#rickwill

It's sort of exciting, pretending like this is all out of his hands. That he's some passive bystander amidst a hurricane that's slowly forming yet has already been crowned with his initials.

Nobody can find out. But the beauty of it all is that if they do, it'll be dismissed as rumor. Something so out of the realm of possibility that it transcends hyperbole and lands somewhere in the next universe.

Somehow, in these long sticky evenings of summer, they've developed a routine. Silently, nobody ever speaking it aloud, or else it might become real.

In May, Will flopped onto an air mattress on the floor of Mack's room.

In June, he spent mornings gasping against the sheets of Mack's bed.

By July, it was easier for him to start the night by himself.

It goes like this: Mack sleeps in late because he stays up late, and Rick stops saying a damn thing about it. Will makes breakfast for them and leaves a serving in the oven to keep it warm. He does a HIIT until he hears the dishwasher start up, then he goes in search of Mack. Pretends that he doesn't see the faint tinge of blue that stain Mack's under-eyes because he never gets enough hours, even though the clock already reads eleven.

They have the house to themselves until the late afternoon. They lie on the grass outside, Mack's skin tacky from his push ups, Will's prickling when the blades come into contact with his forearms. He props his book on his sternum, curls his arm under his head.

Mack's moving his legs like he's trying to make a snow angel, some dormant Canadian childhood instinct rising to the surface. "We should go out tonight," he says, elbow brushing the side of Will's bicep. "Remember that honky-tonk bar from last year?"

Will slides his finger down the side of the book. How easy would it be to get a paper cut? One wrong move and he might bleed out right here on the lawn.

"Smitty."

The sun moves from behind a cloud, stinging his eyes. "Rick's manning the grill. He told you yesterday."

"That won't take the whole night."

"I'd rather stay in, watch a movie. I'm kind of tired."

There's purple under Will's eyes too. Not much, but it's there, if you know enough to look.

Mack huffs as he gets up. He stands over Will, stretching his arms above his head. "Let's start it now. Just us."

It's a silent redrawing of the battle lines. They'll be in the same spot on the couch when the garage door cranks open later. Will's going to have a red mark on his neck and a wet spot on the front of his shorts and a flush in his cheeks that's part embarrassment, part exertion. Rick's going to drop his keys in the ceramic bowl in the foyer and pretend that he doesn't see, and Mack's going to smirk like he won.

Only, later on, after the clock's struck midnight, Mack's going to be curled up in his bed with his phone on the pillow beside him and an alarm set for two am.

This only works if Rick does it first. If Mack's there, he won't touch. Won't come within three feet of Will. But it's August, and they've long since established that Will doesn't go to sleep pressed all along Mack's spine anymore. He wakes up that way, but he does not start with it.

Early on, it was exciting trying to parse through clues to work out which one of them it was. Noting changes in the creak of floorboards and how quickly the door opened. How tentative the touches were before they grew secure, once Will spread his legs. How one's more insistent than the other. One's louder, one goes for longer. Sometimes he likes to keep his eyes closed so he can pretend, can flick between them in his mind, decide on whichever one he wants in the moment. But that's not an option this far in, because Will knows them both too well by now. Mack's tells, Rick's tells. Where they overlap and where they differ.

Rick won't do this if Mack's been there first. He has to have everything brand new, like Will's some unsullied war prize in this battle of morals. He takes his time, savors everything, draws it out until Will's shaking so badly he thinks he might die. Leaves Will wet between the legs and sporting a necklace of red marks that he'll pretend not to see in the morning, until they're painted over by pink lips and an insistent tongue under a summer sun that overstays its welcome.

When Mack comes in, he doesn't talk. Sometimes he's gentle, other times he's not. But he stakes his claim in every drag of his hands, every movement of his hips.

It's better for Mack if there's a fight, Will thinks. If it feels to him like he's won something. That he's bested someone else, come out on top. Even better if it's the person he's been subconsciously measuring himself against since he knew what it meant to compete.

"Come back with me," Mack says, whispering it into the darkness of the room.

He could be talking about so much: his bedroom, Will's hazy head, Boston, San Jose. All of them have implications. All of them require Will to make a decision that he does not want go all in on. That he doesn't know if he's ready for because he knows how deep the well of his greed runs. Knows that it's beyond help now, that no amount of kneeling at the side of his bed and clasping his hands together will absolve him of this.

"Please," Mack says. His hand fits to the curve of Will's hip, his mouth against Will's cheek. He drags the point of his nose down and over; it's a triangle, not a cross. But it could be, if Will pretends that it is. "Please, Smit," he says again.

thinking about 2027 worlds where will ends up at the same hotel as rick and robyn after usa gets eliminated early, but he still wants to stay and watch the semifinals and finals to support mack,,,,,

so they’re drinking together at the hotel bar and robyn and will are deep in conversation about some completely unrelated hobby while rick starts asking about his shoulder rehab and will’s pulling up progress photos and comparison videos from when rick first saw the injury to now.

but will’s a little tipsy and all the photos are of him shirtless,,,, which normally wouldn’t be an issue because he’s never been body shy, but something about showing them with robyn on one side and rick on the other is flustering him in a way he can’t quite explain, and he knows he’s blushing all the way down his chest every time one of them lets out an appreciative hum or quietly praises how far he’s come.

rick’s looking at the photos a little too long now, and robyn is too,,,,,,wills still talking but he’s starting to realize they’ve both gone a little bit quiet and somehow all three of them are smooshed onto the same side of the booth. rick’s leaned so far into his space to look at the phone that his hair keeps tickling will’s face, and robyn’s resting her hand on the seat right behind him so that will’s half tucked into her arm.

rick says he wants a ‘closer look’ at the muscle gain in his shoulder and sweet, sweet will is trying so hard not to squirm while rick is literally feeling him up in the middle of this hotel bar, hands warm against his shoulders while will keeps chanting in his head that rick’s a professional and also his best friend’s dad and this is soooo sooo within the scope of normal for him,,,,,, except rick’s palm keeps sliding lower brushing down his chest just barely brushing his nipple while robyn’s hand settles high on his thigh under the table.

the entire time will’s trying to focus on his breathing while he waits for rick to notice exactly where robyn’s hand is resting and rick definitely notices but keeps touching him anyway one hand at the back of will’s neck now, fingers rubbing slow into his hairline while robyn’s thumb strokes higher against his inner thigh beneath the table.