hiya love

Mack’s face clues him in, though. In slow motion, Will watches the rim of Mack's Nooner pause at his bottom lip. His eyebrows inch toward his hairline, which is higher than usual since it’s all pushed back under his backwards hat, a few damp strands sticking out. 

Will shifts in his adirondack. There’s a stray nail digging into the side of his ass that hadn’t been a problem every other time he’s sat here. He’d have to lean forward to avoid it, which feels like the wrong move, would make it look like he’s interested, or something, and he just - kind of forgot that he can’t say the same shit to Mack that he’d say to Leno. It might be fucking with him a little that Mack’s here, finally. Last summer, and many summers before, it was Leno in the chair across from him. 

By now, Leno would’ve said something back. You’d know, or you’re welcome. 

Mack’s just staring at him, looking at Will with the same expression he gives him whenever Will points out something in a play, finger to iPad, that Mack had missed. Like he’s pissed off at himself for missing it, or at Will for letting him know. 

It’s way too late to walk it back as a joke. The blood rushing in Will’s ears all but drowns out the sound of the crickets, which he’d complained about like ten minutes ago. Can’t turn the speaker up too loud or his neighbors will bitch, but he wants to actually hear his playlist, and the fucking crickets -

“Oh yeah?” Mack says. Will’s eyes snap to his. They’re dark, barely lit by the string of white lights above them. 

Where the fuck is Leno? This is such a bad idea. His mouth won’t get with the program, though. “Yeah,” he says. His dick is bypassing his brain entirely. Not his fault. 

“I could see that.” Mack’s totally conversational about it but his tone’s weird. Will watches the flex of his forearm when he pulls the can away from his mouth and sets it down on the gravel next to his chair. Will’s got to be imagining the way Mack’s legs spread an inch, there’s no room, the arms of the chair are already leaving indents on the side of his thighs. “Same equipment right?” 

Fuck, Will shouldn’t - he’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about it, with Mack. As early as day one, too, watching the embarrassed flush spread across Mack’s cheeks when he tripped over his bag in their hotel room. Obviously he’s thought about it. 

“Something like that,” Will says slowly, giving in to the pinpoint irritation of the nail and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. His own can’s empty next to him and he definitely doesn’t need another but the silence stretches taut between them in a way it never has before, making his hands clammy as he lets himself think about Mack thinking about Will getting a guy off, so at least sipping would give him something to do that’s not a bad decision. 

Mack’s lips twitch as he leans forward, mirroring Will, hands clasped together so tight Will can see the veins protruding on the back of them. “You can’t, like.” Mack licks his lips. Will eyes the trail of spit his tongue leaves. “Kind of a weird thing to say,” - here, Will’s mouth floods with saliva so fast he feels like he’s about to puke as blood fills his dick to at least a half chub, body sending him all kinds of mixed messages - “if you’re not gonna prove it.” 

“Wait, Mack,” he starts to say, but Mack’s up and out of his chair before he can finish, towering over Will, hands on the arm rests, crowding in until Will’s forced to lean back again if he doesn’t want a faceful of Mack’s sweaty shirt. 

“Way better from a guy, huh,” Mack parrots, raking his eyes down Will’s body then back up to his face. Will can smell the salt on his skin he’s so close, as close as they’ve been since they dapped each other up in central parking at Logan. “I wanna know what I’m missing then?” 

Will blinks up at him, fighting a laugh at the question in Mack’s voice. Just like Mack to ask for forgiveness, fuck permission. “If I hadn’t said anything—”

“But you did.” Mack’s calf nudges the sensitive skin at the inside of Will’s left knee, the soft hair there tickling him. Will gives in to the urge and wraps his hands around Mack’s wrists, slides them up his forearms, under the sleeves of his teeshirt to his biceps, which are bulkier than they were back in April. He can’t be touching Mack like this. Mack shudders and sways closer, forehead nearly knocking against his own. “Come on. Come on. You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t want to do something about it,” Mack bitches, demanding as fucking ever. 

He’s probably got a point, but what Will wants to do and what he should do have never been farther apart. Fucking around with a teammate is dicey. Fucking around with Mack would be stupid, straight up. 

“Mack,” Will says, tilting his head back just a little, just so he can see Mack’s face better, no other reason. He can practically taste the stale pineapple on Mack’s breath. At least Will knows now, right? At least it’s out there and he knows Mack would, that Mack would let him get a hand on his dick and probably more, and that has to be enough. He’s got his answer.

Swallowing hard, Will drags his hands away from Mack’s arms and presses a palm to his chest, pushing him back. Trying to. Mack makes a noise in his throat and resists. 

“You want it,” Mack says, accusatory, flicking a glance down at Will’s crotch. Yeah, can’t deny that. 

There’s a crunch of gravel behind Mack, who doesn’t budge at the noise. Will’s hand is still between his pecs.

“Keep it in your pants, I’m meeting Jules for breakfast mad early,” Leno says, mouth half full with popsicle. 

“Never stopped you before,” Will says, a little mean, without looking away from Mack. He wants to let Mack climb onto his lap in this chair, wants to let Mack fuck up into his fist, or his mouth, wants to let Mack do whatever he wants.  

He sees Leno shrug in his periphery, hears him slump into his own chair a few feet away, slurping obnoxiously.

“We can’t,” Will says to Mack, whose eyes are so, so dark. “For real. Bad idea.” 

“You fucking started it.” 

“Am I wrong?” 

“Probably,” Leno interjects. “Wrong about what?"

“Uh,” Will says.

Mack huffs out an annoyed laugh that ghosts over Will’s lips. “Okay sure, Leno. You tell him he’s gotta show me why a handy's better from a dude.” 

Leno coughs. “Will doesn’t fuck around with his lineys.” Will hears him toss the popsicle stick somewhere to his right. “Anymore.” 

Mack groans, this low, frustrated sound that Will desperately wants to hear again in a different context. 

“Hey, if Will won’t,” Leno says amiably, his girl already forgotten, no surprises there. 

Will settles his palm over Mack’s heart and lets the steady, quick beat of it pulse under his skin before he pushes again, silently begging Mack to get on the same page.

He ignores the stinging disappointment when this time Mack moves with him, straightening up, back still to Leno so Will gets an easy view of the bulge in his shorts. 

“You started it,” Mack says again. 

Will looks at the line of Mack's dick and shrugs, dropping his hands to his thighs and pressing his fingers into his own skin. “Leno probably would, if you want.”

Maybe they’ll let him watch. Or he can get Leno to tell him about it after. Leno could get him too. That’d be fine probably. No lines crossed, nothing that could get messy. 

“Fuck you.” Leno doesn’t look all that pissed off when Will spares a glance at him. 

Mack, who's honestly such a shithead, brings a hand to his crotch and squeezes.

Will wants to do the same, take the edge off, but he can’t give in like that. Not if he’s gonna make it out of here. “You should though,” he says, voice thin. “He’s good at it.”

If he can’t have everything he wants, he at least deserves to get himself off later thinking about Leno’s hand around Mack’s cock. The fantasy'll be better with a real frame of reference.