Capitals are starting to filter off the ice, just like the Sharks. Mack’s spent all of the warm up trying not to watch for Leno - he knows Will’s waved, gone to the centre line to knock skates with him. But his gaze snaps over automatically now, scanning, cataloguing. And there he is - Ryan Leonard.

Big. Solid. Already jawing at someone, helmet tipped up, that stupid smirk like he owns the place. He’s shaved off that stupid goatee beard he was rocking for a while, chin squared and sharp. Mack doesn’t know if Leno can feel him staring; but Leno’s head turns, locking onto Mack then, eyes sharp as he circles to the exit. His grin shows all his teeth.

Mack’s mouth tilts, slow and sharp, like his team’s name sake. Yeah. Okay. Game on.

He pushes off harder, cutting a tight turn, building speed just to feel it in his legs, the burn, the control. His heart rate ticks up, that familiar buzz settling in his veins, turning everything a little brighter, a little sharper. He doesn’t look at Will again - he doesn’t need to; because when the puck drops, none of that other shit matters. Not dinner, not Leno, not the weird, tangled pull of it all.

- - -

Every breath is a genuine effort this far into a match. It doesn’t matter how good your VO2 max is, everyone is gassed by the last period, let alone shift of the game. Don’t get Mack wrong, that’s no excuse to stop throwing yourself into the game with everything that you have - but everything aches. The Caps aren’t dirty, necessarily, but they’re a really fucking physical team to play against. Most of their players are all so damn heavy that getting boarded or hit by any of them makes your teeth shake in your skull. Mack’s pretty sure he’s going to have a bruise the size of the fucking moon on his hip from where PJ laid him out like a fucking truck - Mack had managed to get the pass off, thankfully, but he’d landed so hard that it had taken him a moment to get up. The 700 pound line was nothing to laugh at.

The ice bites under his skates as he tries to get the puck off the blue line - he’s too close to the boards, he’s yelling at Smitty to move but he’s not getting there fast enough. His own sweat is dripping in his eyes. It’s probably in his mouth too as he bites down, mean, on his mouth guard. Mack doesn’t even have to look to know who’s closing on him. He can feel it - like pressure dropping before a storm, something big and inevitable bearing down.

Leno hits him hard enough to knock the breath sideways out of his ribs with a meaty grunt, shoulder driving him into the glass with a crack that rings through his skull. Mack’s teeth snap together, what will probably be a bruise exploding across his back.

But he doesn’t let go.

His gloves tighten on his stick, spine bowed into the boards, Leno’s weight pinning him there - heavy, solid, everywhere. There’s no space. None. Just heat and pressure and the rough scrape of gear and fabric and skin under it all. Up close, it’s worse.

Or better.

Mack can feel him. The sheer mass of him. The way he breathes - ragged, open-mouthed, hot against the side of Mack’s neck. The sharp, salt heavy musk of Leno’s sweat hits the back of his throat as his pants around the stupid plastic in his mouth, cutting through the sharp cold of the rink. Jesus.

His brain stutters for a moment, less than even - something ugly, filthy, electric snapping down his spine alongside the brutal adrenaline that’s already there. Leno shifts, trying to leverage him off the puck, hips pressing in, thighs bracketing his legs, and Mack’s body reacts before his head does - pushes back, harder, refusing to give an inch. Their sticks knock, hard and violent - like two stags tangled together in spring. Mack doesn’t know how he has the brain power to wonder if that makes Will the deer.

“Get off me,” Mack spits, voice wrecked, more breath than sound - it comes out more like gehofmeh. Leno just huffs, almost a bitten laugh, and bears down harder.

It turns into something else then - not just a battle for the puck but a contest of will. Who breaks first. Who gives. Mack’s shoulder screams, his hip throbs where he got laid out earlier, and Leno is just there, relentless, grinding him into the boards like he’s trying to leave an imprint. Mack’s pulse spikes. Something sharper bites under Mack’s skin. Meaner. He wants- needs- to win this. Wants to rip it out from under him just to wipe that stupid, self-satisfied look off his face.

He shifts his weight, quick, twisting his skates just enough to wedge space where there shouldn’t be any. His stick blade nudges the puck loose for a split second. That’s all he needs. He kicks it forward, jams his stick through the gap, and shoves, knowing, knowing-

“Graf-!”

The pass slips out, clean. Gone.

Leno’s still got him pinned when it leaves, still crowding him, still breathing down his neck like he owns the space there. For a second longer than necessary, honestly. Mack twists his head, just enough that their chins nearly knock.

“Too slow,” he pants open mouthed into Leno’s, lips pulling into something sharp and ugly. Mack can taste his breath in his mouth. Then he drives back, hard - shoulder into chest, hands shoving - using the last of his leverage to knock Leno off balance. It works, barely, but it’s enough. Leno stumbles, weight shifting back, and Mack slips free, pushing past him with a rough shove that leaves Leno on his ass on the ice. For half a second, everything stretches.

Graf’s pass to Will is delightfully clean - Will’s stick snaps against the ice in a textbook perfect snapshot, knee down to the ice, puck slapping against the back of the net.

The sound hits all at once. The horn, the crowd, the surge of noise that rattles through Mack’s bones even more than the hit did. His arms go up immediately, knowing Will’s gonna barrel at him. He does - crashing into him, grabbing fistfuls of his jersey and hauling him in. “Let’s go- holy shit-”

Mack laughs, breathless, adrenaline ripping through him now instead of exhaustion, arms hooking around Will and then Graf as they pile together, skates scraping, bodies knocking. It’s bright and loud and good.

But Mack’s gaze flicks past Will’s shoulder anyway. Back to Leno. He’s still down on the ice, pushing himself up, helmet askew, chest heaving. One of his team mates help haul him up onto his skates. His face. God, his face. Leno’s not calm or upset. It’s something tighter. Frustrated. Charged. His eyes are locked straight on Mack like he hasn’t looked away once. Like he can’t. Mack feels it hit him low in his gut, that same ugly, electric pull from before, curling warm and sharp. He grins, full of teeth and ire, gums exposed. He holds the look for just a beat too long before Will’s grip tightens, dragging him fully back into the celly, into the noise, into the moment but Mack still feels it. That tether, pulled tight between them.

- - -

To say Mack was annoyed was an understatement. Hutty had begged out last minute with an apology that he was too tired to be good company. It was bullshit and Mack knew it, but it’s not like calling him out was going to do anything. So here he was, sat with Leno and Will.

Dinner starts fine, which only makes Mack suspicious. It was Will’s pick - it’s one of those steakhouses that’s already in the dinner book. Mack had liked it the last time they where here; dimly lit and smelling of seared meat and expensive butter, all dark wood and low music. He and Will had spent the whole time crowded too close in a booth, splitting appetizers, knees knocking, giggling like idiots over nothing. Mack’s hoodie had smelt like Will when he got home.

Now, though, Leno is sitting across the table, broad as a fucking fridge in a grey Capitals hoodie and athletic shorts with an inseam Will’s mother would’ve sighed disapprovingly at, one thick forearm resting on the table besides a sweating glass of Coke.

And Mack can’t stop looking at him. It’s not that Mack wants to, but it’s sort of like looking at a very bright headlight when driving. In other words, very irritating and aggravating. The way he sits is aggravating. The way he keeps rolling his stupid big shoulders is aggravating. The way he eats his steak is aggravating. Somehow even the way he cuts at his steak pisses Mack off - big hands, rough knuckles, careless confidence, knife held properly. He has to stop himself from scowling when Leno shoves a piece of steak in his mouth while leaning back with his knees spread like he owns the fucking place.

Mack stabs at his potatoes harder than necessary.

“You always eat like somebody’s gonna steal it?" Leno asks, casual. Mack scowls, then.

“You already chew that loud, or do you just get off on being an asshole?”

Leno snorts, mouth twitching as he looks away, failing not to grin. “Jesus Christ.”

Will, sat beside Mack, groans into his drink. “C’mon, please, can we have some civility.” His stare isn’t just at Leno, who just grins harder.

“I don’t think he knows what that means, dude.” Leno drawls.

“I’m being civil,” Mack protest instantly, glaring. He is and he knows what that word means! He hasn’t sworn at Leno once or said anything actually mean. The prospect of earning Will’s ire grates on him, unable to fight the way his scowl morphs into a petulant pout.

“You called him a ‘meat-headed loser’ ten minutes ago.”

“I said it nicely!”

Leno barks out a laugh at that - loud and surprised enough that Mack’s eyes flick up before he can stop himself. Leno’s grinning now, head tipped down slightly, stubble catching gold in the warm light. It annoys Mack how handsome he is. He’s not pretty handsome, like Will - not polished. Leno’s got that rough, athletic sort of face - crooked nose, heavy jaw, blue eyes but not an intelligent grey blue that Will has. He couldn’t tell you what kind of blue Leno’s eyes are; he refuses to pay attention to him that closely. Either way, he perpetually looks like he’s gearing up for a fight or a bad decision.

Probably both, Mack can’t help but think.

“Y’know,” Leno says, pointing his fork at Mack, “You’re less chirpy on the ice that you used to be. All well behaved like a good boy.”

“Oh my god,” Mack mutters. “Are you flirting with me right now?” Will chokes on his drink - Leno doesn’t even blink.

“Maybe.”

It takes Mack a moment to gets his wits back about him, because what the fuck? Leno cuts into his steak again. “It’s the NHL, I’m not gonna be talking shit on the ice like I did in juniors.” Will’s coughing into his fist at this point, and Leno keeps fucking eating like he didn’t just casually lob a grenade onto the table.

“Dude-” Will manages to get out after Mack slaps him on the back a few times.

“What?” Leno says, looking between them. “He started it.”

“You are so weird,” Mack huffs - though his face feels hot now in a way he absolutely hates. He knows his cheeks have gone splotchy like they always do when he flushes. Will is outright laughing at this point, which just makes Mack’s cheeks go a shade darker.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom before you both start throwing forks.”

“Coward,” Mack tells him. Will just pats his shoulder on his way out of the booth, smug as anything - like Leno doing whatever it is he is is proof of some budding friendship.

“Play nice.”

Without Will as a buffer, it gets real quiet, real quick. Mack takes a sip of his water just to do something with his hands. Across from him, Leno watches him over the rim of his own glass in a way that makes something tense unpleasantly under his ribs. Up close like this, without the pads and the helmets and the noise of the rink, Leno feels different. Bigger, somehow - which makes zero sense. It’s not as if Mack hasn’t been around him off the ice before. Running into him at during MarMon in that kitchen when tipsy and covered in like, twigs and dirt and shit had been a trip. But the restaurant lighting softens the harshness of him without stealing the intensity; his hair’s damp from his post game shower, curling at the base of his neck.

Mack wishes, irrationally, Will, hurry the fuck up.

“How’s your side?”

Mack blinks. “Wuh?”

Leno looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Your side, Celebrini. The hit earlier.” Leno nods vaguely towards Mack’s ribs. “It looked rough.” The worst part is that there’s something almost sincere about it - Mack narrows his eyes, automatically suspicious.

“You asking because you care or because you’re checking your own handiwork?” Leno’s mouth twitches.

“Maybe both.”

Mack should let it go. A normal person would let it go. Instead, he says, “You always pin guys against the boards like that, or am I special?” Leno stills - not like, frozen or anything, not like some dramatic record scratch in those movies Will really likes. It was just enough for Mack to notice. Leno’s eyes go sharp.

“Well,” he says, slowly, “You do keep ending up there.” Mack hates that he can feel the weird flip his stomach does.

“Oh my god,” he scoffs instead of letting anything show on his face, leaning back. “You are hitting on me. What the fuck?”

“You keep saying that like you’re upset about it.”

“I am upset about it.”

“Uh huh. Sure.”

Mack hates how calm he is. Hates how Leno keeps fucking looking at him like that. He likes it better when Leno’s pissy, too - the playing ground feels, is, more even then. There’s a moment were neither of them look away. Mack’s brain, traitorous thing that it is, supplies the image of Leno shoving him into the boards earlier. The heat of him. The breath against his neck. He takes another aggressive sip of water.

“Y’know,” Leno says after a second, voice lower, rougher in a way that feels intentional. “I thought you’d be heavier.” Mack nearly chokes.

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I did.”

“I’m six foot and like two hundred pounds!”

“Aren’t you five eleven?” Mack glares at him then - Leno’s grinning with his teeth on display.

“I’ve grown since the combine, fuck you. And it was five eleven and three quarters.”

“Sure, bud.”

God, he’s insufferable. But there’s something weird happening now - it feels like it did on the ice. That awful electric tension, like every word exchanged is secretly a fight and neither of them knows where the line is anymore. Or maybe it’s just Mack who doesn’t. Mack studies Leno despite himself. The broadness of him taking up the booth, the scrape along the stubble of his jaw, the way his thick forearms flex when he reaches for his drink.

And underneath it all, ugly and acidic, that old thought curls again;

You fucked Will first.

It sits in Mack’s chest like rot. He knows they had history. Everyone knows they were attached at the hip at BC, and long before that, too. Will gets that look, sometimes, when Leno’s around - exasperated and fond and complicated all at once. The kind of look people get when they’ve seen each other naked and vulnerable in ways other people haven’t. Mack’s concluded that Will probably topped; he’s not a control freak, but Mack’s been around him long enough to know that he’d probably enjoy making Leno beg for it. Plus, Leno’s a fucking dog for Will - following him around, begging for scraps. Was it face to face? Or was it with Leno’s face shoved into the pillows, Will shushing him all strained so they wouldn’t wake up their team mates? Was it once or more? Surely it was more. Maybe Leno rode Will.

Mack hates that he thinks about it at all.

Across the table, Leno’s still watching him.

“What?” Mack snaps. Leno shrugs one shoulder lazily.

“Just trying to figure you out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out.”

“Bullshit.”

Mack scoffs, scowling. “What, are you suddenly a genius?”

“Nah,” Leno agrees easily. “But I guess I know why Smitty likes you now.” Something flares hot in Mack’s chest. Likes you. Not loves. Not wants. Likes. Possessive irritation prickles instantly under his skin.

“Dude, it’s like you’re obsessed with him. That’s so fucking embarrassing.” Mack snapped back before he can stop himself. Leno goes very still, pinning him with a look. Shit. For the first time all night, something genuinely unreadable crosses his face; but it’s gone almost immediately, hidden under a scoff and a smirk.

“At least I don’t sound jealous.”

Mack barks a sharp laugh, incredulous. “Of you?”

“Mm.”

“I’m not!”

“Sure you aren’t.”

Mack wants to hit him the head with the fucking bread basket. Instead, he leans froward across the table, lowering his voice instinctively. “You wanna know what your problem is?” Leno mirrors him without thinking, forearms on the table now. Too close - Mack can see his individual eyelashes, the freckles that are so close together that they’re basically blended into little misshapen blobs.

“What?”

“You think because you’re big and loud, people’ll just hand you things.” Leno’s eyes flick down to Mack’s mouth for a second, watching how his lips work around the words. Mack swallows when Leno huffs hard enough that he can feel it on his face.

“You think because you’re good at hockey, nobody notices you’re kind of a brat.”

Mack’s pulse kicks unexpectedly. Their faces are too close now - the conversation has spiralled too far, heavy with the sort of subtext Mack doesn’t know how to untangle. The air between them feels thick.

Then Leno adds, very casually, “You wanna know something fucked up?” Mack should probably lean back. He doesn’t want to know.

“What?”

Leno’s grin turns more crooked. Meaner, deliberate.

“You’re prettier when you’re pissed off.”

Mack stares at him. Genuinely, stares, brain absolutely fucking blank. Mack isn’t stupid - this isn’t chirping anymore or the jokey-flirting hockey players does with friends. It’s not even remotely deniable. And the worst, most humiliating part is the violent rush of heat that climbs up Mack’s neck anyway.

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Mack manages to get out weakly, because what the fuck is he supposed to say to that? Leno, on his part, looks delighted.

“Yeah,” he says. “Probably. But Will liked it.”

“Can you just shut up?” Mack snaps. “Like- dude, no one wants to hear this.” Mack sounds weak to his own ears.

“You do,” Leno argues, grinning. “You wanna know? If he liked it?”

“Fuck me, you’re such a dick,” Mack bites out, strangled. Leno leans all the way back into the booth then, smirking.

“Alright.”

“What?” Mack coughs.

“Alright. I’ll fuck you.”

Mack’s pretty sure his mouth is hanging open. Who just says that?

“Why do you both look weird?” Will asks immediately when he slides back into the booth.

“Nothing,” Mack and Leno get out at the same time - Will’s eyes narrow.

“…Uh huh.” Mack drains the last of the water in his cup. Across the table, Leno is visibly fighting a smile. Mack imagines throwing the glass at him. It doesn’t make him feel any better.

The rest of dinner is a complete wash. Like, it’s fine - Will and Leno argue good naturedly over their handicaps in golf, dessert arrives at some point. Mack is, technically, present for all of it. Mentally, he’s trapped in a unique special circle of hell; every time he looks up, Leno is there. He’s not staring back at Mack, but Mack still feels watched, to the point of hyper-vigilance. Where Leno’s arm is resting. Where his knee is under the table. Where his sneakers knock into Mack’s. It’s fucking unbearable.

At one point, Will actually stops mid-sentence. “Mack.”

“Huh?” Mack jerks a little.

“You okay?” Will’s frowning - Mack wants to reach over and smooth out the lines between his eyebrows. “You’ve been staring at that candle for like, three minutes.”

“Interesting candle.”

“It is literally just a candle.”

“Yeah.”

Will and Leno exchange a look - Leno looks innocent. The bastard. By the time the bill arrives, Mack feels like his brain has been put through a blender. It’s all soup up there.

Leno pays before either of them can protest. “Next time, you guys can get it.”

“There isn’t gonna be a next time,” Mack mutters.

“There absolutely is,” Will cuts in.

“There absolutely is,” Leno echoes. Mack glares at both of them.

Outside, San Jose’s night air is brisk and biting, compared to the warmth of the restaurant. The valet pulls up with Will’s car, Mack’s probably not far behind. Leno digs out his phone after the customary dap ups. “Well, guess I’ll call an Uber.”

The words leave Mack’s mouth before his brain can catch them. “I can drive you.”

Will’s eyebrows shoot upwards. Leno’s expression doesn’t change, which somehow makes it worse - mostly because Mack can practically see the moment that he understands exactly what Mack just did.

“Oh.” Leno says. Just that. Oh, you want to follow through. Mack wants the pavement to open beneath him.

“I mean-” Too late. Way too late. There’s nothing here he can say to fix it. Still, he scrambles to try. “You’d do the same for me.” He probably wouldn’t, Mack thinks, almost violent.

“That’s nice of you, buddy,” Will says, smiling. Buddy. Mack nearly dies on the fucking spot. Leno coughs suspiciously into his fist.

“Yeah,” Leno says. “Real nice.” Mack glares - Leno’s eyes are shining. The absolute worst part is that he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to, the look alone is enough. A few minutes later, while Leno is distracted by something on his phone while they wait for Mack’s car, Will catches him by the shoulder.

“Hey.”

Mack is immediately suspicious. “What?” Will smiles, and horrifyingly, looks proud.

“I’m glad.”

“Dude-”

“I’m serious.”

“Will-”

“You’ve been trying-” Mack closes his eyes.

“Smitty-”

“-And I know Leno drives you nuts-”

“That’s one word for it.”

“-but this is good!” Mack presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. This cannot be happening. “I’m proud of you for making an effort.” The laugh that escapes Mack sounds vaguely deranged. Will mistakes it for embarrassment. “See?” He says. “Personal growth.”

Personal growth, Mack thinks, a little hysterical. Yeah, because that’s what wanting to put my dick up Leno’s ass is.

Across the parking lot, Leno catches Mack’s eye over Will’s shoulder - the grin that spreads across Leno’s face is slow and victorious. Mack flips him off, which does little to squash it.

- - -

“You gotta breathe, dude,” Leno says when the two of them get back to his hotel room. It’s paid for by the Caps, obviously - Mack had asked why he didn’t have a roommate and Leno had told him that the younger guys are odd numbers and the Protas brothers prefer to be together. Then he’d told him to shut up and park the damn car already, so. Yeah.

“I’m breathing,” Mack snaps back, toeing off his shoes, like Leno had. “Fuck you.”

“That’s the plan.” Ryan’s leant against the glass table now, ankles crossed, and Mack feels like a fucking idiot, hovering here. It’s not like he hasn’t hooked up before. He’s got Raya, he’s picked chicks up from bars before - though that’s rarer, usually he prefers to just hangout with Smitty which is really fucking gay if he’s being honest - but right now he feels completely out of his depth. His stomach turns like he’s at the bottom of the third, losing by one. Ryan sighs. “Jesus Christ,” He mutters, more to himself than anything else, pushing a hand through his hair. “C’mon- just- take your jacket off and sit.”

Mack glares, but does as he’s told. Leno catches his jacket when Mack pelts it at him. It’s kinda freaking him out how nice Leno’s being. He’d expected- he doesn’t know. To be shoved around, maybe. To have to fight for it. But he sits on the bed, socked feet planted on the ground. Leno snickers at him.

It’s a standard Marriott hotel; blue cuck chair in the corner against the wall, a glass table with some stupid show books no one reads and a chair tucked under that’s both too wide and too low to be comfortable. They all smell the same, really. Leno’s bag is off to the side, open. Mack doesn’t know why, but he expected it to be messier, like Will’s is. It always gets on Mack’s nerves, how haphazardly Will packs for away games; they’ve been doing roadies since they where kids, yet Will always just shoves all his shit in his bag unlike Mack who’s had it down to an art since he was like, fourteen. Leno hadn’t turned on the big light, just the lamp - it makes it easier, somehow, maybe. He looks like a predator, like this. He’s staring Mack down, chin tipped down and shoulders slanted up from how his weight is rested on his hands behind him. Mack swallows, thickly.

There had been this summer, years ago, when he and Aiden had been doing trail runs around the lake house when Aiden had grabbed his wrist hard, tugging him to slow. Mack had whined, wanting to get back to the house already, but had; Aiden had told him, quiet, that there was a mountain lion tracking them. Mack had looked back, and it had been there, crouched all low and powerful in the shrubbery, eyes narrowed on the two of them. The two of them had spent the next few minutes hooting and hollering at it like idiots, stretched up tall to deter it - it had left, spooked. Their dad hadn’t made them do any more trail runs that summer.

Mack has a feeling that yelling and trying to look big wasn’t going to deter Leno.

“We don’t have to-”

“I want it.” Mack snaps. “Christ- fuck you, dude.” Mack stands then, anger sparking hot and familiar in his chest. Who the fuck does Leno think he is? This was easier - being annoyed at Leno, instead of feeling like an awful skittish prey animal. “I’m not some fucking girl, stop being all sweet.”

Leno scoffs then, standing up. He’s got only an inch on Mack, but with the fucking ten pounds more of muscle he has, Mack has a strong feeling that he’d lose this fight. “You think I’m- Jesus, Celebrini, I’m tryna make it good for you, I’m not gonna shove you around your first time.”

“I’m not a virgin!” Mack bites out, shriller than he’d like.

“Yeah, real convincing, bud,” Leno drawls; but he slides a hand to Mack’s waist. His hand is bigger than any others that’s been on his waist. It burns through his shirt and Mack’s throat clicks when he swallows. “You this nervous before all your hook ups?” Mack considers biting out another insult, telling him to go fuck himself again - but instead, Mack tugs him by the front of his shirt and kisses.

Mack’s kissed guys before. Normally, it’s drunken or with someone who’s face he’ll never see again. Juniors and college where different; it was just helping a bro out if you gave a handy or something. But Leno feels different - for once, Mack isn’t the bigger guy. Leno tastes like, well, spit, and faintly like chocolate from dessert. Leno’s quick to palm his cheek, callouses rough as he tips Mack’s face so their teeth don’t click - Mack makes a sticky noise at the back of his throat when Leno licks in, tongue wet against his teeth. The scrape of Leno’s stubble is harsher than his own. His fingers dig a little into the back of his jaw.

“Guh-” Mack gets out muffled against Leno’s mouth when he grabs his ass. He can feel Leno smirking, so he bites at his mouth in retaliation. Leno groans.

“Get on the fuckin’ bed, Celly,” Leno mutters when he tangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of Mack’s neck so he can lick up the side of his neck. Mack shivers. There’s something surprising about hearing Leno call him something other than his last name. Not that Celly isn’t just a shortening, but he says it all familiar.

“Ask me nicel- ah-!” Mack yelps when Leno bites down on the thick of his neck, knees going a little weak - Leno uses it to his advantage to get him up against the bottom of the mattress, until Mack tips backwards with a squawk. His grin is wolfish from where Mack lies, sprawled - he feels dizzy with how fast blood starts to rush to his cock.

“I thought you didn’t want me to be nice,” Leno sneers, stripping off his shirt. There’s freckles across his chest, too. The coin and cross on his chest jingle on it’s chain, glinting in the low light. Mack follows suit - but he bats Leno’s hands away when he goes for his pants. He’s doing that shit himself. And then Mack’s lying on Leno’s bed in nothing but grey boxers, tented from nothing but kisses. Mack hisses when Leno reaches forward and squeezes his erection with a big hand, head tipping back, face scrunching. Leno leers down at him. Mack knows he’s built good; thick and broad, nothing but miles of unblemished skin. Ryan presses his prints against the bruise he’d left from boarding him. It hasn’t purpled yet, all red and blotchy from where the capillaries have exploded under the skin.

“Fuck- Leno-” Mack doesn’t know if he’s protesting or not.

“Ryan,” Leno- Ryan corrects, leaning down to lick up Mack’s chest to his neck. Mack can’t stop himself from fisting Ryan’s hair. “Don’t call me Leno when I’m about to put my dick up your ass.” Mack can smell him now; the soap from the SAP, but also his deodorant and the lingering sweat from the match he didn’t manage to wash off. It’s so boyish that Mack wonders if it would be weird if he stuck his head into Ryan’s armpit. Probably. Will would let me, Mack thinks, petulant.

Mack grunts, shoving a thigh between Ryan’s legs, unwilling to be the only one losing his mind here. Ryan groans, rutting down, with his face shoved into Mack’s shoulder for a moment, letting go of his dick so the two of them can grind like teenagers. The drag of their clothed cock makes Mack’s head swim. Mack knows his face must be all ruddy and awful down to his chest, if how he’s gasping into the kisses says anything. He tries to roll them - Ryan pins him harder. “Stop fuckin’ squirm, Celly,” Ryan grits out, sitting on his hips.

“Wh- dude-” Mack whines, frustrated, with the pressure gone. But all his complaining disappears when Ryan shoves his own shorts and boxers down so the elastic sits below his heavy balls. His dick slaps almost wetly against his abs. Mack grabs at his strong thighs, fingers digging into the muscle. Ryan’s notably hairer than him - from the slight dusting on his chest to the happy trail that gets thick and dark all the way down to his dick. His dick- Christ. Mack is pretty comfortably slightly above average - proportional, y’know? Leno is too, but he’s thick, thick enough that when Mack bats Ryan’s hand away from his own cock to jerk it, he’s well aware that there’s no way girls don’t need a notable amount of prep first. It’s burningly hot in his hand, unfamiliar and a little sticky from pre. He can imagine it - Ryan having to spend ages with his face buried in a slick pussy, bullying two, three, maybe four fingers into a girl’s pink puffy pussy until she’s squirming and open for him. Mack’s dick kicks in his boxers at the idea of it, stomach dropping out. The first dick I’m gonna be fucked by is Ryan Leonard’s, Mack thinks, a little hysterically.

“Oh fuck- yeah, like that, Celly,” Ryan grunts, thrusting lazily into Mack’s fist. “You like what you see, huh? Yeah, you can’t fuckin’ wait.”

Ryan’s hand is big and warm on his face as he shoves two fingers into Mack’s mouth. Mack gags a little, spit gathering; but he adjusts, sucking. They taste like skin and salt, and the slack jawed look on Ryan’s face above him makes him feel hazy.

“Get this shit off-” Mack jerks his head away to say, tugging at Ryan’s shorts - Ryan stumbles off him and Mack yanks his own boxers off, unwilling to seem shy. He’s not fucking losing here. Christ, he’s so hard it hurts. Ryan barks a laugh when Mack stumbles - he almost tips into the table, but Ryan grabs him by the elbow.

“Easy there,” Ryan’s grinning, shit eating. Mack smacks him in the gut, but shrieks when Ryan shoves him down onto the bed. Asshole. Ryan’s on him again, almost immediately, rolling him onto his front. “Christ, look ‘atcha, bud,” Ryan murmurs, palming his ass. “Smitty don’t know what he’s missing out on.”

“Who says you’re topping?” Mack snaps over his shoulder, kicking a foot back - it catches Ryan in the ribs. He grunts, but doesn’t say anything. Still, Mack doesn’t try to roll away, and lifts his hips obediently when Ryan slides a pillow under them. Mack’s heart is in his throat at this point. This was it; the point of no return.

“Shit,” Ryan hisses when he yanks Mack’s hips up - Mack grits his teeth when the cold air of the hotel room hits his exposed asshole. “Fuckin’ pretty hole, Celly.”

Mack makes a strangled noise. “Dude, what the fuck.”

“Shh, lemme have this,” Ryan says, pressing a dry thumb to the furrow of his ass. “Shit, you’re tight.” There’s a pause. “Celly are you-”

“Shut up,” Mack snaps. He was going to die. “Shut up. I swear to fucking god-”

“Aw, Celly,” Ryan coos, mocking almost. “You want me as your first? Not Smit?”

Mack can imagine the shit eating grin on his face - and then sees it when he turns his head to glare. “I’ve had- stuff. Fingers, and whatever.”

“Well,” Ryan grunts, sliding off the bed to go through his bag - he holds up a small bottle of lube, victorious. “This is gonna be a lot more than ‘whatever’. ‘m gonna make you fuckin’ gape for me.”

“Like you did for Will?” Mack can’t help but ask, a little snide when Ryan gets back on the bed. It dips when he kneels at his hip. He feels, oddly, like a skittish horse. The sound of the bottle of lube popping open is way too fucking loud.

“No. Like Will did for me.”

Mack can’t help but groan, body shuddering, when Ryan rubs his lubed up prints against his hole. “Oh- fu- Will let you fuck him?”

Ryan hums at him, but doesn’t justify it with a response. “Relax,” Ryan mutters - Mack forces his hips to untense, teeth gritted. Mind over muscle. “C’mon baby, you’re okay. You got it, you gotta if you want my dick.” Mack kinda wants to snap at him to shut the fuck up, but his brain leaves the building for a moment. It burned - of course it did, even with all the lube. His vision narrows down, static-y around the edges. It takes a moment, and Mack’s mouth is filling with spit by the time Ryan manages two. Sweat is beating between his shoulder blades and across his hairline. Ryan doesn’t shut up once. If Mack wasn’t so focused on staying relaxed, he’d have smacked him. Then, Ryan digs around, sliding his middle and index fingers in deep.

“Ah- Oh fu- Ryan, Ryan-” Mack manages to gasp out when Ryan skates over something that makes his entire body feel like it’s on fucking fire. Gone is the impulse to murder Ryan; Mack’s hips jump forward and he’s whining, body unsure if it’s supposed to jerk away or press back into the intrustion in his ass. Ryan shoves him down, so his hips lie flat on the bed, working in his ring finger, too, the press tight and slick - Mack takes the oppotunity to rut against the soft sheets. His hair is starting to stick to the back of his neck.

“There we go,” Ryan rubs down hard and Mack’s vision goes spotty, blurring. “Shit, good boy, you got it.” Mack lets out a terrible hiccuping moan. Ryan pins him there, knees digging into the backs of Mack’s big thighs, other hand holding his ass cheek spread to the side. His cock is absolutely leaking all over the pillow under his hips and the white sheets. Ever time he twitches away, Ryan digs his grip harder into Mack’s globes, trying to keep him still.

“Wuh- wait I’m gonna- Ryan- Nuh-” Mack tries to warn Ryan the best he can, but Ryan won’t let up.

“Yeah, yeah I know, c’mon, fuckin’ do it, you can go again, thattaboy Mackie-” Mack feels his entire body lock up when his cock spurts on the bed, fingers tight in the sheets. It’s not a proper moan or a grunt that comes out of him but a spasming shriek that might be Ryan’s name. Ryan still doesn’t let up, fingers scissoring. Mack’s pretty sure he’s can’t stop cumming even though he has, hips twitching. It’s only when he lets out a high broken keen that Ryan pulls his prints out, wiping them on the soft skin between Mack’s legs.

Mack groans, face shoved into a pillow. “Fu-uck. Gross.”

“C’mon,” Ryan grunts, rolling him over onto the clean part of he bed. Mack wiggles, protesting. “You can go again.”

“Nuh uh,” Mack groans out, arm thrown over his face. “Dude. No.”

“I didn’t go to the fucking effort of opening you not to fuck you, Celly,” Ryan snaps. Mack goes to protests again, but his words get cut off short when Ryan shuffles down he bed and swallows his drooping cock.

“FUCK-!'“ Mack’s hips jump off the bed - Ryan chokes a little when he hits the back of his throat, but holds his hips down with a thick arm across his stomach. “Oh fuuh- Ry- Ryan- that’s-” He doesn’t head push Ryan, but he still grips his hair hard, tugging viciously; Ryan moans around his cock and Mack genuinely feels his thighs start to shake, which is fucking embarrassing. Even more so when Ryan works two fingers back into him. Ryan’s mouth is wetter than a pussy, hotter than one too, drool sliding down Mack’s balls. The slick noises fill the hotel; Mack’s always thought of sucking dick as like, inherently submissive, or whatever. But like this, pinned to the bed and sqirming as Ryan continues to absolutely rock his shit, he’s never felt more wrong in his life. He can’t push up into Ryan’s mouth or pull away - because either he’s choking Ryan with his cock or backing into his thick fingers that are keeping his rim loose.

“Ryan- Ryan puh- please-” Mack groans, gasping for air. Ryan pulls off with a wet pop, grinning as he wipes his slick fingers on the bed.

“Yeah, you can go again,” Ryan smirks, lightly smacking the tip of Mack’s wet cock, where it juts up into the air.

“Stop fucking talking,” Mack hisses, trying to roll over - Ryan pins him with a heavy hand to his hip.

“Nuh uh, Celly,” Ryan coos, grabbing a knee and shoving it up to his chest. Mack squawks, face heating more somehow as Ryan stares down at his open, wet hole. He shudders when he feels the cold air where it shouldn’t be. “Wanna see it when you take me. I should take a fuckin’ photo,” Ryan adds, shifting to accommodate both of Mack’s ankles over his shoulders. “Gapin’ for me. Shit’s winking.”

“You’re such a fucking perv,” Mack bitches, embarrassed. There’s a condom on the nightstand - neither of them reach for it. Ryan doesn’t dignify him with a response, just lazily jacking himself off with his free hand. The slick clicking noise of it makes Mack’s stomach jump.

Ryan doesn't watch his face when he pushes in. Or maybe he does, Mack doesn’t know - Mack’s too distracted by the dull burn of the thick, sticky head of Ryan’s cock pressing into his hole. He doesn’t even do Mack the courtesy of rubbing up against him first. Then again, Ryan’s spent the last, what, half hour straight doing fuckin’ prep and foreplay and being all weirdly attentive. So Mack can forgive him.

“Oh fuck- fuck fuck-” Mack chokes. Everything narrows down to the feeling of it; but at the same time, everything else is so aware, sheets scratchy, muscles screaming, sweat freezing on his overheated skin.

“I know, I know,” Ryan gets out, teeth gritted - all Mack can do is whine. It’s so fucking hot, a terrible addictive drag as Leno keeps pushing and pushing and pushing. Fuck, he can’t do this, it’s too much. Mack’s thighs are starting to tremble again; one of Ryan’s big mitts grab at the back of them, pressing him down so that their almost chest to chest, Mack’s knees now over his shoulders. When his hips are finally flush to Mack’s ass, Ryan groans deep, head dropping to Mack’s shoulder. “Shit- shit baby, you’re so fucking tight,” Ryan exhales. Mack can’t manage anything coherent in response. Can’t cuss him out for calling him baby. He’s so fucking full, mouth full of spit, head stuffed with cotton.

“Full,” Mack manages to wheeze out. “Ry-”

“Okay, yeah, yeah, hold on,” Ryan tugs his hips back, and Mack moans, stupid loud as he drags right up against his prostate. Ryan’s grin is wicked when he sits up, tall and looming over him - a droplet of sweat drips off his nose and lands on Mack’s chest.

“Again, again,” Mack whines, bratty, trying to shift his hips.

“Fucking brat,” Ryan grunts. “You want me to give it t’you? Yeah?” Ryan locks his hands on his hips before Mack can do anything but bobble his head. His cock drags further out before slapping back in. Mack shrieks and can’t even be embarrassed about it; Ryan finds a pace that works, dragging maybe a halfway out before hammering back in, tugging Mack’s hips into it like he’s a pocket pussy. The bed squeaks, headboard setting an even pace in time with the wet plap-plap-plap of Ryan’s hips hitting his ass, cock squelching in and out.

“Yeah? Yeah you fuckin’ like that,” Ryan exhales out; his hair is stuck to his face and his freckles have started to disappear into his flush. It’s gotta be one hell of a work out; he’s half holding Mack off the bed to use him, while also sitting up on the balls of his feet to thrust. Mack can’t get out more than these stupid fucked out noises, mouth dropped open, lips drying with how hard he’s mouth breathing.

“I’m- unh- unh-”

“So fuckin’ open for me, such a good boy,” Ryan take a hand off his hip to squeeze Mack’s dick where it’s bobbing wetly against his creased tummy. Mack sobs a little and Ryan grins down at him, mean. “Yeah? Yeah, you wanna be good, don’tcha? I bet you let Smitty fuck you however he wanted. You’d let him- ah- let him bounce you on his cock, huh? Fuckin’ ass like that, be a shame not to. You gonna lemme do that next time, Celly? Bounce you like a girl?”

Mack wants to be able to say something witty back - something biting about how at least Will wants me, but Ryan’s cock has sawed away his ability to think. His eyes are closed to slits, blissed out and absolutely wrecked.

Ryan shifts then, so Mack’s pressed into the bed by his full weight, Mack’s legs sliding down around under his ass. Ryan’s chain is almost cold in comparison to him, sweat slick skin sliding together. It’s less thrusting then a filthy grind; Mack moans, unable to get a full breath. He understands it, now; why girls scratch up his back when he fucks them good. There’s nothing else to do except hold on and try not to fall apart. It’s fucking humiliating how bad he wants to cum, how he doesn’t want it to stop. “You f-fuuh-” Mack whimpers, face shoved into Ryan’s shoulder as he ruts deep. He can smell Ryan, now, in full force; Mack gives into the impulse and sucks at his throat, moaning at the taste of the salt.

“Oh fuck, Celly,” Ryan groans; and for one startling moment, he grabs Mack’s hand. Mack tangles their fingers together where Ryan has his sweaty palm pinned to the bed. “Mack- fuck, lemme- where? You want it inside, yeah? Fuckin’ mark you up, c’mon, cmon Mackie-”

“Yes, fuck- fuck, Ryan-” Mack manages to gasp out then, free arm hooked around the back of him to grab at the ball of his shoulders. Ryan drags his cock out and bullies it in, once, twice - his forehead touches Mack’s sternum when he comes, moan groaned out, back bowed. His cum is so burningly warm and there’s so much of it from how long Ryan keeps his hips shoved against his ass that he wonders hysterically if it’s in his stomach.

Mack’s quick to fumble for himself, balls pulled tight - Ryan slaps his hand away and jerks him with only his own sweat and the cum from his last orgasm, sloppy and hard; Mack’s already sensitive from the first, and if he was more with it he would note with pride it took more than a dozen strokes before he’s splattering all over his own stomach and Ryan’s. Ryan moans again, feeling Mack’s ass tighten into a vice around his already spent cock. “Oh fuck-”

Ryan doesn’t even do him the courtesy of dropping off to the side - he groans and basically just flops on top of Mack. “Augh- get off, you fat fuck-” Mack whines, but he can’t bring himself to let go. Ryan doesn’t give him a reply past a series of bitchy grumbles; he grabs a shirt, hopefully his own, and sloppily wipes up Mack and his own stomach.

“Shuddup,” Ryan grunts. A shiver runs through Mack; now that the adrenaline and all the other shit has fled his body with his orgasm, he can feel the cold running through his fingertips. He swallows, throat thick all of a sudden, body aching dully. “C’mon,” Ryan sighs now, helping haul him up. It’s pretty fucking gross to feel spunk leak out of his ass and onto his thighs. “Shower.”

“Wuh-”

“Just- shut up an’ get in the shower, man,” Ryan huffs, shoving him towards the bathroom; but he doesn’t let go, hot hand between Mack’s shoulders.

- - -

Somehow, getting aftercared by Ryan Leonard is weirder than making out with him. Or getting fucked by him. Standing under the burning hot spray with him, head pillowed on Leno’s shoulder, face turned into his neck, Mack’s brain is all hazy. Steam rises slow, just like his thoughts. Ryan keeps rubbing small circles into Mack’s back - Mack’s pretty sure Ryan’s washed him, too, but it feels like there’s a blanket drawn over his head. Kind of what it feels like to operate with a concussion.

“Do I have a concussion?” Mack asks muzzily, unable to lift his head from Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan snorts a laugh.

“No, bud,” He says, uncharacteristically gentle. There’s a laugh in his voice as he pushes Mack’s wet hair off his face. “That’s jus’ what it’s supposed to feel like after you get fucked good.”

“Like I got concussed?”

“Something like that.” Ryan pauses. “I’m not gonna go easy on you jus’ because I know what you look like when you cum, Celly.”