will

Will Smith met Fraser Minten exactly two years, nine months, and 28 days ago.

Summer came harsh and hot that year. Being a freshly drafted San Jose Sharks forward only fuelled the steaming flames seeping into Will’s back; the ones that cried out that he wasn’t worth even attending the draft.

It had been like this for as long as he could remember, mainly in the form of disingenuous grins he gave out as generously as possible when congratulated on the many awards gracing the fridge door of his family home. It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful; it was quite the opposite.

Will stared at his awards and medals and goal replays for hours on end, trying to rack his brain on how he was possibly deserving of any of this success. He was just another kid from Lexington, Massachussetts, rushing to wake the rest of his family up at 4 o’clock in the morning to reenact their hometown battle. There was nothing setting him apart from the kids back home aside from the constant praise from everyone who even looked in his direction.

He used to take his frustrations out on himself, and he still does, sometimes. His pale skin became littered with as many imperfections as he could fit, silently pleading to be noticed for something shameful, pleading to just be treated like any other guy.

Grace had noticed. She always noticed. She hugged him and whispered how she never knew something was wrong, told him it would be okay and it’d all work out.

“What if I don’t want it to work out, Grace? I want to be happy, but I don’t like living like this. Is that wrong? Is that sinful?” He’d asked softly, his voice breaking as much as his permanently blank tone allowed.

Grace had given him a gentle look, continuing to rewrap his damaged wrists. “You’re perfect the way you are, Will. Even the fucked up parts. You’re human, after all.“

She’d avoided his main question, probably unsure of how to answer it. That was fair. She was Grace, not God. He couldn’t expect everything from her, though she did her best 100% of the time.

Will stared at his wrists for days after the incident and began to find solace in walks through the busier areas of MA, where he could blend in as just another guy on his way to fuck knows where. Boston was good for that. Busy enough to be ignored and busy enough to feel like an extra in a shitty, underbudgeted movie.

Boston also had great bookshops. Will preferred the pre-loved shops; they had personality and a story to tell that was actually interesting. He’d found a nice one the last time he was in the city and planned on finding some mental health-based books that might make him feel less alone. Maybe a new Bible, too; he’d wanted a dark blue one for a while now.

What Boston was not good for, however, was avoiding fellow hockey players. Will had stumbled right into the back of Fraser Minten as soon as he’d walked in, his head nearly colliding with the Vancouverite’s as he let out a small groan, sending his new purchases to the old timber floors. Will rushed to pick up the items consisting of three Penguin Classics and an old piano magazine, taking a second to glance over the covers.

Fraser apologised before Will could, giving him a smile of recognition before taking the books and magazine back, checking them for damage.

“Will, hey! How are you? Great to finally meet you in person.”

Will blinked back at him, unsure of a response. He’d been told he wasn’t allowed to say ‘good’ or ‘fine’ anymore as part of starting therapy, but he assumed Fraser-fucking-Minten wasn’t too keen on hearing him dump everything he’d ever lived through on him in a random bookshop in the middle of the afternoon.

“Uhh, likewise, and I'm alright, thanks, been better. What are you doing in Boston?”

Fraser just gave a polite nod, stepping to the side to allow another customer to enter. His eyes had a certain sparkle to them, the same sparkle Will had seen in ancient paintings of Christ or Mother Mary helping those in need of support. Maybe Fraser could help Will. Maybe he could make it all go away.

“Just visiting, I’ve got a few friends here.” A pause. A full-body glance at Will. Another smile. “I didn’t know you read.”

Will shrugged, scratching the back of his scalp. He didn’t really register it himself; it was just another thing he mindlessly did, like a rusty control panel reciting the same commands for the last 18 years.

“Sometimes.”

-

Two years, nine months, and 28 days later, Fraser was cuddled into Will’s side in their apartment in a town between Lexington and Boston. They’d decided on the place six months and seven days ago and moved in exactly five months ago.

Will couldn’t remember when they started dating. It sort of blended into recovery dates and season games and stupid PR partnerships to make him seem marketable and picture-perfect.

Despite it all, he knew he loved Fraser, no matter what he was feeling. It was hard not to. He gave him a new lease on life and made him feel as normal as he possibly could. When Fraser had called him up after his first NHL hatty, Will genuinely smiled for what felt like the first time in years. It was different when it came from him. Fraser understood what it felt like, even if not to the same extreme. He helped him, and he made it okay.

Will would do anything for Fraser. Anything to see that gorgeous glint in his eyes shimmer just a little brighter when Will brought him breakfast in bed or gave him an extra kiss before heading out for the day. He had run the Boston Marathon with him this year to honour his grandfather, who’d been dreaming of it his entire life but didn’t have the strength for it anymore. Fraser had been overjoyed crossing the finish line next to his boyfriend, and his happiness rubbed off on Will like a contagious virus.

He’d met Fraser’s family in Vancouver and sat with them for Fraser’s first game on home soil, and his mom told him just how happy she was to see her son loved so passionately and genuinely. Will had cried that night with Fraser holding him and telling him just how loved he is and how happy they were to invite him into their family.

Fraser would do anything for Will, too. He went to church with him on their fourth date and sat quietly whilst Will prayed beside him in the pews. He said a quiet prayer himself that Will would be better when the time was correct and that Fraser would have the strength to help him as well as he was physically able to. He’d come over the second Will texted him ‘I’m not okay’ and wouldn’t ask any questions; he’d hold Will for hours until he fell asleep or burst into tears and let it all out on his chest.

When Will hurt himself again or tried to drink himself to death, Fraser peppered gentle kisses over his face and got him into bed, safe and warm, before cleaning up whatever mess had been left. He never left. He never debated it for a second.

If Will came to him doubting his faith, he’d lay him on his lap and pray the rosary over him whilst running a hand through his hair. Once he was done, he’d tell Will that God loves him over and over again until his voice went hoarse.

All that seemed to ring in Fraser’s head was ‘Will, Will, Will. Protect Will. Help Will.’

All that seemed to ring in Will’s head was ‘Fraser, Fraser, Fraser. Love Fraser. Let Fraser help me.’

Lying together in silence while listening to Boston traffic was something straight out of a dream, and neither wished they were anywhere else.

“I love you, Will,” Fraser whispered, pecking his boyfriend’s cheek.

“I love you too, Mints,” Will hummed back, planting a kiss on his boyfriend’s head.