Reblogging Blog

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𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

"And then he just looked at me with those stupid puppy dog eyes and I caved. He didn't even have to say anything. What the fuck is wrong with me?"

Will huffs and awaits a response. Mackerel swims in a little loop around one of his plants.

"Yeah, I know."

He blows out a tiny bubble.

"You're right, I should stop. But…"

Mackerel stares and then wiggles away to his tiny treehouse with an air of finality. Fair enough. Will wouldn't want to talk to himself right now either. He feels beyond stupid or naive. He doesn't even know if there's a word to describe what's going on inside his body. He feels apocalyptic, deranged, possessed. Like there's a constant itch in his blood that he'll never reach. Like he needs…

Will doesn't know what he needs anymore. His logic says he needs spotlessness, and his heart says he needs to take a drive down to the river and break into a dorm building, searching every floor until he finds that smile again. Obviously, he also needs his lobotomy. It would probably be cause for concern if he actually got one though, so that's off the table. He definitely can't go to BU, no matter how tempting the idea is. He's not the kind of weak man that would give in. Not again.

Rolling over, he reaches into his nightstand for his bible, flipping through its worn pages and colorful tabs. He's got ten now, but this is his favorite. He's had it since he was thirteen, the sides of the pages filled with messy scribbles, clear sticky notes pressed over verses with smudged ink. His rosary slips off the cover where it always rests, falling onto his messy sheets. He stares at it for a long second before going back to searching.

Before all of this happened, his most visited verses were…different. Philippians 3:13-14, Proverbs 21:5, Deuteronomy 31:8. He'd read stories about strength, and kindness. Find comfort in the idea that he was following God's will and the words of Christ. Pass over things about sin, because it did not apply to him. He refused to believe it applied to him. He's not weak. This isn't his fault. Evil chooses those who are good to corrupt. To try to corrupt. Will's not like that. Lately of course, his reading has taken a turn that takes that idea to the contrary.

1 Corinthians 10:13. Matthew 26:41. James 1:13-15.

The heady temptation of sin lingers through him, waiting for him to slip, to cave, to want. Will has never wanted anything like he wants this and it's terrifying. He knows he cant, and he tells himself he cant but at the end of the day he finds himself desperately searching for an interview, game highlights, a dumb post from a social media intern. Anything at all to fix the fire burning in him. He ignores the press of his cross against his throat late at night, reaching down to find himself hard and waiting at the mere memory of the way Celebrini looked. Pretty and desperate and perfect and all of it belonged to Will, just for that moment.

Of course, he ruined that, like he ruins most good and evil things.

He tells himself that it's not like he was going to stay. He made sure Celebrini was okay, and then he left, like any other hookup. Celebrini isn't like any other hookup, but it's a lesser sin to think of it that way than the reality.

Tossing his bible back, he takes a nice deep breath. Happy thoughts. Beaches on a warm summer day, vanilla ice cream, Easter Sunday when he was six, a perfect pass. He turns to Mackerel who has now come out of his house.

"Thoughts?"

Mackerel bumps one of his little floating rings around. Okay. Yeah, Will can do that.

Rosary. Cleaning. Practice. Library. It's only seven in the morning; he's got plenty of time to do all of that. Moving to his sitting area, he settles down and considers the chain. It's simple: silver and hematite, a heavy crucifix and St Sebastian hockey medallion, the same as his chain. His first one is back home, tucked between a framed photo of him and Rigney and a hat-trick puck stack from his junior days. It broke once, the twine giving way under the constant use, wooden beads spilling to the floor. He cried until his dad fixed it.

This though. Metal and strength and relentlessness. This will never shatter under his faith.

He mumbles the Apostle's Creed to the thought of blue skies and a warm breeze, Our Father to the joy of early Christmas mornings, Hail Mary's to the booming locker room after a good win, and Glory Be to the calm of the dark and speckled night sky. He meditates the Resurrection with the memory of his tenth birthday, the Ascension to a dream he had of running on water, the Decent thinking of the altar at Sacred Heart, the Assumption wondering about the cleanliness he might find in solitary confinement, and the Coronation reminiscing on a wide toothed smile.

He grits his teeth, and half-sings the Salve Regina, takes a deep breath and says his final prayer.

"Let us pray," he begins, squeezing his eyes shut, "O God, whose only begotten son, by his life, death, and resurrection, has purchased for us the rewards of eternal life, grant, we beseech thee, that while meditating on these mysteries of the most holy rosary of the Blessed Virgin Mary, we may imitate what they contain and obtain what they promise, through the same Christ our Lord."

Deep breath. He presses his heels into his carpet, bites down on his tongue. He is strong enough to deal with this. Deep breaths. Happy thoughts.

Will drags the sign of the cross into his chest with a nail, and says in the same tone of voice he used to call another man perfect,

"Amen."

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Will's got Foaming Sprayway Glass Cleaner in his eyes and he's only five fucking minutes into cleaning, so basically his entire day is ruined and he's going to die. That frayed rope seems to be coming back, and he's about five seconds and one more bad thing away from turning it into a noose.

Anyways, he's fine. Everything is chill. He's going to clean his windows and his closet and then he's going to grab breakfast and beat the fuck out of Leno in practice for fun. And he will not think bad thoughts about beautiful—terrible. He will not think bad thoughts about terrible people, even if they are beautiful too.

It's not like his windows are even dirty. Nothing in his room is dirty. The messiest thing is the bag of laundry from last night in his closet and the singular upturned drawer from when he was looking for his favorite—only—White Socks shirt. It now hangs limply on his rack between a BC jersey and a quarter zip vest. He should organize that. Yes. Will is going to organize that. He's going to finish his window first though, glass cleaner be damned.

He can feel Mackerel watching him, probably judging. He gets it. If he was a fish who got kidnapped and then kidnapped again by a fucking loser who lives in an attic, regularly jerks off to the memory of putting his dick in another guy, and blinds himself whilst getting a tiny smudge mark off a window. He should be ashamed. He is ashamed, just about bigger things. Mackerel wouldn't get it. He's a fish.

He pauses with his rag halfway to the glass and turns. Mackerel blubs at him.

"Yeah yeah, I'm doing it. Dick," he mutters. Arrogant fucking fish. He's not the boss of Will. No one's the boss of Will, except his coach and Gabe when he's mad, and God. Probably God.

Will doesn't have any of the time to debate that though.

He cleans.

Approximately twenty-three minutes and forty seconds later, Will hops down the last step of the stairs and wanders into the kitchen. It's still pretty neat from when he organized it last night, save for the island which is home to half their fridge.

"Morning," Gabe says, not even turning around. It's a little creepy when he does that honestly.

"'Sup?"

"You want?" he asks in lieu of response, gesturing to his collection of food. They eat pretty much the same thing every morning, so it's not like Will would say no. Eggs and cheese, fruit bowl, protein shake, toast, two glasses of water with electrolytes. There's not much room for experimentation. Usually they'd eat at the rink, but there was some issue with scheduling and meetings, so that's later in the day than it should be. He tells himself he's not bothered with the break in routine.

"Mm."

Gabe, the lovely soul that he is, just passes him a bowl and fork. Will needs more friends like Gabe. Will also probably needs to go grocery shopping. They don't eat all that much at home, but he knows for a fact that other than the current spread of food all they have in the fridge is artisan beer and salami. He refuses to live like this.

"So," Gabe drawls, spooning an eggshell out of the pan, "How's it going?"

He's using The Tone, which is a sign that Will has done something very stupid as of late. Gabe actually isn't very lovely, and Will would like to have never met him. He's never passing another puck to him in his life.

"Fine," he mumbles around a particularly large slice of melon. Will is fine. Will's always fine. Gabe shoots him a dry look and sighs.

"You lose a fight to a mosquito?"

Will grits his teeth and winces. He got away with keeping the majority of his body covered for the past two days, getting to the rink early and leaving late. Turtlenecks have been his best bud. But of course now he's wearing a loose long sleeve which shows off each and every fading bite mark and bruise that Celebrini left.

"Uh. No. Why?"

Gabe turns to face him full on, glaring like Will's just told him he's transferring to BU.

"William you are a walking hickey—"

"No I'm not!"

"Yes! Yes you are. Now what I don't get is why you're being so fucking cagey about it, like shit man. You got a girlfriend or something now?"

Will busies himself with his fruit, and then with moving a few cups into the sink, and then with digging at a bruise on his wrist from a particularly brutal slapshot. Yes, alright, he's being weird about it but he can’t not be. Sure, no one would probably ever suspect what he's actually been doing, but that's not a risk he can take. Better to be a little strange than a fag, right?

Surely.

God, he needs a fucking vacation.

"Who's got time for a relationship," is what he comes up with after a solid minute of silence. Another long-suffering sigh, and a kick to his ankle is Gabe's response.

"Sure bud," he relents.

Breakfast is just the two of them, quiet and with a few passing remarks about school. He's got a late music class and plans to study before that with Fowls. Gabe's going to the other side of campus doing something in history. They chat about o-zone formations and which teams they think are going to be the best to play as they—Will—clean up. Will wants out of the house before everyone else is up, even though they totally should be by now. He's not gonna fuck with fate though, so once the dishwasher is running, he hurries upstairs as quietly as possible. The more people he can avoid today the better.

Stripping his shirt off he hurries to his closet, scanning the hangers until he finds what he needs. It's cold, so a buttoned turtleneck isn't at all odd. Even if he's been doing that for two days straight. If this thing is going to keep happening he'll need to invest in more.

Not that it will be. Or. Not that Will wants that?

Will wants that. He wants that so, terribly bad.

Deep breaths. Happy thoughts.

Mackerel watches him with an air of judgement as he grabs his shit. Mackerel should keep his thoughts to himself. If Will wanted to be put under the spotlight he'd hunt down the social media girl or talk to his mom. Haphazardly sliding on his favorite ring and a beanie he slings his bag over his shoulder and with a last passing glance at Mackerel—still judging—slams his door shut.

Gabe's nowhere to be found by the time he rushes back downstairs, tugging on his shoes and grabbing his jacket in a deranged fashion. Small miracles and whatnot. He'll take whatever he can get at this point.

There's no point in driving, so instead he speed walks down the block, harsh wind rippling in his face. It's about twenty minutes give or take to get to the arena, which gives him plenty of time to not think about anything at all. He turns on his podcast about disappearing industries and lets it fill his head. He's just gotta keep moving and keep running and avoiding and then one day this will all be okay.

You're the farthest thing from okay and you fucking know it.

He clenches his jaw, digs a nail into his palm. He's gonna make it through the day. He will not relent. He will not give in. He's better than that. A flash of a wide toothed smile goes through his mind.

Will Smith will not let Macklin Fucking Celebrini ruin his life.

He won't.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

It's twenty minutes into drills and therefore an hour into practice when Leno sidles up next to him, waiting for their turn at paint scoring.

"Soooo," he goads, nudging Will with his stick. Of course. Fucking, kill him now.

"What."

"Bro, you looked like you got fucking mauled back there," he says, the worlds dumbest grin on his face. Luckily most of the bruising on his thighs is hidden, otherwise he'd truly never ever hear the end of it but…yeah. Celebrini's fucking mouthy. Go figure that would be his luck. God really needs to work on his humor.

"You checking me out?"

Leno rolls his eyes, clearly not in the mood to be discouraged. Will has wondered many times what his life would be like if he had never met or befriended Ryan Leonard, and now more than ever he has that wish. An image of peace and solitude pops up in his mind as Leno skates uncomfortably close to his face.

"Dude, spill your beans."

"Theres no beans," Will insists, shoving him off.

"There's so many beans. You're full of beans. Bean man. Tell me bean man, what coyote ass girl did you bang or I—"

A harsh whistle cuts him off. Jesus Christ, thank you. Will's gonna remove this entire conversation from his brain and then drive directly into the siderails of an interstate. It would be a bad look, sure, but he's on the verge of total insanity if he doesn't do something. For now however, he's gonna shoot pucks over a little wall. Will is capable of that.

You fucking better be, it's all youre good for anyway.

"This isn't over," Leno taunts, leaning over his shoulder.

If Will checks him extra hard into the boards during scrimmages later, that's no one's business but his.

It's nearly four by the time he escapes, body sore and stretched out from the gym and particularly brutal massage he got after. Sure he said to go all in, but he feels like he got the world's deepest tissue package complete with staff gossip on the side. Apparently one of the janitors has been sleeping with one of the security guards' wives. Will isn't big on drama, and gossip is a sin, but, you know. He's already in pretty deep.

The wind from the reservoir ripples cold across his jacket as he steps outside, leaning against one of the pillars for support. Fowls said he'd be coming soon, so he tugs out his phone, resisting the urge to search Celebrini's name. Instead, he pulls up his texts with Grace, a few missed texts complaining about an annoying co-worker.

Will gives her the helpful advice of lol kill her to which she responds with a massive paragraph about why she can't but how she would do it if she could. He's never needed nor wanted a detailed description of body disassembly before but at least she's putting that medical knowledge to good use. Will can barely remember the stages of a cell cycle on a good day.

Before he can write anything back, another text pops up from Fowls.

FeeFee: yo Mike wants us to stay longer, run some more drills

FeeFee: 😔

dw abt it

FeeFee: have fun suffering without me

anytime man

He gets left on delivered. Naturally.

With a sigh and a quick text to Grace telling her to hang in there, he sets off for the library. Theoretically, he just could ask someone else to join him. Of course Will would also rather die than spend time with anyone right now, except…

No. Will’s not doing that. He cannot do that. Of all his shit choices in life that would be the worst.

Pausing at the bottom of the steps, he pulls out his phone again staring at the dark screen.

He thinks of Mackerel's unimpressed little face and a small, hidden smile. Of how torturous it's been not talking to him, of the way he lies away at night and wishes, hopes and prays.

He's already in so, so damningly deep. Might as well dig the grave a bit more.

Cursing himself for the entire twenty seconds it takes to type and send the message, he presses send and decisively shoves his phone back into his jacket. He probably won't even respond. Why would he? Offering to fuck him and offering to study are totally different things. They're not friends.

Will can feel the rope around his neck and wishes it would pull a little tighter.

He's almost to the end of the block when he feels a buzz.

Fumbling it out of his pocket and almost falling directly onto the curb, he manages to open it without too much extra embarrassment. He can hear Grace's cackle in the back of his mind. Some people are haunted by spirits. Will has his sister. Will wishes he was an only child sometimes if he's being honest, which he is also really trying to be. Of course, he's failing to do so at a drastic rate, but it's fine. He's fine.

u wanna come over and study?

It only took a minute to get his response, and the smile on Will's face feels terrible.

m.: is that the worlds worst euphemism?

no

m.: …okay then what do you want?

Rolling his eyes he starts walking again, making sure he's far, far away from the road. He doesn't need anyone seeing him eat shit right now.

a friend cancelled our study session

m.: okay???

for fucks sake do you want to come and sit in a library with me or not

Read. Will's going to strangle that little shit and then maybe kiss him stupid afterwards. God please, send him strength and wisdom.

Clearly you're not anyone's strongest soldier.

The typing bubble goes up and down long enough for Will to actually reach the fucking library doors, heat blasting him directly in his face. He ignores how stupid he feels, which is astronomical beyond belief and instead casually leans against the wall to watch Celebrini struggle to answer a simple question.

m.: where?

O'Neil

Read, again, but only briefly. He should probably enter the actual building, instead of just standing here like a crazy person. Will probably is a crazy person at this point.

m.: on campus?? are u fucking crazy??

chill, just wear sunglasses or smthn

m.: u want me to wear sunglasses inside

yep

m.: ffs

its a good disguise

m.: its a terrible disguise and i am going to kill u

fine. pick something off campus then

Christ, he's getting more desperate by the day. He needs an intervention, but to get one of those someone has to know that there's a problem, and Will has no problems. Also, he's never telling anyone about this and he's fairly certain that you can't stage an intervention for yourself, which seems like a design flaw.

m.: *link*

A few girls from the basketball team pass by, one staring down at him to smile. He should probably move. Or sit down, though his only option for that is the floor, but he's already being weird as shit so. Why not?

Sinking down in the corner, somewhat obscured by a large plant he clicks on the message, an address popping up immediately. Will's shit at using google maps, so at least this saves him the effort. Swiping out of the app, he returns to their texts, ignoring the giddy jolt of his heart at the prospect of seeing him again. Dear God, he needs help.

i take it thats a yes?

m.: …

m.: be there in twenty

He's got no time to get back to his car, tragically. Maybe that's for the best, he doesn't quite trust himself behind the wheel right now. Scrambling to his feet, he hurries outside. If he runs he can probably catch the train to Brookline. Holy shit he's genuinely lost it. Fucking Fowls. The one day of all the days to cancel on him.

Will sprints like the world is catching fire behind him, lets the sound of his pounding blood rush through his ears and the memory of a soft gaze carry him forwards.

He's in too deep, the sunlight has long since faded.

If he's going to be buried, he might as well enjoy the trip while he can.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Will arrives with heaving lungs, a cold cross, dripping umbrella, and a rosary in his palm. He got a few odd looks on the ride over, but there was also a very sweet old lady who joined him in prayer. Fuck him for being a man of God, or whatever. Trying to be a man of God, or rather trying to stay one.

Failing to stay one.

Smiling at the receptionist, he scans the area for the stairs. He told Celebrini to meet him in the history section, to which he got a thumbs up. Pathetically, it still managed to light his skin ablaze. Gabe texted him a few times which he ignored, and then called which he also ignored and then called another five times in a row. However by that point Will was desperately trying to locate the library so…no hard feelings? There's nothing in the bible that says avoiding your friends is wrong.

There's almost no one inside, probably due to the hour and torrential downpour happening outside. Thank fuck for his emergency umbrella or he'd be screwed on a new and soggier level than usual. The building's heat is on full blast which he's eternally grateful for as he climbs the stairs, tugging his beanie off. Celebrini didn't say anything about having arrived, which he's taking as a blessing. He needs a second, minute, hour.

Will needs a fucking year at the rate his life is going.

He picks a table tucked between two tightly backed shelves, hidden from sight and a little dusty. One of the lights flickers overhead in a pleasantly haunted manor. Cool. He pulls out his music theory textbook, and after a brief period of consideration, one of his many on coms. He wishes someone had told him how much this major had sucked before he picked it. Leno and Gabe aren't even any help. He's cursed, deeply, deeply cursed.

The squeak of shoes drags him out of his wallowing, his head jerking up to find…oh. Oh.

Celebrini's hair is damp despite the rest of him being mostly untouched. He holds a dripping black coat in one hand, holding it from his body with a tiny grimace. Soft, fuzzy corduroy sweatpants—Prussian Blue comes to mind, the color he painted one of his bathroom walls back home—and a massive Warriors hoodie, the cream color speckled with dots of rain. He looks…huggable.

Not that Will wants to hug him, that would be crazy haha, who said that? Not him. He looks fine or whatever. Average. Cute.

Fuck.

"Hey," he croaks, very casual and suave. Will is the most casual and suave he's ever been in his life right now. Who even cares that the cold air has turned Celebrini's cheeks into a warm flush of red, the rain sticking his soft hair to his temple. Will knows what it's like to kiss that spot. It's a sin to lie, so he gives himself one singular moment off of his tirade into hell: Macklin Celebrini is absolutely stunning and Will has never hated himself for anything more.

"Hi," he mumbles, sitting down across from him. His fingernails are chewed and bitten to jagged edges, and Will desperately wants to smooth them out, wants to hold his warm and calloused hand in his own. He's so fucked.

"Music?"

Will blinks, and then flicks his gaze down to his book. With an offhand shrug that he doesn't feel at all confident, he in leans back in his shitty plastic chair.

"I take a music history class. It's fun," he says, watching Celebrini's expression carefully. He scrunches his nose, and frowns. Cute. Incredibly and deeply cute. Bathroom lobotomy, here he comes! Well, hopefully if anything it won't be the lobotomy coming.

Jesus Christ, you need to get serious help.

The worst part, of course, is that he didn't even invite him with the intention of sex. Will just…wanted to see him, which is a terrible and disgusting feeling he hopes to never feel again.

"You, take a music history class?"

The disbelief is evident in his tone, his eyebrows raising. What a dick. Will needs to put him in his place more often. He wants to be mean, but on one hand he has an image to maintain, and on the other hand he would feel bad if he was actually a dick to him. He's such a loser, Grace was right. Grace is always right about things, he should be more used to that by now.

"Yes."

"Why."

"I like it," he sniffs, glaring across the table. Celebrini glowers back.

"You going into theater or something?"

"I am in theater, yes," he snaps, indignant. That gets him a genuine laugh, which he quickly smothers. His smile is pretty. Whatever, who cares about that. It's an objective thought. A fact even, and who is Will to deny facts. Celebrini shakes his head, hair flying into more of a mess than before. He has the terrible urge to run his fingers through it, and not just to fix it. "I do set design."

Celebrini blinks, clearly caught off guard. Take that you little shit. He gets a blinding vision of the way he looked pleading on his knees, open mouthed and desperate. Will wants to repeat that event more than he wants oxygen. He also wouldn't mind reversing it, except he'd never be that pathetic even if Celebrini made whining look incredibly hot.

"You…okay," he says flatly, and promptly turns away from him, rummaging through his bag. Will is going to murder him, actually. Fucking brat. Not that he cares at all, or would be offended by something like that. Will doesn't give a shit. Will has never given a shit about a single thing in his life. He's forbidding himself from emotions around Celebrini starting now. Completely apathetic until the end of time.

Will has two major talents in life: hockey and pretending. They're not at the rink, so he turns to the second and excels. He throws himself into his work like it's a lifeline out of a quicksand pit, scribbling down quotes and slapping sticky notes over larger paragraphs. He catches Celebrini glancing up at him a few times, a thick anatomy book spread open in front of him. Like the psychotic individual he's becoming, he smirks back. His grip on reality is nonexistent.

Twenty minutes and half a cup of cold, forgotten coffee later Celebrini speaks.

"Smith?"

Will jolts, looking up to find a very fragile look on his face. It reminds him of the library, of the way he looked between his thighs, crying and needy. He wants to frame it and hang it above his bed so he can see it everyday.

The fuck is wrong with you?

"Yeah?"

Celebrini twists his hands together, chewing on his lip. Will wants to be the one biting it. Which…okay. Yeah, sure he does. Why not? He's so over questioning himself. Clearly his mind cannot be trusted.

"Why did you uhm…why did you want me here?"

Will can feel his evil, traitorous heart leap to his throat, trying to claw out of his body and offer itself up. Like maybe that can remove the timid expression or the hesitation in his voice. Will is shit at comforting people. He doesn't even remotely know what he's supposed to be saying here. He's got no fucking clue why he texted. He's got no fucking clue why he's doing any of this.

The lights flicker again, and this time one of them goes out entirely.

Slowly, he shuts his book. Making sure his pencil isn't about to run away from him, he reaches across the table to grasp one of Celebrini's hands in his own like he wanted to.

"I told you," Will says softly, pressing his fingers into long built callouses, "Fowls cancelled on me."

"You could have asked anyone else," he argues back. He glances down at their hands, looking like he'll pull away. Will tightens his grip, digging into his palm in an effort to soothe some of the obvious tension strangling his limbs. He needs to chill out. Will needs to chill out. Collectively, they need to chill.

"I wanted to ask you."

It's more truthful than he was intending, his tone too raw. Will needs a time machine or something. He needs to create a clone, but make the clone better, cleaner, nothing like himself. He needs—

"Oh. I kinda thought you just wanted…"

Celebini cuts himself off, swallowing and pulling his hands back. Will tries to ignore the rush of cold it sends through his body. He should probably drop it. God knows he needs to leave more shit alone.

"Wanted what?"

For fucks sake.

Celebrini flicks those pretty—no, not pretty…okay yes pretty—eyes back up to meet his, glassy and round. He's fucking useless in the face of that. How could he ever deny him a single thing he wants? Stupid puppy dog shit.

He huffs a sigh, and mumbles something at rapid speed. Will blinks at him. Celebrini blinks back.

"Do you want to try that again?" Will coaxes after a second, trying for a reassuring smile. That gets him a kick to the ankle. He has to restrain himself and think of every fucking quote in the bible about kindness to not kick him back.

"Ithoughtyouwantedtofuckmeagain," he blurts. Immediately his face goes bright red and he slumps in his chair, tugging his hood all the way down. Oh. Okay. Well.

Will thinks about his first memory at church. He must have been about four tired and annoyed at Sunday Mass. He thinks of the family next to him, their son around his age and pale green eyes. He thinks about watching Celebrini play for the first game at some tournament somewhere, the way he skated, all clean lines and a perfect shot. He thinks about his blurry memories of that very first night, the way it felt like fate was for once on his side even though it should have been the opposite.

"Did you want that?"

"What? No. What. I mean. Like. Well. You said. So I. And like. Whatever. Fuck you."

Confidence apparently regained despite whatever that was, Celebrini stares at him. Will thinks he's trying to convey anger, but it just looks very adorable.

"Okay…"

"Fuck you," he repeats, this time with more venom. What on earth has Will ever done to deserve this treatment other than being a mild asshole on occasion. Celebrini could have it so much worse. Will is basically an angel.

You know that's not true.

Will could leave it. He should definitely leave it.

He can feel the hole growing deeper under his feet as he stands. Celerbini stares up at him, a little awed, a little scared. He should fucking leave it.

Will's still shit at obeying orders, even his own.

Especially his own.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

"Smith. Smith, where are we going?"

"Be quiet," he grumbles, keeping a firm grip on his wrist. If his hand were to slip lower—no. Enough. This is already bad enough without adding that into the mix. He doesn't even know what he's looking for here, just somewhere quiet and far, far away from anyone else.

He almost walks right past the aisle, not even registering it there due to how utterly dark it is. Clearly the power issues extend beyond their table. Stopping abruptly, he yanks Celebrini with him down the walls of shelves, not a single light coming on above them. Perfect. Maybe God is looking out for him.

"Smith," he hisses, trying and failing to tug his arm back.

"Celebrini," he mocks. Maybe he deserves a little bit of the animosity, but right now Celebrini needs to shut up and listen to him. He did it so well before. Maybe Will just needs to try a different approach.

He stops at the back wall and behind a thick shelf, shoving Celebrini against it.

"Smith."

"Yes?"

"What on earth are you doing?"

Will shrugs. He thinks back to his deep dive into the art of the blowjob. He has to stop doing shit like this in libraries. Before he can let too many doubts come to mind, he drops unceremoniously to his knees.

"Oh shit," Celebrini mumbles, staring down at him open mouthed and already panting.

The fabric of his sweatpants is indeed soft, the material easily sliding down his hips. He's got on maple leaf boxers, which Will finds endearing because why wouldn't he find something so deeply stupid endearing when it comes to this. He can feel his rosary burning in his pocket but ignores the digging metal. He's got a dick to suck.

Will, of course, has never sucked a dick before but what he has done is extensive research. He feels like that must make up for his inexperience somewhat. Sure yes, there's some things that one just has to experience first hand, but he's a quick study. He just has to go for it. No thinking. Keeping one hand firm on Celebrini's hip, he reaches the other into his ridiculous boxers to pull out his half hard and steadily leaking cock. He didn't really get himself properly acquainted last time and he was way more focused on watching Celebrini's face in the BPL rather than seeing himself jerk someone else.

Hockey is a very open sport. From a young age Will got himself used to seeing other boys naked. Between communal showers, changing in the locker room, roadie roommates and general teenage hormones he's gotten well adjusted to noticing the male body and then promptly ignoring it. Because a guy who stares at his teammates naked is a dead one, and Will likes living enough to keep doing it.

So. He's seen dicks. He's definitely confident in hand jobs. He's seen Celebrini's dick and then given him a hand job. But this…

He's not quite as big as Will, but he doesn't care. He just really, really wants to get him in his mouth. Like, holy fuck does he want that. He glances up, finds Celebrini with his head tilted back to the ceiling, his arms limp at his side. Hm. Stroking a firm hand over him, he grabs one of his hands, bringing it up to rest awkwardly on top of his head. Celebrini gets the memo quickly, delicately tangling his hands in his hair like he's afraid to hurt him. It's sweet, and also entirely unnecessary.

Will thinks of what he likes in a blowjob. He's not a complex guy, or at least he doesn't think so, and surely if he can fuck Celebrini into a desperate mess, he can blow him into one.

He lets it start gently, licking over his head, keeping his hand moving. The experimental squeeze here and there to get him to let out a shaky sigh. He's growing more and more addicted to those little noises he makes, which should be a sign to run very far away and change his name, but just makes him want it more.

"Smith," he whines after a minute, and Will glances up to find the most extraordinarily wrecked look on his pretty face. He shifts on his aching knees. Flips a bit of hair out of his face, but stops when Celebrini moves to do it for him. Fuck it. Now or never.

The first time Will went on a rollercoaster he was eight. At that age he thought it was the scariest, highest peak in the world. It was a drop of about five feet. Now, that feeling comes rushing back, the overwhelming adrenaline, the way he feels like he's halfway down the ride, screaming at the top of his lungs. Of course, he's not on a rollercoaster, or screaming: he's in the back of a library with the head of Macklin Fucking Celebrinis cock in his mouth.

He's…salty. Soft. All in all, pretty normal. Will's not sure what he was expecting here. It's not life changing or awful, it's just…a dick. In his mouth. Which he should probably get to actually sucking. Taking a thin breath, he guides it further back, letting his jaw relax and lips spread easily around it. He's got no clue why Celebrini acted like this was such an issue. He's gotten down far enough to reach his hand, still grasped firmly around the root.

"Holy shit," Celebrini gasps, his hand gripping tighter. Everyone gives a deep throat in libraries at some point, right? Will’s just following the teenage standard. He takes his hand off, pushes it against his stomach, the soft skin and firm muscle. Takes him deeper, feeling the head hit the back of his throat. He bites back the urge to gag, and instead swallows around it, letting his tongue slide against it as he pulls back, then further down again, his nose brushing against fine hair.

He's not entirely sure where the time goes to after that. He registers the muffled moaning above him, the hand on the back of his neck, jagged nails digging into him. He knows that he's drooling, spit smeared on the sides of his mouth mixed with pre-cum. He knows he's hard, pressing against his briefs which have become uncomfortably tight. He just…doesn't care. All his focus goes to his task, sucking and bobbing his head like a dumb blonde in a porno. He feels a bit like a dumb blonde in a porno, minus the tits and shitty fake moaning.

He's eaten girls out before, but this is nothing like that. The taste is different, the way his jaw aches is different, the noise is different. He knows he's being loud humming his way through it, but the rattle of the HVAC covers up a good amount of the frankly obscene shit he's got going on. Celebrini isn't helping either, his hand doing nothing to cover up the sounds coming out of his mouth. Will should buy him a gag.

"M'gonna," he slurs, his hips stuttering underneath Will's arm that bars him to the shelf. He ignores it, humming around his cock, letting his eyes flutter shut. Fuck he feels good, a nice heavy weight in his mouth. The taste isn't even that bad, bordering on enjoyable.

"Fuck, fuck," is the second and last warning Celebrini gives, a high-pitched whine clawing out of his throat as he comes deep in Wills throat.

Its…well. It's odd, and tastes about half decent. He doesn't get a lot in his actual mouth since apparently, he's like, a blowjob natural—plus he studied a lot of reddit threads—but what he does get isn't unpleasant. None of the girls who've blown him have complained, so that checks out.

"Holy shit, Will."

He pulls off with a pop, his knees blaring in pain and his chest heaving. The worst part, if there even could be a worst part about any of this, is that he doesn't mind it in the slightest. As gently as possible he tucks Celebrini back in his stupid Canada boxers, tugging his sweats up as he stands with a groan. He needs to get another massage.

"Hi," Will pants, inches from Celebrini's mouth.

"Hi," he croaks back, seeming just as if not more out of breath than Will.

He leans forwards, resting his head against the shelf, fighting down the uptick in his heart at the feeling of a hesitant arm around his waist. Celebrini smells nice, like clean laundry, pine, and maple syrup. Why wouldn't he smell like the Canadian wet dream. Like Will's wet dreams. Distantly, he can recall that obviously he'd smell like that, seeing as Will's wet dreams tend to revolve around that one time he fucked him.

Will isn't a big cuddler, not like Leno is, not like Fowls can get sometimes, but he can admit this is…nice. He's soft, and warm, and just lets Will rest on him, both arms wrapping around him now. He can have a breakdown about the fact that he's just fucking hugging the guy later. For now…pause.

"Celebrini," he mumbles into the fabric of his sweater.

"Yah?"

"Did you call me Will?"

In a matter of moments, those gently resting hands have shoved him back a few inches, a rough grip on his waist. Celebrini's eyes are wide and panicked, darting rapidly between his. Will would laugh if he could get enough air back into his lungs to do so.

"What? No. That's fucking crazy dude, you're like, on something. Cock dumb or fucking cocaine, hello. No. What? No. Hah. That's not funny what the fuck is wrong with you, I hate you holy shit—"

He snaps his mouth shut suddenly, staring at Will like he's Satan or something crazy like that. Will is a good Christian boy. And he definitely isn't deaf.

"Oookay. Whatever you say Mack."

"What. Don't call me that. Fuck you."

"I've called you by your name before, remember? Also, why the fuck not?"

"No you haven't," he snaps, a tiny frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. Will wants to kiss it away. Will actually can kiss it away, because that's allowed here, somehow. Besides, kissing him is way less damning than a blowjob.

He tastes like spearmint, and melts like snow in a furnace. A soft moan slips out from behind his teeth, and Will drinks in the sound like communion wine.

"Yes," he says, pulling back so little that he's basically still kissing him, "I have."

"Name one single time," Celebrini argues, brow furrowed in disdain. Will has got to stop finding every single thing about him adorable. He hates him. He's annoying and he's…he's…

Will needs to go to church.

"Library."

"Right now doesn't count you abhorrent dick-"

"First of all, that's a big word for you, secondly, I was talking about the other library when you were freaking out. You're welcome, by the way."

Celebrini blinks, his eyelashes just slightly brushing against Will's cheek. He should probably move. He should get the entire fuck out of here and never ever come back. Delete his number, pretend this whole thing never happened. Find some tall brunette girl with the same pale olive eyes and act like fucking her is the same.

"Welcome? For what, leaving me there like that?"

"For talking you out hyperventilating" Will corrects, sliding a hand under his shirt to rest against his ribs.

"Okay fuck you."

"Whatever you want Macky," he teases, finally backing out of his space. His rosary digs into his skin, a burning reminder. He actually needs to get out of here. He's got class. And…yeah. He just has to go and then he'll be okay. Everything will be fine once he gets far, far away from him.

"I'll see you," he chokes out, throat suddenly thick, backing away and down the darkened aisle.

"Huh," Celebrini calls behind him.

"Class!"

"What-"

"Bye!"

Will does not sprint. That would be insane and Will's…alright. Whatever. Will does not sprint but he does make it back to the table in a frighteningly few number of seconds. Shoves shit in his bag like his life rests upon it and books it, praying to every single angel out there that Celebrini doesn't come back.

He manages to avoid getting lost on his way to the train, standing numbly as the frigid drizzle comes down around him. At least it's not monsoon-ing again. He makes it one stop and halfway through his third Act of Contrition when his phone buzzes, and like the pathetic sinful creature he is, he has it out before he can blink.

m.: hi

hello?

m.: just wanted to say fuck u again

wow

m.: thats all

you're a brat, you know that?

m.: k

aww dont be like that baby

m.: i will chew your balls off if you ever call me that again

planning on blowing me again?

m.: goodbye

Will leaves him on read to be petty, but before he can shove his phone into a deep hole, he gets an idea. It's a stupid one. He's doing it even as his brain is screaming at him, fingers shaking. He tells himself it's from the cold. It feels like a line. Like affection. Like…

🍁: also fuck u

After a moment's debate, Will hearts the message. Tucks his phone away and takes a deep, calming breath. He thinks happy thoughts, picks up his rosary, and prays until he reaches Chestnut Hill.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

He went to music class. He knows, because he can remember sitting in the back, an empty desk to his right and Fowls to his left. Gabe and Leno decided to fake being sick for this class, since it involves actual studying, and he knows they carried through with the plan because he recalls the quiet. He knows he grabbed coffee from somewhere because the takeout cup rests near his feet.

St Mary's is desolate and cold, and its altar is high and bright. The pews are as firm and wooden as any he has sat in before. His rosary is the same metal as this morning. He can feel the confessional booths mocking him, waiting for him to walk in and admit what a fuckup he is.

Will is very good at lying and he is also very good at praying, which is what he does. The minutes stretch into hours, his mouth moving without more than a whisper of sound, his cross growing tighter and tighter around his neck, the beads heavier in his palm. When the priest comes to tell him that they're closing he barely hears it, just begs a relentless God, and stands, walking mindlessly back out into the rain.

He's drenched to the bone by the time he makes it back to the house, ignoring the shouts from the kitchen and concerned look Gabe shoots him while he's heading up the stairs. Hits his head on the shower, the temperature turned to near-boiling. Maybe he can steal some holy water, cleanse himself that way. Dinner is a quick affair, heated up in the microwave and eaten on his floor.

He feeds Mackerel and leaves the window open an inch, the cool breeze flowing easily into the room. He doesn't read his bible, just drops his rosary into the drawer and pulls the covers up over his head. When he finds sleep, he dreams of Seraphim's and floods and a toothy smile, and when he wakes up panting and hard at three in the morning the only word on his mind is Macklin.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭