can everything you do be about me forever?

“What is with you today?”

It’s still sunny out – the storm won’t hit until later, blowing in sudden and fierce, dumping just enough rain to ruin the interior of Leno’s car before it blows out again – but Leno stands over Will, his shadow blocking the light.

Will still keeps one eye shut, the other squinting up at Leno in annoyance. “What do you mean, what’s with me? I’m just lying here.”

He’s maybe going a little hard on the Nooners, but it’s not like that matters. He won’t wake up hungover tomorrow.

It’s become a foreign concept. Tomorrow.

“There’s something off with you.” Leno sounds suspicious.

Will opens his other eye. That’s been an interesting trend recently. Well, as much as anything is interesting these days, which is to say, very little. But Will’s had some days where he’s wilded out. Tested the limits of his situation. Gone up to the edge and over it. Painfully at times.

None of it has fucking mattered.

Honestly, day drinking by the pool is nothing. But if it’s going to get Leno wound up like this, Will might have to find something else.

He’s sick of a lot of things, but he’s sick of arguing with Leno most of all. Leno’s uptick in concern – in suspicion – is annoying.

“You won’t say that tomorrow,” Will tells him. It’s a funny little joke, except that no one laughs.

“Because you’ll be over yourself by then?” Leno asks.

Because there is no tomorrow. Not for Will. “Sure,” Will says, draining his Nooner. He crushes the can in his fist, tossing it into the pile of empties. There are kind of a lot of them, he supposes, if you’re looking from Leno’s perspective.

Leno chews on his bottom lip for awhile, clearly working himself up to say something. Will reaches into the cooler next to his lounger for another Nooner. He’s heard every big epiphany Leno could possibly produce. None of them are interesting.

“Is this about Mack?” Leno finally asks.

Oh, he’s barking up this tree again. Will closes his eyes. “No, it’s not about Mack.”

Some more lip chewing. Leno’s a very noisy worrier. “Is it about me?”

He’s rarely brave enough to ask about that one. Will would clap, except he hates this topic too. “No, it’s not about you either.”

“Then what’s it about.”

As if Mack and Leno are the only two possible things that could upset Will. “It’s not about anything.” Just the endless purgatory Will’s been trapped in, waking up to the same Tuesday for weeks – months? – on end. No reason for it he can discern, no way out of it he can find. Just Tuesday, again and again and again. Forever.

“You were weird yesterday too,” Leno mulishly informs him.

This is news to Will. Monday has ceased to exist for him as much as Wednesday has, it’s been so long since he experienced it. Maybe he was weird in Leno’s yesterday. Leno doesn’t normally bring it up though.

Will takes a sip, thinking about it. Not the yesterday he can’t remember. All the things Leno’s said since.

In a fluke of timing, or maybe a cosmic joke, the endless parade of Tuesdays has stuck him with Leno. He was the first of the boys to make it to the Cape, and since Wednesday has never arrived, neither have the rest. It’s just him and Leno and the summer heat for eternity.

They’ve hashed out so many things. Will’s picked just about every fight imaginable, baited Leno into screaming matches and even a fistfight or three. He’s said everything he’s ever wanted to say and a bunch more he hasn’t, and has heard it all back. But the last fight was weeks ago now and it’s not like Leno remembers any of them.

It could be worse, Will supposes. It could be a game day, and Will would have to lace up every single night without a break, or make some excuse and deal with Mack’s worried, accusing eyes just to get a day off. He tells himself it’s a mercy to be suck in an indefinite offseason where he can do whatever he wants. Some days he even believes it.

In the early Tuesdays, he stressed about getting ice time. That if he went too long without skating, his body would forget and when he finally got out of this, he’d have to relearn hockey from scratch. It was a hassle driving all the way back to Boston for rink time, but he hadn’t brought his equipment out here with him.

Will doesn’t really worry about that anymore.

It’s hard to worry about anything when nothing at all matters.

“Okay?” Will says. Maybe tomorrow – not real tomorrow, but today again – Will’ll drag the cooler to the beach before Leno wakes up and drink there instead.

Leno huffs. “Do you wanna – we could go for a drive.”

Will considers this offer. He’s sick of the Cape house, the yard, the pool. There was a stretch of time where he left every day, got as far as he could before the next reset. Once he managed to get on a plane and made it all the way to Europe before he fell asleep and woke back up here.

It made him feel sort of hunted, though. Knowing exactly how trapped he was. The far reaches of the tether keeping him here.

“Sure,” he says. He’s sick of Leno’s company, but he’s sick of his own company too. Maybe they’ll outrun the storm and Leno’s seats will be spared, and Will will get a day off from hearing Leno complain about them. Maybe he’ll jerk the steering wheel and crash them off the road, just for something new to do.

It’s not like dying has any impact. Will’s tried that too.

He takes over the aux, blasting music loud enough that Leno can’t talk over it. There's just the breeze in his hair and the endless stretch of highway beneath the Bronco's tires. Every time Leno glances at him, his fingers flexing on the steering wheel, Will jerks his head at the road.

Keep going.

They take a winding journey along the coast, close enough for Will to spot flashes of blue gray ocean out the passenger window most of the drive. Leno doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere in particular, just following whatever roads he can to keep the water in sight.

He has to stop to refuel on gas once; goes inside to buy some snacks and comes back with a Monster for Will that he hands over with a wry smile, like he can’t decide if he’s being clever or not.

Will would’ve preferred a Red Bull, sponsorship or no, but he drinks it anyway.

He’s not surprised when the clouds roll in. He is surprised that Leno turns off the main road instead of turning around, taking the Bronco down to a rugged little beach. His jaw tight with determination, Leno drives right onto the sand.

The sky overhead is really getting dark now. The beach is deserted, at least. Will wishes Leno would keep driving straight into the ocean and drown them both, but that’s the Tuesdays talking.

Leno stops in the middle, the front bumper facing the waves. They’re nowhere near close enough for them to kiss the tires, but maybe if the tide shifted. Will wonders if Leno would keep the car parked here long enough so they could find out. If Will could stay awake to see the sunrise tomorrow morning. A little glimpse of Wednesday. As a treat.

“We should probably head back soon,” Leno says after a while. His voice grates, too loud against the backdrop of waves whispering against the shore.

Will shakes his head. “I wanna stay.”

Leno shifts noisily in his seat. He never does anything quietly. “It looks like it’s going to rain. I thought it was supposed to be sunny all day.”

“You don’t have to talk,” Will suggests.

Leno shoots him a wounded look. “You just want to sit here in silence? That it?”

“I like listening to the waves.”

“Will—”

“Why’d you drive us out here? The water's nice. Can you just let it be for once?”

Leno huffs and puffs a little, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. “It’s just—”

“What, Lenny.”

“You’ve been ignoring me all day.”

“I am literally hanging out with you right now.”

“Yeah, and you don’t even want me to talk.”

Leno turned off the engine, but the keys are still in the ignition. Will could probably start the car, jam his foot onto the gas pedal, and have the Bronco a couple of feet deep into the ocean before Leno figured out what Will was up to. No one expects an insane move like that. They don't see it coming so they don't know how to react.

Will doesn’t actually want to drown, though. That seems like a lot of effort to get out of a conversation with Leno when he could accomplish the same thing by going to sleep. He sighs. “Can we just—"

“Are you mad at me?” Leno interrupts. “Because I literally haven’t done anything.”

Well that’s blatantly untrue. It’s not Will’s fault if Leno doesn’t remember his various Tuesday offenses. “I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to sit here and enjoy the view.”

“No, you want to ignore me. Why are you so—”

“Leno, oh my god, would you—”

“I like you, Will. Don’t you get it?” Leno sounds wounded about it. Jesus.

“Yeah, I know, and I told you I’m not even mad, so you—”

“No, you don’t—” Leaning over the center console, Leno grabs Will’s face with his big mitts and kisses Will.

Oh.

“I like you,” he repeats, quieter. Miserably. “And I just. I thought you should know that, if you wanted a real reason to be mad at me.”

This hasn’t happened before. Not Leno’s confession, and definitely not his kiss. It’d been so quick. The warmth of his mouth. The catch of his lips against Will’s.

Will doesn’t think. He grabs Leno by his shirt collar and tugs him back in.

He doesn’t even know if he wants this. If he likes it. If he’s just chasing something new after an endless parade of the same.

But Leno makes this relieved noise, melting against Will, opening up for him so sweetly. It won’t matter tomorrow. It won’t have happened tomorrow. For Leno, anyway.

So Will will be the only one who has to live with the way Leno cups his hand so, so carefully against Will’s cheek as he licks inside his mouth.

They don’t break apart until the rain starts. It’s just a sprinkle, a few scattered drops that spatter the windshield, drip down Will’s arm.

“Shit,” Leno says, wide-eyed. Even if they leave now, they’re an hour plus from the house.

“Fuck it,” Will says. They're already going to get wet no matter what. He reaches for Leno, tugging at him until Leno gets the hint. He’s awkward about it, his big body clumsy in the small space, but he manages to wedges himself in the passenger seat on top of Will, his knees bracketing Will’s hips. For a moment, he blinks down at Will. Then he reaches down and reclines the seat.

The rain picks up, but Leno’s body covers his, sparing Will from the worst of it. Leno worships his mouth, kissing Will like he’s starving for it. He tugs at Will’s shirt until Will finally strips out of it, tossing it into the backseat. Then he pulls Leno’s shirt off him. It’s habit. A body, a mouth. The choreography of getting at skin. His hands know what to do even if it’s a boy on top of him. Leno’s mouth touching his mouth.

When Leno leans over him again, their chains tangle together, his cross and Will’s catching. Rain darkens Leno’s hair, drips in rivulets off his back. He’s got bad tan lines from all his golfing, his freckles darker on his neck and arms. His skin is hot to the touch when Will runs his hands over it.

“What – what do you want?” Leno pants. His hips twitch against Will’s. They’re both hard. “Tell me what you want.”

It doesn’t matter. There’s no tomorrow, no consequences for any of this. Will can lie.

Will can tell the truth.

“Get me off,” he says, wrapping his hand around the back of Leno’s neck to pull him in again.

Leno’s kisses get sloppy as he fumbles with Will’s shorts. He takes Will in hand, jerking him off with practiced strokes as the rain falls down on them. The sky flashes a blinding white and seconds later thunder rumbles above them, around them.

If Leno dies tragically alongside him, struck by lightning in this summer storm, that will reset tomorrow too. Will can coax him back into bed if he wants, now that he knows Leno’s been hiding this. It won’t even be hard.

But he’ll never get another first kiss for himself. Never be able to experience this for the first time again – the way Leno bucks above him when Will slips his hand into Leno’s shorts, feeling out the shape of his cock. The warm smear of his mouth against Will’s chin as he pants, both of them circling the edge. How he gasps Will's name like a prayer.

Will’s not sure who comes first. He’s mostly just aware of the moments after: Leno’s heavy weight on top of him, the torrent of rain drowning out the sound of their mingled breath, how Leno's heart feels beating against his.

“Your seats are gonna be ruined,” Will says so he won’t have to hear Leno be the one to complain about it for the hundredth time.

Leno presses his hand to Will's wet cheek, his thumb gently brushing rainwater away. “I don’t care.”

Will swallows. Maybe there is a consequence after all.

Leno’s seats will be fine again tomorrow. But Will’s going to have to live with this memory. How many Tuesdays will it take to forget it? For it to fade away, blur into the rest?

What if he wants to keep it?