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The last thing Mack sees before emptying the contents of his stomach into a tiny garbage bin is a ball of stick tape and Sidney Crosby. The tape is black, a few scratch marks running through its discarded skin, and Sid is looking down at him like he’s bleeding out. Mack feels a bit like he’s bleeding out, heart ripped and torn away from his body, flopping on the ground waiting for someone to attempt CPR. Distantly, memory faded by the time, he can remember the training he got, mandatory at one of his youth camps: hands centered on the chest, two inches deep, somewhere around 110 per minute. They had a timer then, a grating click to keep them on pace, but the instructor had said that any song in the right bpm range would do. He can still recall the sensation of desperately humming along to Stayin’ Alive, his hands clammy and knuckles pressed to the cold rubber of the dummy. He hated the sensation, felt like he was trying to revive a corpse, which, he supposes, is rather the point of CPR as a whole.

“Shit, kid,” is what he hears seconds after, though barely audible over the sound of his own retching. It’s watery, but still manages to taste like a garbage bin from hell. His throat burns with it, eyes watering in a pathetic display of further emotion. Mack hates throwing up, hates the headache he gets just before, hates the way he feels after, hates the whole fucking process. It makes him feel startlingly fragile, like he’s something that needs baby sitting or comfort.

“Easy, I’ve got you.”

The voice is low and soft, like someone reassuring a newborn. His hair which has been growing at a surprisingly rapid rate is brushed back from his face, his gloves gently taken off. Sid places a calloused hand on the back of his neck, reassuring him in a low voice.

It’s okay, I have you, you’re okay. You’re okay.

They’re tucked away in a back hallway, white walls and nothingness, lights still flickering. There’s absolutely fuck all else around, no people, not even a storage closet door. The space is cast in dead silence, but even with that knowledge he has the lingering feeling that someone’s gonna see. Sid’s bad enough, Sid’s like, the worst possible person ever to be seeing him like this, but he might have to fake his death if the whole team ever finds out. There’s already so much doubt clinging to him, his slow starts, his ability to captain, his age. Throwing up post game isn’t about to help his case at all.

It only takes about a minute to expel the rest from his body. He feels a bit like a kid again, pushing himself too hard on the ice and getting sick because of it. Except, this is the opposite of that. He’s an adult—sort of—and he was just…the same. Nonexistent at the start, missed passes, missed opportunities. He just can’t find the click, even after all this time. It shouldn’t be hard at all, at least not for him. They’re in the fucking semi-finals now, and all he’s done is fail. Sure, one could argue that they haven’t lost a game and that he’s got a few points to his name, but he’s Macklin Celebrini. He should have gotten Sidney fucking Crosby a goal sooner than this. Assists on his own isn’t where the God of men’s hockey should be. Anyone can score a goal on the power-play, it’s not exactly hard even if they’ve been shit half the tournament. He knows he has to be better. Man up, take charge and be exactly who Dada raised him as. Especially now since they’re in the fucking elimination rounds and Sid’s…

“You good kid?”

Here. Sid is here, watching him stare at what used to be inside his body in a tiny trash bin. Mack flinches back a bit but his body doesn’t let him get all that far. He collapses against the wall, still in full gear save for his helmet and gloves. His skates dig into his feet, ever so slightly too tight.

“Mack.”

He jerks his head at the demand, which ends up with him staring Sidney Crosby dead in the eye, shaking, pathetic, and definitely with a bit of vomit on his face. Oh, he’s so fucked. He needs to get out of here before he can somehow make any of this worse, holy shit this is so fucking bad—

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, voice weak and crackly. He’d book a flight straight to the middle of nowhere if the idea of ever abandoning his team didn’t threaten to make him start this whole process again. He refuses to be a coward. That’s not what this is. This is just…

“Sorry?”

Sid looks genuinely bewildered, as if the past few minutes never happened. He can barely stand to look at him. Can’t stand it actually. He drops his eyes down to the sad linoleum floors and focuses on a tiny speck of dirt.

“For…yeah,” he sniffs, wiping his cheek with the back of his sleeve. Sid blinks at him a few times and then lets out the most long suffering sign Mack’s ever heard in his entire life. He moves to slide down next to him, gently knocking their skates together.

“For…what, exactly?”

“Everything.”

It’s more of a pathetic wheeze than it is human speech, but it’s still true. He is fucking up everything, can barely give a locker room speech without wanting to breakdown and die, can’t lead the way everyone expects him to, can’t live up to what he’s supposed to be. And the whole captaincy was hard enough before Sid came, but now it’s just suffocating, like a fifty pound weight has been dropped onto his lungs and it wont budge no matter how hard he tries.

“I’m just…I can’t do this. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. It’s like I’m going crazy, and I know everyone’s already doubting me and they’re right. I shouldn’t be the one leading, and I’m playing like shit half the time, and you’re here, which is great but it’s just a constant reminder that I’m the replacement and never the real thing and if I fail at this too as a fucking captain I honestly think I might die.”

The admission hangs in the air, the stillness and silence akin to the brief moments before a hurricane. He always hates that about Carolina, the pregame siren. It leaves an unpleasant chill over his spine, like the sky really is going to open up and let in the floodgates of hell. It’s similar to how he feels right now, which might have something to do with the fact that he’s crying.

Hyperventilating, actually. Dr Aston told him once that it was “interesting” how he could often be objective with himself when in distress. That unless he truly reached his breaking point—which was described as akin to the height of Mount Everest—he tended to look at things like he was an outsider in his own head. Mack had laughed in his face, told him to go fuck himself and walked out the door. It was offensive in that it was true: Mack has only felt like a real person when in the presence of one singular human being. What does it say about someone if they need help to do their most basic function? If feeling alive is too much to ask of their own nervous system?

Life’s a lot is what he means, which is probably why he’s sobbing into Sidney Crosby’s still game-sweaty neck. Fucking kill him now. This is the worst thing to ever happen to him, even worse than the time he got stuck in the attic playing hide and seek with Aiden and no one could find him for three hours.

Vaguely, like this is a dream or rather his worst nightmare, he registers a few things: a gentle hand placed on the back of his head, slowly carding through his hair. Sid’s low voice next to his ear, mumbling reassurances and the occasional swear. The faint scent of methanol from Icy Hot that’s been buried under sweat and whatever weird sports drink they have on the bench.

Maybe this is a nightmare. At least then he can wake up and pretend everything is fine and not have to worry about being shipped off in a straitjacket to the nearest padded room.

“‘M sorry,” he gasps out after a few minutes, “I’m so, so sorry.”

Mack’s first instinct as Sid begins to pull away from him is to brace himself for the scolding. He’s really not sure if he can take hearing how repulsive he is from Sid of all people, but he deserves it

“Mack,” he starts, “There is nothing to apologize for. There’s a lot of pressure on you and I know it’s not easy. But…listen, you’re top three in the tournament, you’re leading the team in scoring, you’ve got points in all but what, one game? The whole team admires you, looks up to you. Even the older guys. The media has nothing but praise for you, no matter the country. I heard one of the French announcers call you a prince. Kid—Macklin. You’re doing amazing. You are amazing, alright? And you’re not my replacement, you’re your own person, and you’re a good fucking captain.”

Sid gives him a little shake like he’s checking to make sure he’s still alive. The answer is debatable. He’s breathing—rather haphazardly, but well. Recent circumstances haven’t been kind—and he can physically feel his heart pounding. So, it’s a check on that end. He just…well. He’s not so sure if he gets what’s happening.

He has to try three times to speak around how thick his throat still feels.

“But…what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not,” Sid counters, a slight smile at the edge of his mouth.

Mack would like to argue that, but it seems rude. He did just have a minor breakdown on the guy, and if anyone would know anything about hockey, it’s him. Before he even has the chance to apologize—which, he can objectively acknowledge, would make Sid tell him not to again, and then he’d say sorry for that, and they’d just be in an infinite loop of his own embarrassment—Sid stands with a groan and looks down at him with a reassuring smile.

“Why don’t you take a few minutes, okay? I’ll tell the guys not to worry.”

The problem with Mack, or, well, one of the problems is that he hates being alone. From the moment he was born he had Aiden, and then soon after there were his teammates, and then Charlie, and more teammates, and RJ, and then he was moving and when he moved there were even more people. The problem with the problem is that no matter how many people seemed to constantly surround him, Mack was always lonely growing up. His life had always been about hockey and never himself, and it wasn’t until he was making small talk backstage at his draft that he realized he was kind of, sort of, very much a loser.

So when he arrived in San Jose for dev camp, sun beating down above him as he stepped out of Jumbo’s car, he was dead-set on being cool. Or, at the very least, he was going to try his very best to act like it. He was going to be suave about stuff, and make jokes that didn’t land uncomfortably flat, and make people like him for his personality—if he even had one—and not just his hockey.

And then he met Will.

Mack’s never been the type to believe in fate, but as he sat down in the stall next to him it felt like the whole world finally made sense. Will was…life. He wasn’t loud about it, not like Mack could get, but he was sweltering in his intensity.

First, he fell in love with his skating. The way he could ever so gently coax a puck onto his blade, into the microscopic space of the net he wanted it to, the bright grin afterwards. The way that somehow on that first day he already seemed to know Mack better than he knew himself, could pick apart the next ten seconds of a play in his mind and send him a picture perfect pass. Mack had never felt so seen, never felt so…equaled. They stayed up too late that first night as roommates, talking, and talking, and talking. He never said it, but that was his final reason for picking the Sharks over Boston.

And then, he fell in love with Will.

The first time it hit him, they were in San Francisco on a day off and desperate to ignore the home-stand they were heading towards. Will had found them a rustic pizza house, had picked out their dinner with a quick surety: Will Smith knew what he wanted, and what he wanted was control. It worked out great for Mack since he could barely read the menu with how much he was staring. Will looked so good, a pale blue shirt that had half its buttons undone and shorts that were practically molded to his thighs. Half the restaurant was looking at him, and each time he got a stray glance in their direction it sent a little jolt down his spine. All those people might have wanted him, but Mack had won. Each beautiful inch belonged to him and only him—

“Mack?”

He jolts, looking up to find Sid still there with a worried frown. He’s such a mess. This is really bad for his reputation, and mental health, and…everything. It’s just bad.

“Okay,” he croaks out, hastily whipping away any lingering wetness from his face, be it tears or the reminders of stomach acid and a protein bar. “Thanks.”

He waits until he’s sure that Sid’s gone to close his eyes, the flickering lights of the hallway too much to stand.

The point of the problem with the problem with Mack is that he’s bad at being alone, and he wants Will to be here so badly it hurts. There are times in which he lets himself dream a little bit. That they met in Boston as two anonymous people doing what everyone else does at college. No hockey, no expectations, no nothing. Mack would get to hold his hand in public and take him out to dinners where neither of them were looking over their shoulders, press a kiss to his sun-warmed cheek on the Commonwealth Pier and not be afraid. They’d move in together in their junior year, a little apartment halfway between BU and BC. Will’s family would drive over to visit, and Mack’s would take a flight in for the holidays. They would be so happy, and so free, and not a day goes by where Mack’s heart doesn’t break because of it.

Regardless of what he wants, the reality is that he fell in love slowly and then all at once, treading water in the middle of the ocean just waiting to be dragged under. He didn’t even have the courage to do anything about it, had just taken the closeness and the friendship that was offered and hoped that one day it would change. It was Will who made the first move, because outside of control there’s one other thing he wants, and for some reason that thing is Mack.

He told him once, tipsy after one of their rare wins in their first season, that he lives his life by a simple motto: I will always get what I want. It took Mack four months to realize that he was serious, but then he couldn’t stop seeing it. He’s never seen drive like that, dedication and hard work and somehow, an insane amount of chance. Will says it’s because he was born on St Patrick’s day, that he entered the world lucky. Good things just happen to him. Mack thinks it’s something more than that. He’s not all that religious outside of hockey, but he’s pretty sure Will’s blessed. Touched by an angel.

He told him once, tipsy after one of their more frequent wins last season, that Mack was his angel.

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Mack gives himself exactly ten minutes before slowly pushing himself up to stand, his legs surprisingly steady beneath him. His stomach has quieted, and he’s not shaking anymore which are both good signs. He’s not sure if he has it in him to feel any worse.

He walks back as quietly as possible, helmet swinging in his palm, gloves tucked neatly inside. There’s not much noise back here, just the low buzz of electricity and his own footsteps. Despite not actively feeling like he’s going to hurl in front of the entire team, he’s still overall shitty and incredibly anxious. It’s the usual state that he lives in, but it’s being amplified ten thousand times over right now. He’s a little scared of what’ll come out of his mouth if someone tries to speak to him.

Coming up to the locker room doors, he takes a deep breath, counts to six, and pushes them open. He’s braced for the noise, the questions, the possibility that Sid told someone, everyone, and he’s about to be burned at the stake or benched or…something. He’s not really sure. Just because Mack’s aware that he can be irrational doesn’t mean he can just fix it despite what Dada thinks. He can do this. It can’t be that bad.

What he finds is not noise, or questions, or even people. It’s entirely empty, not even any lingering staff. He can’t even hear the shower running. Slowly he inches towards his stall, stripping while glancing over his shoulder every few seconds like this is a very well planned prank and any moment now he’ll be surrounded. Alright, maybe he needs to look into anti psychotics or something.

It doesn’t happen. He checks his phone to be sure, and finds a single text from Sid to say they’re waiting for him on the bus and won’t leave until he comes. Mack gives it a thumbs up, and tries to keep from crying again. He didn’t seem violently disgusted before which was a nice surprise, but Mack’s sure he’ll never look at him the same way. Even Will changed how he handled him after the first time he walked in on him trembling on the bathroom floor.

Dr Aston told him just before his first NHL Christmas break that he could prescribe him medication. Mack had stared at him blankly for about twenty seconds before asking why. The response was given in the flattest, most obvious tone he’d ever heard from the man: Your anxiety disorder.

Mack usually ends their sessions in the same way: walking out when it gets hard. Nothing changed that day, except instead of doing the usual and getting back on the ice, he deviated. He went to Will. He’d told him point blank that he was done with thinking for the day, and instead of being annoyed or confused or disgusted with him, Will had meticulously planned an itinerary in ten minutes, shoved him into the passenger seat of his car, and drove. They had a picnic—something Mack hadn’t done in…ever—and then drove up to Santa Cruz to go cliff diving and swim, got dinner on the beach, and by the time it was dark outside he’d never felt better in his life.

Looking back at it, that’s probably when the crush phase of being detrimentally in love started. It wasn’t super platonic of him to, when Will’s cone had started dripping down his wrist, reach over to lick it off, the chocolate mixing with sweat and sunscreen. To this day, the combination is one of his favorite flavors. Will didn’t even tell him he was a weird and intolerable freak for that, just watched him do it with a flat blue gaze and called him a good dog.

That day is also probably when he realized he has a praise kink.

He steps out of the shower a few minutes later, skin scrubbed pink and any lingering taste in his mouth gone. It’s a miracle what hot water and some peace and quiet can do for the brain. He’ll have to thank Sid later, when he’s not crying or on the floor or about to be doing either of those things. For talking him down from his hypothetical ledge, and managing to clear out the room that fast. There’s no way it was a natural occurrence.

Getting dressed is a slightly rushed process since it’s late and he really, really wants to get back to the hotel. Hopefully no one asks why he’s late. He has no intention of explaining that he had a panic attack in front of his lifelong idol who then became his stand-in therapist and then very kindly and also aggressively told him a lot of truths that shouldn’t be this hard to deal with.

Sid did lie about one thing though. It probably wasn’t intentional, hell, Mack would be surprised if he even knew. But, the fact remains: the media does not have nothing but praise for him.

Forty minutes after his first game as team Canada captain, Mack got lost. Swiss Life is a big place alright, and he wasn’t really looking where he was going. One thing led to another and suddenly he was in the most deeply and incredibly unfamiliar space that he briefly thought he reached the backrooms. In reality, he was in the perfect spot to overhear a conversation.

“Sure he’s good, but he’s not great or anything.”

He’d paused just before turning the corner, hesitation and nerves seizing his body.

“Right? And keeping him as the captain? Crosby’s here now, it really should be him,” a second voice joins in.

“I barely even noticed him out there. Clearly the kid can’t play at this level.”

Mack had done three things in rapid succession: clamped a hand over his mouth to avoid projectile vomiting, sprinted back down the way he came, and started to cry.

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Practice is…odd. Everything’s fine, objectively. The team is a combination of excited and terrified for tomorrow. Finland is good, like, scarily good. But so are they. At least that’s what he’s been telling himself over and over again. He’s got faith in everyone but himself, no matter how many times he gets told otherwise. Compliments only go so far if you don’t believe them. That’s what Dada said anyways. He’s been…well. Not avoiding his parents, but he certainly hasn’t made the effort to spend time with them. Mostly he’s making excuses: oh, the team needs me, we have a meeting, I just need to focus. He got breakfast with his Mom, but even that was a little stilted.

He just wants this to be over, and he wants to fucking win.

For once in his life he wants to walk out of an arena the victor and not just another disappointment. He’s heard enough about being a letdown to last him a lifetime. He can’t do it again now of all times, not with his entire country relying on him. For the hundredth time he wishes he hadn’t been named captain. It’s easier to fail when he’s just another number, when he can look up to someone for advice and leadership rather than having it fall to him.

Sid hasn’t even really stopped being a captain. Mack’s not sure if he can. It almost makes it worse, the unspoken knowledge that this isn’t his team and never will be. The letter doesn’t matter, the team does, and no matter what they say about him, he’ll always know the truth.

Since the moment he stepped foot onto the bus yesterday, he’s been waiting for it to happen. A trainer, one of the coaches, Dada. Sid had to tell someone about what happened. Mack knows he’s a liability, that no matter how good he plays he’ll always have a part of him hesitating over the hair-pin trigger of his sanity, or lack thereof. He’s trying, he really is, but it’s just not that simple. If it was, he’d be fixed by now.

Will likes to tell him that it’s not a thing that needs fixing. Mack’s pretty sure that’s just his way of being nice and supportive, even if Dr Aston and Toff and Cat and Aiden and Dickie and parents say otherwise. Dada calls it a roadblock: something one can work around. That would make sense if it didn’t just feel like the work around was him swerving directly off the highway and into no man’s land. Supposedly, it gets better. Mack thinks that’s a lie, but Mack also thinks a lot of weird things at times.

Despite his general suspicion, no one treats him differently. They run drills just the same, fight just as hard during scrimmages. It’s almost driving him crazier than it would if he was in the quiet room and talking to five different people about managing his emotions. He tries to talk to Sid about it but each time he works up the courage someone or something interrupts him. He’s taking it as a sign to do what he does best: ignore all his problems and hope for the best.

It’s easier said than done.

He’s not trying to be this distracted. Really, he’s not. All of his focus is on hockey and winning and doing enough better than he becomes the best. It’s just that once practice is over and they’re on the bus again, he slips. He’s alone in the back, no distractions and no one to talk to. Well. Like. He could talk to someone. Dickie and Frase are only two rows ahead, and it’s not like he can’t text Aiden if he wanted to, but he’s just so tired of the front he’s putting up that human interaction feels like a chore. Mack’s just…

Mack’s split down the middle: half of him wants to crawl into a very large hole and die, and the other half wants to book a flight to Boston, bury himself in Will’s arms, and sob.

Look. He’s glad Will isn’t playing here. It would mean one of them would be eliminating the other, and he doesn’t want to have to deal with that. But there’s still a lingering resentment that he can’t quite kick. Why wouldn’t he want to come and spend time with Mack? Sure they would be competing but they’d still be together.

Dr Aston says he needs to be more vocal about his feelings in their relationship. Will always listens, but it still makes him uncomfortable to say things like Hey, I know I’m being weird and clingy and totally out of line but i really hate when you talk to your friends that you’ve known for your whole life instead of me. If you want i can kill myself right now.

Okay. He’s not that dramatic, but it does make him feel like a discarded stress toy whenever Will hangs out with anyone but him. He’s working on it.

Honestly he feels like he’s been doing okay lately. Its just this fucking tournament that’s been screwing him up, alright?

Like. Sweden. Sweden was shit, he was awful and the team felt so disjointed and he did practically nothing the whole game. And the next day he started exactly the same, too caught up in all the bad things to focus until nearly the end of the period, after spending whole shifts of zone time that went absolutely nowhere. He barely got himself together during the first intermission, and only after Sid told him he was doing a good job which he wasn’t really, but it helped. So did the second goal, and the shutout, and being dragged bar hopping later. It’s easy to forget about one’s problems when you can’t actually think.

And. You know. The video Will sent him that night, slowly working himself open wearing Mack’s jersey, white C glaring on his chest as he moaned his name. Never in his life had he even been so glad to be in a single room. He lasted exactly three minutes, and when he came to he felt like he was genuinely flying. It was probably the tequila, but Will did tend to have that effect on him.

Despite the new motivator, he went right back to square one the next game, and the next, and the next. He saw an article after facing Slovenia praising his assists and had the urge to toss himself out a window. Good, maybe. Certainly not good enough. Will had to talk him down from renouncing his captaincy before they faced Slovakia, and then spent the rest of the night telling him about Boston, his friends—that Mack totally wasn’t jealous of, haha that’s crazy—his family. He had been all tension and guilt, and he knew Will could feel it through the phone. He had come so close to begging him to come to Switzerland, had the words right on the tip of his tongue, and then his phone died.

So, instead, he pretended he wasn’t crying himself to sleep and woke up to find a picture of Will, Rigney and some demented looking cat waiting for him. Missing him was a physical ache. In one of his lectures he remembers hearing about double humans, split in half by Zeus and forever searching for the missing part of their soul. That’s what it felt like with Will: children of the sun, finally reunited.

“Mack?”

He flinches, blinking out of his haze. Great look for him. Really just…fabulous.

“We’re here,” Dickie says, kicking at his shin.

“Oh.”

“Oh. C’mon, move that gorgeous ass of yours.”

Mack grimaces at him as he stands, getting a loud cackle in return. The bus has mostly cleared out, just a few lingering people collecting bags. He shuffles through the aisle as quickly as possible, hopping out into the sun. He’s a little warm in his hoodie and jacket, but he’d rather this than freezing. He misses California oddly enough. The heat is different there, making everything feel technicolor. This feels almost too perfect, like a vacation he doesn’t really have the time for. Too much comfort is a bad thing, as Dada likes to remind him.

He gets stopped a few times trying to get to his room: first Frase asking him if he wants to get lunch, then Sid asking him how he’s been doing, and finally Jet with a comment about how he should stop passing pucks so much. By the time he manages to get to the elevator, all his energy to deal with people has been depleted. He needs a nap, preferably one that lasts for a few months. Long summers might suck, but they’re good for rest. Naturally, he has yet to actually do any resting, but he can’t bother with that right now. There are more important things in the world than himself.

The hallway is empty as he steps out, the silence a welcome sound. It’s times like these when he misses Vancouver the most, the tiny closet in his room that he could escape into. He’d made it into a hideaway: blankets lining the floor, pillows along the walls. There were about fifty of those glow-in-the-dark stars covering the ceiling. He doesn’t often wish he could be young again, but he does wish he could go back to that house, to the body that fit into that space, to the mind that hadn’t yet gone into free-fall.

Fuck is he losing it.

He does what he always does when he needs to be steady: take three deep breaths, remind himself that if he fails everyone fails, and then shoves all his problems to the side. Mack’s cool. Mack is one hundred percent fine. He slips his key card into the door, pushes it open and shuts it just as quickly behind him. He gives himself a second to rest his head against the cool wood and close his eyes. Dr Aston says he needs to focus on individual senses when he gets overwhelmed. He thinks it’s bullshit, but he’s got nothing better to do. Well, he could find a punching bag but he’s pretty sure he’d be the one getting beaten to shit with that.

Sound: the soft whirring of the AC, cars driving by outside, a bird chirping. Smell: lingering air freshener, rink soap, some natural deodorant that Cat gave him. Touch: slight graining in the door, the fraying hem of his sleeves, and slightly itchy denim. Taste: peppermint toothpaste, white peach Redbull that he stole from some conference room’s mini-fridge, some mild acidity, like he’s about to be kneeling over a trashcan again. Whatever, he’ll get through it. Sight. Can’t really see much like this other than darkness and pinpricks of color, which is probably not the best thing to ground himself. Not that any of this works.

He slowly opens his eyes, blinking a few times to get the room into focus. Same bed with its overly plush comforter, same nightstands and lamps, couch, fake plant and boring framed prints. What’s not the same, is the person in front of him.

It’s the lack of sleep. Or drugs. Or something. Mack’s hallucinating. He’s been known to do that on occasion when shit hits the fan. Like, not the schizophrenic kind, but like, sometimes he just wants someone to be there so bad he can see it like they’re real. When he’s lonely and it’s the middle of the night and he’s in love and feels like he might drown in it.

Okay. Alright. He can just. Accept it. Finish the steps and then go to sleep and pretend he’s not actually this pathetic. Sight. Sight, sight, sight.

Sight: a tall figure wearing an oversized BC sweatshirt and gray cotton shorts that cut-off just above the knee. Tan lines from socks. Chain peeking out against the thickness of his neck. Golden hair curling over his face, perfectly framing clear blue eyes. They flick over Mack rapidly at first and then all slow, like he’s trying to take him in and never forget it. Hallucination Will looks bigger than Mack’s Will does. His thighs are bigger, shoulders filling out the fabric in a way that’s distinctly unfamiliar and also pretty nice.

“Hi,” Hallucination Will says, nervously shifting on his bare feet. There’s a bruise near his ankle that Mack’s pretty sure has never existed on his Will, so he’s not so sure why it’s here now. Maybe he’s going crazier than he thought.

“I uh…I was gonna text you, but I got in like an hour ago so I figured I’d just wait here,” he continues, walking a step forward. Oddly enough—as if any of this is typical—it does feel like he’s here, that steadying presence that only he has. It’s not like he is though. That would be…impossible. Preposterous. Will is in Boston, doing things without Mack because they’re separate people with separate lives and not co-dependent thank you very much. The internet and the team and their families and everyone who’s ever really met them can go fuck themselves.

“Mack?”

And. And he just can’t be here. Someone would have had to tell him where the team’s staying, and given him a room key and Will doesn’t even speak to his parents if he can help it so it wasn’t them. Asking anyone on the team would be crazy, and even if he did, Dickie can’t keep his mouth shut about things to save his life. And, if he is here, he would need a reason.

“Are you…are you real?” he finally rasps, clenching his hands against the sudden tremor running through his body. Maybe Not Hallucination Will blinks at him in confusion, before huffing out a low laugh.

“Of course I’m real, why wouldn’t I be?”

A very childish voice in the back of his head says something like that’s what a fake you would want me to believe. But, Mack is trying to be better about paranoia, so he ignores it and shoves it down with all his other problems.

Mack’s a do first, think later kind of guy. He could ask questions, sure, but instead he takes the typical route of moving before his mind can catch up to him, and flings himself at Maybe Not Hallucination Will.

The second he gets his arms around him, he knows it’s real. Well. Obviously, but you get the point. Will—his Will—smells like the citrusy hotel soap and a bit of the cologne he knows Mack loves. He’s warm and here and fucking massive. It’s been what, six weeks of off-season and he’s already this big? If Mack wasn’t so focused on not having a meltdown he would be begging to be fucked. Would it interfere with the game tomorrow? Totally. Does he care? Not one bit.

Will’s grip around him is a little bruising, some combination of the time spent apart and the ten pounds he’s apparently put on. He’s mumbling something low in Mack’s ear, but he can’t really hear it given that he’s crying. Again. He really needs to get his life together, or go on mood stabilizers. One of the two.

“You’re here? Really here?” he manages to choke out, voice shaking almost as much as his body.

“Yeah Mackie. ‘Course I am.”

The collar of Will’s shirt is soaked through by the time he even manages to get them over to sit on the bed, pulling away briefly to strip Mack of his own clothing. He probably looks like an absolute mess. Scratch that, definitely does.

“Sorry,” he hiccups through another wave of tears that get quickly wiped away. 

“It’s okay. If I knew you missed me this much I’d have come sooner,” Will teases, brushing his still damp hair from his face. He’s a little sweaty now too, from the body heat and the, well. Yeah. He’s pretty sure that’s actually some kind of condition that happens sometimes, but he’s had enough of a day to think about any other things that could be wrong with him. Fevers due to sobbing isn’t one he needs to add to the list.

All he manages in response is another pitiful sniff, watching as Will slides off the bed to kneel before him, taking his shoes off first, then reaching up to unbutton his jeans. It’s an unfortunately un-sexy action, even if it does involve Will’s hands in the near vicinity of his dick. Apparently crying only works during sex, and not because he’s an emotional wreck. He sits back up the moment his legs are free, and tucks himself as much as he can into Will once he joins him: head resting in the crook of his neck, both arms wrapped around his waist. If he wasn’t so busy losing his mind he would be focusing way more on how much more of him there is.

“Come here,” Will murmurs, moving to lay back against the pillows and motioning for him to follow. He crawls over and flops down on his chest, reveling in the feeling of thighs loosely pressed against him. Aiden likes to bully him about how obviously whipped he is, but he thinks it’s totally fair. Especially now that he’s all…

“Smitty,” he huffs into the thick fabric that unfortunately separates them, “You’re fucking massive.”

It gets him a snort of laughter, and a sharp yank at his hair. Only the exhaustion keeps him from moaning, but it’s a close thing. Instead he presses himself closer, wishing that his stupid fucking catholic shirt wasn’t on. Trust God to be cock-blocking him right now.

“Thank you…I think?”

“Ugh. Like it’s crazy, I don’t even understand.”

“I’ve been eating a lot,” he says simply like that even makes sense. Mack’s going to start salivating if he can get his clothes off. “Why, you jealous?”

“It’s hot,” is his immediate answer, though somewhat muffled. “Incredibly.”

Mack’s a simple guy, you know? He likes hockey and jet-ski’s and his boyfriend. He doesn’t like the headache that’s already started to settle into his temple, making itself at home in the crevices of his brain. He’s also not a fan of speaking, or moving, or doing anything but going to sleep, and then interrogating Will as to how he got here and why and if maybe he can never leave him alone again.

“I really hope you’re not trying to turn this into a sex thing right now,” Will accuses, as if Mack would ever try to get out of a hard situation by blowing him or something crazy like that.

He tries to sum up the strength to answer but all he gets out is a vague grunt. For all he likes to talk—mostly to Will, but honestly he’ll take what he can get, even if that ends up as Nurse who is unfathomably boring, especially in comparison to Sarah—he gets in these moods sometimes.

Aiden caught onto it first. It was a bit before he left for Minnesota, trying to tell Mack that distance wouldn’t mean they stopped talking. Twenty minutes into arguing he just…lost his ability to communicate. There was just so much in his head that he couldn’t even begin to try and get it out. He’d turned away, stared out the half covered window of his room and tried his best not to cry.

“Mack,” Aiden had begged, “Please look at me.”

He hadn’t. It had been too much: moving, speaking, existing. He just wanted everything to stop. After a few moments of blissful silence, Aiden had come to him, put himself right in front of the night sky and leaned down a few inches to look him in the eye.

“Come on kid, just talk to me.”

He’d shook his head at that, the first few tears flying out of his eyes with the movement. One splattered onto Aiden’s shirt, right over his heart. It was too much to see him like this, so Mack took the low road of staring at the floor instead. He wished for the thousandth time that mind reading was real.

“No?”

Another head shake.

“You don’t wanna talk?”

Another.

“Okay. Okay, we can uhm…we can just sit. Alright? I love you, and I don’t want to spend the time I’ve got left to see you fighting.”

The way he phrased it had rubbed him the wrong way, made it sound like he was never coming back. Mack couldn’t blame him if that was the case. He used to fantasize about them running away, never having to see him sad at the dinner table or hear him and Dada arguing again. It was a childish dream, but one he liked to cling onto nonetheless.

A week later he committed to the Shattucks.

“Mack?”

He tries again, getting out about half of a yeah before giving up.

“Quite time, huh?”

Will was the second. It happened after their first game, sitting on the edge of the water at Alviso Marina. Objectively, he should be happy. First game, first goal, first assist. He wasn’t. They lost, and even though it was the start it also felt like the start of a failure. And, to top it off, he hadn’t been able to get Will one. He wasn’t sure why it felt like such a big deal, but it did, and it was, and he was miserable about it. Will hadn’t tried to talk to him, or rather, had asked him if he was okay when they first arrived and waited in silence for three hours to get a response.

He doesn’t get one now, but it answers the question anyway. Mind reading, he’d thought back then. It still rings true now.

“Okay,” Will whispers, pressing a brief kiss to the top of his head. “Okay.”

Mack dreams of flying. He dreams of sinking his feet into sand, ocean rushing over his skin. He dreams of nothingness, and he dreams of waking up every morning for the rest of his life with someone else. He dreams of anonymity, fame, and peace.

Mack dreams of Will.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

He wakes up to the sound of running water, and an empty bed.

His mind is still groggy but at least the headache has faded away. There’s still a lingering soreness in his muscles, but nothing too bad. The main issue is that he’s alone which is unfair because he’s fairly certain the last time he was conscious that was not the case. To be fair he could have actually been hallucinating, but he doubts it. Probably. The point being, he’s the only one here. It’s a cruel and unjust world, and he is going to cry again.

Not actually. Though, if it makes Will come back he might.

The slight hint of doubt that went through him at first has left due to a combination of three things: one, who else would be in his shower. Two, there’s a very distinct indent in the pillow next to him. Three, he can smell him. So. Unless his sanity has officially left him, it’s safe to say that Will is here, and that he’s also an evil abandoning asshole.

Rolling over with a groan, he fumbles around on the nightstand until his hand closes around the alarm. 2:25 shines back at him, insultingly bright. Before he has the chance to do anything else, the bathroom door opens behind him, a light flicking off. Turning back around so fast he almost hurts himself he finds a lot of skin. And. Like. Fuck. He’s got on a rather small pair of briefs that clearly don’t fit him all that well anymore due to…yeah. His thighs look like they’ve doubled in size, and there’s a whole V-line situation happening and ugh. Mack won life, other than the being generally super fucked up a lot of the time.

“Morning,” Will says, sitting down at the edge of the bed as Mack flings himself over to him, “Or, afternoon I guess. Feeling better?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, settling his head on Will’s lap. The urge to bite at his bare legs is very tempting. He can’t be blamed for that whatsoever. If he wasn’t playing two days in a row he’d be doing way more than just looking, but regrettably even he has physical limits.

Will hums softly, petting through his hair. Mack can’t wait to just relax all day and get room service because fuck knows he doesn’t want to leave bed, and get to hopefully suck the dick of his wonderful, perfect, amazing—

“You take your meds today?”

Never mind. Mack doesn’t like him.

“Or any of the days you’ve been here,” he continues, squinting down at Mack like he already knows the answer but wants to goad him into lying just to make a point. Jokes on him cause Mack isn’t going to fall for that shit. Nope. He’s a grown man, almost twenty, and he doesn’t need drugs to make him a person when Will does just fine.

“They make me sick,” he snaps back, irritation clawing at his chest. He can never have nice things. There’s always something about him that has to mess everything up.

“Mack.”

It’s the disappointment that always gets him in the end. Knowing that someone, that Will thought better of him only to be let down.

“I don’t see why it matters.”

The tired sigh that leaves him reminds Mack of when he first told Dada about it. He thought—rather childishly—that with his profession he’d understand. He still hasn’t looked at him the same.

“It matters because it helps you. And do not give me that shit about nausea, you and I both know that’s only if you take them before games,” Will retorts, and the knowing look in his eyes is too much to deal with any longer. Mack squeezes his own shut, wishing once again that he didn’t have to be perceived by anyone, ever. Perception sucks.

And look. He’s been trying, alright? But they really do make him more nauseous than normal and he can’t afford to be anything but one hundred percent right now.

“You know I love you, right?”

“Mhm.”

“And I only want you to be okay.”

“Mhm.”

Will nudges him until he opens his eyes again, and then tugs him upwards so he’s sitting against the headboard. There’s a familiarly hard set to his jaw, one he sees every time they step onto the ice together. It’s a bit uncomfortable to have it facing him now, since he hasn’t really had the pleasure of being his opponent full time since college.

“If it was me,” he begins in his most evil, manipulative, I’m winning this and you fucking know it voice, “What would you do? Would you let me do something that actively makes me unhappy? That fucks up my life? Would you think I’m a fuckup—”

“No,” he interrupts hurriedly, “Of course not.”

Will raises a critical brow. Damn. Walked right into that, didn’t he? Listen, he can’t just sit around and think of the hypothetical where Will has to deal with all this shit. He’s too good to hurt like this.

“Okay, so why is it any different with you?”

He splutters for an answer for a good twenty seconds even though he knows he’s been trapped. Damn Will and his stupid logic. Usually he takes the route of irrationality can only be conquered with more of itself. Such as one time when Mack was considering breaking his own wrist to see if it would make his shot better, and he suggested breaking every bone in his body.

Mack did not win that argument.

“Fuck you,” he settles on. It sounds weak even to his own ears. Will rolls his eyes and stands, giving Mack a great view of his back. Like. Wow. Holy shit. He needs to stake his claim on him somehow because that’s just crazy.

He comes back after about a minute of rummaging through various places, holding a water bottle, yogurt, and a small stack of clothing. From what he can tell it’s even color coordinated as opposed to what he usually does which is wearing whatever’s clean. He’s not sure how that’s even possible to do in such a short amount of time, but Will tends to work in magical ways that he doesn’t have the energy or the brainpower to figure out. Or, as Charlie likes to say, he’s just got no sense of fashion.

“Eat. And then we’re getting lunch.”

Mack eats. He takes the world’s fastest shower and after getting dressed, sits on the bathroom counter so that Will can style his hair with some very nice smelling mousse. He leaves it a bit damp to air dry and ignores every single time Mack tries to unbutton his belt in the process. He’s getting this one way or another, honestly. If anything it’s rude to deny him, seeing as he’s emotionally fragile and also, they haven’t seen each other in forever.

He tries other things than sex to distract him from his quest of leaving the room and actually going outside, like a crazy person. Whining, for instance, and then begging, and then a lot of pouting and then giving up to press him up against the door with a hand shoved down his pants. None of it works, and at precisely three o’clock he’s shoved out into a hotel hallway with the firm order to behave.

He grumbles the whole elevator ride down.

It’s nice. He’s loath to admit it, but the fresh air does help, along with the food. They get sandwiches and coffee to go from some tiny cafe with more plants than people, and eat it by the river. Will, because he’s himself, brings a picnic blanket, and urges him to lay down in the sun. Even if it was overcast, Mack would feel warmed to the bone. Getting hand fed by one’s very beautiful boyfriend in a very beautiful park will do that. Will insists that they stay there for at least an hour, talking about nothing and pointing out shapes in the clouds. If a fan was to stumble across them, it wouldn’t come off very platonic, but he feels a bit past the point of caring. Good company and sunlight really do work wonders.

“That one looks like you,” Will says, interrupting his thoughts.

“What?”

“That one,” he repeats, pointing to a very blob shaped cloud, “You feel?”

“It looks like a fucking cloud.”

“No, dude, the hair. You don’t see it?”

“I’m starting to feel a little insulted—”

“Oh my God you’re fucking blind,” Will mutters, but when Mack glances over he has a tiny, mischievous smirk on his face. If they were anyone else, anywhere else, he’d kiss it off him. Instead, he settles for kicking at his ankle. “I’m buying you glasses.”

Mack has nothing to say to that, other than outraged sputtering, and from the look Will’s giving him, that was his intention. He knows all the right ways to get under his skin, ignite him into annoyance or genuine rage or half delirious arousal. It’s a gift, blessing, curse. All of the above. Even though he knows he’s being baited, he falls for it anyways. Mack’s very good at falling for Will.

“Me? You’re literally near-sighted, shut the fuck up. Get your eyes checked. You can barely see things five feet in front of you, let alone a cloud,” he argues after a moment, rolling over and propping himself up on his arm to get the power of height on his side. It always pisses him off when Will’s pissing him off—lovingly, most of the time—that he’s got that single extra centimeter on him, the slight advantage that he loves to use to his favor all the time. And its nice sometimes sure, like when he’s about to get fucked after a good game but this is not one of those times.

“Mhm. Whatever you say babe.”

Mack would love to strangle him, but this is a public place and that’s not really good pr. So, he lays back down, and if he’s put himself an inch closer, well. That’s his business.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

They do eventually have to leave, mid-day turning to evening quicker than he’d like. He’s been promised a massage and room service when they get back, so he can’t really complain, but at the same time the urge to whine is ever present. Will knows it too, because on the way back he buys him a little ice cream cone from a street stand to occupy his mouth while he couldn’t. His words, not Mack’s. There have been times—mostly when drunk and high off a win—that he’ll pull Mack into a hidden back alley and put him on his knees, giggling the whole time. The fact that someone hasn’t caught them yet is a miracle.

Now isn’t the time for that though. Now is the time for walking through a slowly quieting city and praying that no one recognizes them. Especially not anyone on the team. He may or may not have ditched about eleven different people to be here. Unintentionally, of course, until he checked his phone and then it became an intent. He can claim he just didn’t see the texts, which in all fairness up until about two hours ago, he hadn’t. It’s a white lie, or whatever. Who cares. He feels less like hes about to walk into oncoming traffic for the fuck of it and he has his boyfriend back, for reasons that are still un-answered.

They very nearly run into Sid and Cam on their way in, presumably headed for dinner. In a brief fit of insanity—as opposed to his usually much longer ones—he yanks Will into an opened closet that contains a lot of towels, a singular mop, and a rather confused bellboy. He apologizes in terrible Swiss as Will mutters something about being helped by God. From the looks of it, he’s not coming to save him.

“You’re ridiculous,” Will complains as they walk slowly up the stairs at Mack’s insistence, “I mean genuinely ridiculous.”

“What I am is cautious, thank you very much. Forgive me for trying not to out us to the entire team.”

“Why would my being here automatically count as us fucking?”

He stops him with a hand on his chest, peeking out onto the team floor’s hallway. There’s no one in active sight but he can hear noise coming from a few rooms.

“Oh, sorry, you’re right. It’s just super normal for my teammate who isn’t Canadian to fly out to another continent to watch me play, and then come back to my hotel room after spending a whole day with me. It’s the equivalent of sucking your dick center ice,” he hisses, creeping as quietly as he can towards said room. Will, because he sucks, ignores his efforts and instead swipes the room key from his hand. Like a very attractive version of his worst nightmares, he strides to the door in a few seconds, swiping it open and glaring at him from the entryway.

“Firstly,” Will says from behind him as he gets inside, “Go take your meds. Secondly, that is one of the most absurd things you’ve ever said to me, and I need you to know that.”

Mack would be more insulted if Will didn’t look very pretty in the low lighting spilling in from the windows. Also…maybe he does need those. He’ll talk to Dr Aston when he gets back to California about dosages and whatnot, but for now he sulks to the bathroom to find his pill case.

He takes a second in the silence to just breathe. In the other room he can hear Will ordering food with a practiced efficiency. There was no point in telling him what he wanted, at least not at this point in their relationship. Will knows him better than he knows himself. It would be scary if it didn’t feel so right.

The sink water is cool on his throat as he knocks back half his day’s dose. He learned his lesson about not taking two at once before, and has no desire to repeat it. He was at the Toffolis on a team game night and figured it would be fine. It was not. He almost fell down the stairs getting back to the living room and then after vomiting into a fake plant, passed out directly on a glass coffee table. He managed to avoid too many cuts, but it still wasn’t a super pleasant experience. Will had yelled at him the moment they got back to the Thornton’s, and then burst into tears. It was so out of character that it terrified Mack to the core, and after that he’d sworn on his life to be more careful, to take better care of himself.

Clearly, little has changed.

There’s a quick knock on the door before Will’s peeking his head through, quickly scanning over him like he’s scared that he’ll somehow be injured.

“Shower?”

Mack nods with a smile that he doesn’t entirely feel, and motions for him to come in. He’s honestly not even really trying to get him naked right now. Well, he is. Sort of. He just likes the feeling of Will’s rather soft hands washing his hair, getting to suck the water off his collarbones. It’s an experience that he reserves as his own, and he revels in it, in knowing he’s the only one to ever get to see him like that.

Will rids him of his clothes carefully, pressing soft kisses to each inch of skin revealed under his touch. He feels a bit like he’s floating out of his head, and isn’t quite so sure if it’s the drugs or the everything else. Will’s gently pulling him into the shower, turning them around to shield him from the first cold spray of the water.

One of the many things Mack loves about him is the ability he has to shut off his brain. It’s like the whole world is ear-shatteringly loud, and Will is his little pocket of silence. He tried explaining it once and ended up feeling silly, but he thinks Will must understand it somehow. He’s doing it now, deft fingers massaging at the base of his skull, slipping down ever so slightly to bring him in closer. With his eyes shut, it feels like he’s kissing him in a storm, rain pouring around them, hearts pounding in sync without a care.

Damn, these fucking pills are hitting hard.

They manage to make it out of the shower without falling over and dying which is sick, and Mack is so good about not trying to make it an elaborate ploy to blow him. He’s pulled from the bathroom after a whole lot of extra steps involving sprays and hair oil that he doesn’t feel is necessary at all. But it makes Will happy, and that’s good enough for him. After very hurriedly closing the curtains to avoid any scandals about why he’s naked in a hotel room with his teammate, he steps into a pair of cotton shorts that Will ever so gratuitously holds out for him. Dickie always says he gets unnecessary princess treatment. Mack’s got no clue what he’s on about. It’s entirely reasonable in his opinion.

Will lays him out on the bed, the dim ceiling light behind him casting a halo around his face. It’s fitting. He already looks like one of those little ones they put on valentines cards, but Mack thinks he’d still be this pretty if he had a thousand eyes and a hundred wings.

“Food should be here in about twenty minutes,” he says casually, digging his thumb into Mack’s inner thigh. Will likes being nonchalant about things that he knows works Mack up. It’s particularly evil now, hands just inches away from his cock after being away from him for an eternity.

“Cool,” he gasps as Will's pointer finger dips just under the hem of his shorts.

“Tell me if it hurts too much, yeah?”

Pain isn’t really a thing on Mack’s mind even if he can register the dull ache of his muscles. Nothing about Will could ever hurt him.

“Sure.”

“I was talking to Gabe yesterday, and he was saying you should be higher up on the power-play, you know? Closer to the net so you can grab a rebound, but not too close that you can’t do anything. Anyway, i figured id mention it since you were talking about formations the other day—”

“Smitty,” he finally snaps, “You cannot ask me thinking questions when your hand is basically on my dick. Or, like, anywhere near me.”

The stupid little giggle that comes out of his mouth says everything Mack needs to know about the situation. Why does he find it so endearing? He’s such a dick. And it’s not like he can even threaten him with anything, seeing as he’d rather die than leave him, or make him sad. Though, given his multitude of never ending problems, he likely makes him sad a lot.

It probably says something about himself that he’s more concerned with how he affects other people than himself. He can toss it on the list of things to talk to Dr Aston about.

Will does finally drop the act and shifts gears into properly trying to work out any tension leftover from practice rather than just making him annoyed and horny. He’s got a great career lined up as a physio after he retires…though that would mean he’d be touching other people. On second thought maybe Mack can just hire him as a personal masseuse. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing they’ve ever done.

As opposed to last night when he ate his dinner through silent tears on the balcony, Will moves them to the small table in the corner after the food arrives. He produces two fluffy robes from the closet that Mack didn’t even notice existed, and slides one over him with deft fingers. Like this is some 90s romcom, he feeds Mack half his food, including a mousse thing that he probably shouldn’t be having but tastes like heaven. It’s even better when he kisses it from Will’s mouth afterwards. If he wasn’t in love before, he for sure would be now.

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

It’s getting close to ten when they finally get into bed, Will’s head resting on Mack’s chest as he flicks through channels on the TV. There’s not too many things in English other than shitty reality shows and for some reason Bluey. He’s honestly down for either of those things. Even if he missed this morning’s dose—and all of yesterday’s, but who’s counting—this one still made him pretty drowsy. Hopefully that combined with his own personal mattress/pillow/heated blanket/white noise machine will mean he can sleep through the night. The normal storm of overthinking disappeared sometime in the shower, his racing pulse dulled. He might even attempt taking half a pill in the morning, even if it is a game day.

Naturally, all good things that happen to him cut short. This one ends with Will speaking.

“Sid called. That’s why I came.”

It feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room, suffocating sliding into unlivable in just a few seconds. Will must sense the rising panic because he shifts just a bit out of Mack’s loose hold, swinging a leg over his hips to keep him pinned in place. In a better moment, he’d appreciate it more: the firmness of his thighs and newfound weight to his frame. Right now though, he might vomit.

“Stop freaking out. Yes i know its not something you control, no i do not care,” he orders, and there’s some inexplicable thing in the decisiveness of his voice that just makes him…stop. His breathing evens out as much as humanly possible. The growing bile in his throat simmers down to a manageable level. He’ll have to investigate that at some point.

“He called because he didn’t know how to get it through to you that you’re good. You play good, you lead good, I mean Mack. You have to know that. You have to,” Will insists, shaking him a little. “You’re doing so fucking amazing and it’s like you’re the only person in the entire world who can’t see it.”

Five senses. It’s a dumb thing to need, and a dumb reason to need it, but still. He can hear his own ragged breathing, and the low buzz of a TV next door. Will’s weird, fancy face cream and his lavender lotion that he refuses to go anywhere without. Will himself, soft fabric of the shirt he stole, softer skin. Remnants of the dessert that they split, raspberry, vanilla and a little cognac. Will. Always, inexplicably, Will.

“Sorry,” he sniffs, nuzzling his way into Will’s neck. It’s probably not the answer he wanted, but it’s what he has for now. Dr Aston is going to have a field day with this shit when they have their next session.

“It’s okay. If it makes you feel better, I was going to come out anyway for the finals,” Will offers, a sliver of his teeth peeking out in a grin.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, “Me and your parents sat side by side, pretending like we get along whatsoever. Every stoppage I’ll be texting Aiden for moral support.”

The idea alone is enough to get a very wet sounding laugh out of him. Will hates his parents, or rather hates his dad. They’ll act fine if it’s at a team event, but the one time he brought him home it almost ended with genuine murder. Acacia remains the good child-in-law even if they still don’t know that Will is his boyfriend, and at the rate it’s going, they might never.

Outside a siren wails, the sound carrying through one ear and out the other. A laugh comes from the hallway, another following closely after. He’s not mad, exactly. He’s not even particularly stressed about it. It’s nice actually, that Sid cared enough to do that for him. Someone else would have brushed it off, or told the coaches, or demanded captaincy be given up. A part of him wishes that was the case, wishes that he could be wrong enough. It would be easier if he was so out of his mind that he needed full time care or something like that, it would be proof that it’s not just in his head. But he’s on the border of it, normal enough to function but not to do it the way everyone else does. He’s just…

“I’m scared,” he admits in a whisper. Will, all knowing being that he is, doesn’t say anything to that, just lightly squeezes at his shoulders in encouragement.

He should look at engagement rings in the near future.

“I’m scared that I’ll never be enough, never be okay. I’m scared that all of this was a mistake and that I’ll be letting everyone down and that I’ll never win a single thing in my life. Will I’ve never fucking won. And I know it’s bad to think about but what if I’m actually cursed? I’m supposed to have my shit together by now but every day that passes i just feel like more of a mess and i just…I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

The moment he’s done speaking he deflates, slumping back further into the pillows like if he tries hard enough he can disappear. That was his superpower wish as a kid: invisibility. It would also make him great on the ice, though the floating stick might be a giveaway.

Will looks at him in the same way one might stare at a weird looking frog: a slight disbelieving squint and a furrowed brow. He shifts nervously under the scrutiny, feeling a lot like, well. A weird looking frog. Eventually, after Mack’s already begun to craft a plan of how to escape the room in twenty seconds, he answers.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re arrogant or just stupid,” Will sighs, focused on twirling a lock of his hair between two fingers. Mack, like an adult, bites him in retaliation. He spilled his guts about his deepest fears—other than losing him, but that one is too much to even linger on for more than two seconds at a time let alone say out loud—and he calls him a dumbass. He’s not even that arrogant. Like, he’s cocky sometimes but that’s just hockey. Will’s an asshole. There better be a good follow up to this or he’s going to smother him with an overly fluffy pillow.

“There’s no you, singular,” he continues, ignoring the slowly forming teeth mark on his wrist because he’s polite and also a freak, “Hockey is a team sport. It’s a we.”

“Oh, so you’re Canadian now?”

That earns him a sharp jab at his ribs.

“You are not playing this game alone. You never are, you’re just to blind to see it. The wins are collective and so are the losses. It’s not on you to do everything, captain or not, generational talent be damned.”

His heart briefly clenches at that, the urge to cry sparking up again. He’d love to believe that, or rather he’d love to accept it. He’d love to finally figure out the thing that’s fucked him up this bad. Was it something that happened when he was little? Is it a condition beyond an anxiety disorder? Genetics? Just knowing would be enough to make him feel better about it. If he knows what it is, he can overcome it.

“What if…”

He thinks about Milan. About missed opportunities, missed passes, missed goals. He thinks about the silence after. He’d been trying not to cry the whole time. Only Sid had caught that, had pulled him aside later to hug him, tell him he was proud. Connor showed up later with a bottle of cheap vodka and weird Italian lemonade that they drunk on the balcony trying to forget about all their shit. Nate scolded them both for it in the morning, but it helped take the edge off. If anyone understood his shit, it was him.

He thinks about college, about being so close, too far. About world juniors and Chicago and Minnesota and all the times he tried and failed and got slapped with a pitying accolade. All Star teams mean jackshit if he’s not walking away the winner.

“What if I lose?”

“We.”

“Fuck off. Fine. What if we lose?”

“Then you win silver,” Will answers easily, like it’s that simple, like it wouldn’t ruin him.

He takes another breath, gripping at Will’s waist for stability. He’s like a human fidget toy, way better than something he can forget about or lose under his bed.

“And…and if we don’t make it that far? If tomorrow goes to complete shit?”

Will shrugs, leaning forward to press a light kiss to the tip of his nose.

“You win bronze.”

Win bronze. He says these things so bluntly. The lowest he’s ever come home with is second place, the bastard. It breaks Mack’s fragile heart sometimes, how fucking good he is at things. It drives him insane to this day that he didn’t go first, even if that would mean he didn’t get to have him. He’s as jealous as he is proud.

He has to try three times to get it out. Even though he feels like he might gag at the words, he has to say them, has to.

“And if I lose that too?”

Will tips his head to the side, perfect curls falling with the motion. He doesn’t look pitying, or disappointed. He looks…calculating. Like he’s in the middle of finding something out that he couldn’t before, or reworking a play. It drives him crazy in the best way possible when he does that mid-game, shifts just an inch to read him, to make something happen that no one else can.

“Hmm…I can be your prize,” he says, biting at his lip, “I mean, I’m a blond, and that’s basically gold. It’s what you said on our first date, isn’t it?”

It had almost killed him to ask. Literally. He nearly chopped his hand off on the blade sharpener, but he got the words out of his mouth and he got a yes. Will Smith Hockey had agreed to go on a date with him. Well, he agreed to dinner but it was at The GrandView so he figured that was obvious enough to be romantically inclined. Will drove, he directed. They got sat at the edge of the balcony overlooking the rolling hills above the city and ordered mock-tails that Mack could barely taste out of fear that he’d act like a complete idiot.

He lasted about twenty minutes before saying something fucking stupid about Rumpelstiltskin of all things. God must hate him.

“Ookay,” Will said, sounding about five seconds from busting out with laughter, “Why?”

“Well. Cause. You know. I mean not like the story—well yes like the story. The. The gold. Your hair looks like gold in the sun, and also always but mostly right now. It’s uhm…it's pretty. Like, it’s not not pretty other times, you’re pretty every day—I mean it is. Not that you aren’t, I just meant that—”

He’d been interrupted then—thank fuck—by their waiter. Will had simply stared at him with an odd expression until she left, twirling his Barracuda Smash lazily around in the glass. It was a nice place, too nice for Mack and absolutely perfect for Will. White Ralph Lauren shirt, brown loafers, navy dress pants. He’d watched him pick those out, sat like a leashed dog in a Zara dressing room. It had short circuited his brain watching him strip them from his body, a flash of creamy skin before the door shut behind him. His own polo had felt suffocating, especially in that moment.

“You think I’m pretty?”

He’d watched for Mack’s reaction over the rim of his drink, and Mack—newly nineteen and whipped, in his defense—had simply watched the way his throat flexed around a swallow. Wondered briefly if it would be the same in—

“Yeah,” he’d rasped, “It’s why I asked you out. Among other things.”

The silence across from him had lasted just enough time for him to consider tossing himself over the ledge and rolling down the mountain. Just as he was about to scream, Will answered.

“What other things?”

“Your skating,” had been the first thing to leave his mouth, quickly followed by, “And hands. And eyes. And insistence you don’t need glasses, and that you cry at bad romcoms, and…everything about you.”

What he hadn’t said back then, but did eventually confess after the first time Will had gotten on his knees for him, is that he loves the way he makes everything feel real.

“Mackie?”

He blinks, the combination of his name and a gentle tug at his hair pulling him back into his body.

“Hm?”

“You with me?”

What he wants to say is some poetic shit. Yes Will, I’m always with you, until the end of time and maybe a little longer after that. That does not leave his mouth. Nice things. Just once he’d like to have them.

“Why do you even like me?”

“Excuse me?”

Mack flinches a bit at his tone, but continues on.

“I mean, I’m a complete mess. Obviously. I need either you to do everything for me or chemicals. You could do so much better, seriously,” he explains, trying his best to seem detached to it. In a way, he is. He came to terms with the fact that Will’s out of his league a long time ago.

“For fucks sake Macklin. God, Acacia was right, the two of you are such fucking weirdo’s about relationships.”

It’s so far out of pocket, out of what Mack could possibly have imagined as a response that he short circuits a bit. Sits up straighter, frowns, tries to recollect his thoughts. For some reason he can’t find the feeling he just had again, like it’s been whipped out of existence.

“I don’t like you for hockey dude, I like you because of you. Even when you made the worst jokes at training camp and insist that the fucking Baby Mario Brothers are a valid character which they’re not and you need to accept it so help me Lord. Do I need to start doing affirmations with you? I will. Don’t test me on that,” Will rants, anger growing more obvious by the second.

“I—”

“Nope. No talking. You’re not allowed to speak. Look at me. Not next to me. Good. Jesus Christ it’s like pulling teeth to get you to accept that you have self worth outside of sports.”

He knows better than to interrupt again, but he really wants to. He also thinks he’s half decent at baking. Kind of. Mostly.

“Tomorrow you might lose. You might win. You might have a career ending injury and never walk again, or you might be given the keys to Vancouver. I don’t know what’s going to happen and neither do you. What I do know, is that you’re going to play to the best of your ability, and you’re going to do it with an entire team by your side. You’re Macklin Celebrini, and you don’t give up, so don’t pretend like you do now,” he declares.

He’s felt the weight of Wills medals in his palm before. The gold reflected off his eyes, turning them into a watercolor that had stared right back at him. It had scared him a little, how much he wanted to get one of his own. There was no limit he would push himself past to get there.

Your prize. It sounded…nice. Not even patronizing the way it might have sounded from someone else. He might not have anything else to his name, but he’d have Will.

“Okay?”

The first day of camp he’d seen a fire in Will that he’d never found in anyone else. It reflected at him like a mirror that he’d been looking for his whole life, the last piece of a long since started puzzle. It was why he liked him first, before he loved him.

“Okay.”

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

They fall asleep sometime later, tangled up in each other’s limbs. The last thing he sees before he drifts off is the bridge of Will’s nose, a single strand of gold hair resting on top of it. Medals, wins, loses. They’ll all be there waiting for him tomorrow, and next year, and the year after that. He’s got everything he needs right here. It’s not a perfect fix, and it’s certainly not permanent but it’s his.

And for once in his life, Mack is positive that he’ll be just fine with that

・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・ོ・┈┈・┈┈・┈┈・

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𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Mack’s got 99 problems and fucking William Charles Patrick Smith comprises 98 of them. The remaining issue is that he’s lost his English homework and he’s pretty sure he’s at the top of his professors Shit List. Anyways, it’s like, fate or something. Divine intuition. Intervention? It doesn’t matter really, all Mack knows is that he’s probably done something fucking awful in a past life to deserve this. He’s not really sure how he feels about like, reincarnation or god or anything at all other than hockey but he knows that he’s being punished.

Like. Okay. Mack’s just like any other guy, except he’s really good at his sport and he thinks he’s at least a little more handsome than other people. His ex said he was cute, and she was hot as fuck, so that has to count for something, right? It’s just that. Well. He doesn’t think other guys function like him. Aiden says it’s okay to be a little scattered: he’s seventeen and in college already after all. Dada keeps saying he needs to man up. Focus. Stop letting things distract him, like girls or grades or cool rocks on the side of the road. So maybe it’s just that something is actually wrong with him. He’s not super attuned with his emotional state other than he hates feeling bad and likes feeling good, and winning makes him feel good. Losing makes him feel bad, so he’s gotta win all the fucking time. He just has to, or else the world will end or something like that.

So there’s definitely some kind of weird curse happening to him. Someone’s bought a voodoo doll and stabbed it with little needles a whole bunch, because this cannot be happening. He doesn’t even care about his English homework anymore. He hasn’t been caring about much of anything lately, not even hockey of all things to be kind of ignoring. Aiden thinks he’s met someone. Lane thinks he needs to get laid or balance his spirit. Mack thinks that William Charles Patrick Smith with his perfect smile and blond hair and pretty blue eyes needs to die. And if he just like, fucking, hated the dude it would be cool. Because everyone at BU hates him. It’s just that Mack doesn’t stop his endless thinking at anger. He’s not even sure if he can stop his brain from working anymore. He’d love it if he could, like a little switch he could flick and then everything would be quiet, and no one would be talking about how young he was and how talented he was and how he was probably going to go first overall and…like…whatever.

Mack’s just like any other guy, except last night when Lane was out at a party he very angrily jerked off to a fucking Boston College interview of the worst person in the world who is also his biggest rival. So. Voodoo doll. Evil past life spent murdering innocent people. Something. Anything. Because there was no way in hell that this was the reality Mack was living. He's straight. Totally. Super duper heterosexual. It's probably just like hormones or whatever. His wires were getting crossed.

Rolling over and finding Lane still passed out in his bed he takes a cursory glance at the floor to see where his socks had landed and spots a page peeking out from under a neglected book. In the dim lighting he can mostly make out his name on the top of it. Fucking. Great. One less problem. Somewhere in the back of his mind there’s a voice that reminds him that with his paper out of the way, that means everything else going wrong in his life is now down to just one person. He’s going to throw himself off one of the towers. At the very least, his day can only get better from here.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

════════════════════════════════════

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

“Draw your knees into your chest,” the woman says in that obnoxiously nasally voice. Mack would be more annoyed if he wasn’t so relaxed.

He peeks a glance at Lane, finding him entirely in his own zone, eye-mask and all. A different one, because apparently he can’t use the same one he sleeps in for yoga. That would be preposterous. This one has three suns on it, and depending on the angle and his state of mind, makes it look like Lane has three eyes. He’ll never know peace. The whole entire world is against him.

Like, he doesn’t even care about this shit, not really. He thinks the crystal stuff is nonsense and hates most of the instructors because their music is too loud or their voice is too soft which Lane said is dumb to which Mack said he was dumb and then it ended in a pillow fight and some weird bruises. At least it had been easy to explain in practice when Ty asked. He’d gotten a few odd looks but getting into it with Lane was something they could at least confirm happened. All the other things Smith left on his body were…troublesome.

It seems a bit like a competition now: who can cause the most problems with the others teammates. Smith definitely started it, for sure. Mack distinctly recalls him between his legs with his mouth very insistently pressed against his collarbones. Though, come to think of it, maybe Mack had drawn first blood? Like. It’s. Hm. He wasn’t paying attention to the little details like the order of who bit the other first—

“Macklin.”

Lane’s voice makes him flinch, almost falling out of his rather compromising position. Like, he feels like any minute now Smith is going to walk into the room, tug off his three inch inseam shorts which weren’t always this fucking short, he just grew, and—

“Macklin,” he snaps again, jolting him for a second time out of his Smith induced haze.

“Yah?”

Lane grumbles something under his breath and without even taking off the eye-mask, reaches over to pause the video. Ah. He’s about to be yelled at, isn’t he?

“I can physically feel you thinking. We do not think in yoga. We reach down into our inner selves and find a new level of peace. Get it together.”

“The fuck are you, Patanjali?”

Lane very slowly twists to face him, and between the fucking ridiculous pose he's in and the evil ass suns he looks utterly ridiculous and also super duper terrifying. Mack feels like he’s pissed off a horror movie creature.

“How do you know who that is?”

His inner voice mumbles something about how he needs to stop and think before he says something deeply embarrassing more often.

Look. Listen. Okay. So.

He doesn’t give a fuck about yoga. It’s nice after a hard game or a long practice so that he’s not unreasonably sore in the morning, and his flexibility has definitely improved. But as a whole he couldn’t care less. He just. He just gets fixated on stuff okay? And Lane never shuts up about it and one night at like three in the morning after a particularly…fun dream about…something. Anything. Anyone. It doesn’t matter. Point being he needed the distraction, and so he did some research just to calm himself down. It was boring and mind numbing but a few details stuck in his mind because that’s just what things do to him. He still remembered the road signs on the way to his old house in Vancouver, and the first book he read in fifth grade.

“I uhm. I. It. You mentioned him?”

“No, I have not.”

“Yes you did.”

“No I—you know what, I’m not doing this thing with you,” he grumbles, still staring at him through the creepy ass mask. Mack really needs to burn that thing. “Macklin.”

“Lance.”

“That is not my name and you know it.”

“Lawrence?”

“I…okay, shut up. For once in your life, just…cease.”

Mack ceases. Well, he stays in the exact same position as when they started this conversation, even though he wishes he wasn’t.

“Did you do actual research about this?”

“No—what. Huh. Why would I do that? Stop being weird, like hello. Fucks wrong with you?”

“Oh my god.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh my god,” he repeats, tugging his mask ever so slightly up to stare at him with a single, wide eye.

“Literally fucking die.”

“Stop you’re so sweet—”

“Hutson if you don’t shut your fucking mouth right now i am going to pour smelling salts into your open throat while you sleep and i will find indescribable glee in it.”

Lane shuts his mouth. With a very creepy smile he pulls his mask back down and turns the video back on. Mack is going to buy a voodoo doll for him. He needs new friends. He needs friends that aren’t his teammates actually. He’s got Aubrey, kind of. He’s not sure if she really counts since he only sees her when he’s at, you know, her place of employment. That’s not friendship, that’s just like. The bond between a regular and a barista. He’d ask for her number if that didn’t feel so scary and also like a come on. He doesn’t want anything to be awkward, which given his track record aka his entire life, is a likely outcome.

He lets himself drift off into that half asleep phase he finds when he does this, letting the music fade to a buzz in his ears and his mild melt inside his skull. Not that Lane will ever know this information, but he does find it relaxing. It doesn’t quite compare to Smith, at least the version of him that doesn’t just exist to rile him up, but it’s still nice. He can’t exactly take trips over to BC all the time. He should probably learn to drive. Not that he’d be doing that just for Smith, but, because, like. Uhm. Because. It’s a life skill. Yes, exactly. Life skill. He could use a few more of those. Aiden says so at least, and he’s usually right about, well. Everything. Except for ice cream flavors.

Eventually the instructor and her annoying voice tells him that he can sit up, thank fuck. The whole weird sex thing—which is apparently called wind removing, because of course it is—was really starting to get to him. It doesn’t matter that no one can actually see him, it’s a fucking crazy thing to ask of him at barely nine pm.

In his state of delirium, a few weird rocks in his cupped hands, the meanings of which have fled his mind, he hasn’t found a new level of peace. He hasn’t even stopped thinking, not really. In all fairness, he doesn’t even quit that when he’s asleep. Mediation isn’t his strong suit. Instead, he takes the time to do something better: think about Smith.

Okay, to be clear, not like. Smith as a whole. Not even the whole sex thing or how much Mack enjoys just fucking being with the guy. He’ll get to that shit later. No, he’s thinking about himself in relation to Smith, specifically if he’s maybe the asshole here.

Sure. Smith-slash-Smatan has wronged him dearly many times. He’s a dick. He’s also got a great one—nope. Not doing that. Point being, yesterday he was…harsh. Smith did genuinely seem like he wanted to talk, like he was worried even. It was the same the time before, and they had actually, like, connected then. Afterwards too, when Smith texted before the game. It felt different, more casual and relaxed. He wasn’t trying to get under Mack’s skin or even bring up what happened beyond a check in. Mack was the one who made it weird, and then he was the one who…

They’re not friends, is the thing. They’ve only very recently moved into the territory of somewhat friendly. But, still. Smith actually flinched, showed some actual sign of emotion. He was hurt, and Mack was the one who did that to him. And he hadn’t even fucking meant to say it is the thing. It just came out, and he was too late to stop it or even attempt to backtrack. He’s just gotten so used to the arguing and the defensiveness that he fell into it without a second thought. Or a first one if he’s being honest.

His inner voice mumbles something about how he seems to do that a lot with Smith.

He wasn’t trying to be a complete piece of shit. Hand to the hockey gods. He’s been enjoying whatever it is has been changing between them way more than he’d admit to anyone else, even under the threat of death. But he’s liked it so fucking much its scary, likes knowing that Smith thinks of him outside of the bedroom, that he actually wants to talk or hang out or have a meaningful conversation. That he cares enough to reassure him, take care of him, let him sleep in his fucking house.

That during a party all for him, all for beating Mack…all Smith was doing was wanting him.

“Deep breath in.”

Mack can see it as clear as day, the split second before he realized all the implications of waking up next to each other: the softness of his face in the morning light, the delicate edge of his nose, clear blue eyes.

“Deep breath out.”

He’d been wearing Mack’s hoodie. Like, obviously. Mack watched him pick it up, watched the fabric shift over his frame the entire rest of the night. But he’d looked…

He’s damning himself with this, with all of this. He could pick fifteen thousand points in time in which he could have turned back. If, if, if.

If he’d never let himself get panting, desperate, and alone in a cold room with only the light of his screen and Smith’s game flushed face as company. If he’d never gotten caught up in watching his highlights, if he’d played better, if he’d gone out with the team, if he’d never gone to that party, never went to that room, never let himself get so out of his mind. If he’d never argued with him at the cafe, never gone to study at the library that morning, never followed him out of the room, never agreed to this whole entire thing, never answered his messages, never gone back to that house, never let him get that close, never opened up, never laughed at his shitty jokes, never, never, never.

He looked. Well.

Smith had looked like his.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

“You know, I honestly didn’t think I’d be able to convince you,” Lane says happily as he drops their mats back into their allotted spot in the closet. They really need to move. This place is way too fucking small.

“Convince me?”

“That yoga is nice!”

“You’re making a massive assumption here bud.”

Lane spins on his heel and pins him with one of those surprisingly depthful stares. Like, yeah, Mack’s looking down at him, and he also still has his stupid mask pushed up into his short hair. Plus, you know. He’s wearing a weird 90s Nike romper thing. Bodysuit? Whatever, point is, the thing is hideous, and also makes him look legitimately demented. He refuses to wear anything else and even has tried to take shots at Mack’s yoga outfit which is just. Mind blowing. The sheer audacity to stand around looking like a leprechaun into satin and body building yet still manage to criticize someone else…fucking Americans. And, somehow, Mack's still nervous about whatever is about to come out of his mouth. 

Fucking Lane Hutson, honestly.

“You do it almost every day. I’d call that seeing the light,” he argues, crossing his arms as if Mack would ever be scared of him.

His inner voice mumbles something about him very often being scared of Lane Hutson.

Physically scared, then.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He flops down onto his bed, watching as Lane turns again for the closet, and shuts the door with himself inside. Alright then. Mack’s free from being accused of liking yoga for the time being. Joy to the world or whatever.

Mack’s got a two track mind: hockey, and things he shouldn’t be doing. It’s too late to be going to the rink, and even if he could, he’s pretty tired and also a bit hungry. The trainers have him on a new diet, more food, more bulking. Apparently he was eating too little and too healthy which is an insane thing to say, especially to him. He tried to pull the whole Dada thing, and how he’d never lead him astray, but the new shit has been kinda working. He’s stronger, somewhat less grumpy all the time and no longer feels like complete shit before breakfast. So, you know. That’s nice. He’s even remembered the protein bar thing.

He could get a salad. Probably the wise choice. He’s been getting some shit for not being able to really cook, but they don’t even have a kitchen in their dorm, so, like, not his fault. He can wait until he’s less busy, which will probably be never but hey. Takeout is a thing. Worst case scenario, he’ll find a personal chef.

Before he can get too far into hypothetical dinner scenarios, Lane stumbles out of the closet, the evil jumper thing long gone and replaced with BU sweats and an old USNTDP shirt. The sight makes him both annoyed in the patriotic sense, and a little longing. Smith looks good in those colors. He knows they played each other back then, but he can’t really recall any of it. He should find the tapes. For purely educational reasons. Yeah. For sure.

“M gonna be at Quinn’s, so don’t bother waiting up for me,” Lane calls over his shoulder as he rummages around near the door. Mack grunts out a vague affirmation, mostly distracted trying to find his phone. He’s not sure if anything decent is even open at this hour, but he might as well check.

“Oh, also, Aiden saw Jo today, and she said there might be an open Brownstone soon. Two rooms on the first floor. It’s near the towers, so it’d be a longer walk, but I said we’d consider it.”

Aiden has always had this gift that Mack has been unendingly jealous of: he’s good at making friends. Everyone he meets seems to like him, find him funny, want to hang out or help him with something. He carries groceries up the stairs for old couples and brings lost children back to their parents. He could probably chat up a brick wall. He’s been doing a lot of heavy lifting for Mack with the team, trying to get them to ignore how…himself he can be. He’s overheard the conversations, and then promptly decided to go back out on the ice and train to forget about it.

Even though he wishes he could do the same, and often finds it annoying, it’s helpful on occasion. Like, for instance, getting them a decent place to live. Sleeper is chill, and it’s right next to the arena, but Mack would die for his own room. He’d be free from Lanes creepy fucking eye masks, that’s for sure. And, well. It would make some other things easier, like stalking people or jerking off to their highlight reels or texting them to find a mutual agreed upon date to fuck.

As one does.

“Kay,” he answers, just before the door shuts with a soft click. Finally, he’s alone.

His inner voice mumbles something about how he never gets tired of spending time with Smith.

Okay. Whatever. Smith’s an outlier. An unfortunate and confusing outlier. He’s not going to agonize about him now. That can wait until…well. Realistically, about ten minutes.

There are, in fact, a few places still delivering. He gets himself a salad with about ten dollars of extra proteins and a smoothie that he hopes isn’t complete shit. In a brief moment of weakness he adds in a separate order of a few cookies. He’s allowed to cheat occasionally. And if he feels that bad, he can just, like. Give it to Lane. The power of friendship, or something.

Mack could do a lot of things. He could change. He could find a game to watch, or a movie. He could like. Do his laundry. Call Aiden, or Charlie, or fucking anyone else. It hasn’t even been that long. He’s got fresh memories of Smith on his mind that he can overthink and or get hard about. There’s no reason to be doing this.

But. Well. He really wants to. Lane isn’t here. No one is around to judge him. He doesn’t have to explain himself for this. He exits his locked photo album that contains about four hundred pictures of Smith, and goes to his texts.

it was nice seeing u or whatever like, outside of yeah yk

He really shouldn’t be left to his own devices. Who texts someone six times in a row? What kind of moron is he? Before he can go too deep into fantasizing about never speaking to anyone ever again, a typing bubble pops up from Smith. He sits up, heart pounding as the seconds tick by. The grip. Where is his fucking grip at.

Smatan: It was

Two simple words and Mack’s already feeling like he’s floating.

ur not as evil as i thought

Wow, great conversation starter Mack. Not weird at all.

Smatan: You thought I was evil? yeah to be clear, i still do just at a much lower level Smatan: Wow Smatan: Thanks? anytime Smatan: You're ridiculous u like it

Smith hearts the message. Mack, because he’s apparently a teenage girl in a romcom now, giggles and kicks his feet. Okay. Good start. Great start. Now. He just needs to figure out how to like. Make conversation.

wyd?

Of course. All meaningful interactions start off like that. For fucks sake, why is he so bad at this?

Smatan: Halfway through a pint of bland ice cream Smatan: I mean, there's a flavor somewhere in there Smatan: Sort of maybe stop eating it? Smatan: Apparently I need more calories Smatan: I believe the exact wording was "concerningly underweight for this stage in life." thats kinda rude u look good u play good whats to complain abt? Smatan: Ask the team

If he could, Mack would march directly into their arena and demand an answer for it. Sure, yeah, Smith would look good if he bulked up a bit more, thighs thick and powerful, broad shoulders with some extra definition on them, his biceps bulging out of a shirt.

And his fucking forearms, oh, Mack could stare at them all day. The corded muscle, the way his veins travel down to his hands which are a whole other thing entirely. He fantasizes about them sometimes, wrapped around his neck or inside of him, the soft skin, the rough callouses. How they feel scratching through his hair, or pressing him down onto his stomach.

It’s the arms though, really. At first Mack figured he was just insecure, which like, he is a little bit, but he’s insecure about a lot of things so whatever. But no, it’s way more than that. He wants to bite at them every chance he gets, paint his skin wet with his tongue until he could map his body blind. It’s just so unreasonably hot, something he shouldn’t pay any mind to but for some reason he just can’t get out of his head. It’s the simplicity, he thinks. The way he wishes he could press his palm right where fabric meets skin, feel the warmth, the years of training, the fine hair. He’d trace the divots from his wrist flexors—and here he thought that anatomy quiz wouldn’t give him anything but pain—up to his shoulder blades, the base of his neck, down his spine to the slight dimples of his lower back and the curve of his—

Ahem.

He’s getting off track here.

trainers have me doing the same actually but like with protein Smatan: You're already fucking massive dude im alright Smatan: Don't be modest theres always room to improve Smatan: Of course you'd think that ? Smatan: Nothing Smatan: What are you doing?

Fantasizing about every single inch of your body, I mean what haha that’s so crazy, who said that? Also, what’s wrong with trying to get better? Dada always says he’s never going to be good enough if he thinks he is, and he’s got a whole PhD.

waiting for my food to arrive attempting to find the motivation to change out of my yoga clothes same old same old Smatan: You still do yoga?

Oh. Fuck. Why did he say that? He could have lied. Mack needs to lie to him more, he’s doing it to literally every other person in his life but no, the one person who he should actually be withholding the truth from, he spills his guts to. And his yoga secrets. Fucking ridiculous.

Smatan: Also, please elaborate on what said clothes look like Smatan: Preferably visually 1, i do not do yoga for fun, i do it because lane forces me you know this 2, y should i? Smatan: I asked and? Smatan: I can't want to see you in leggings?

Mack groans and shoves a pillow over his face. He’d love to see Smith in leggings, not the athletic shit he wears on game days, but like. Cotton one, with that little fold-over at his waist. They’d cling so perfectly to his frame, flaring out over his ankles and…and. Okay. Is he high? He feels high. Like the paranoid moron that he is, he checks his nose to make sure it isn’t bleeding. He wouldn’t be surprised if it is.

not leggings Smatan: Now this is just intriguing me more pervert Smatan: Very much so if it's you Smatan: Pretty please? Smatan: I'll send you some bland ice cream And a free bj ive never paid for a bj in my life and certainly not from you? Smatan: Okay fine then, in general

Like. Mack’s not gonna turn down a blowjob from him of all people. He should have known after the first time kissing him that his mouth would feel like fucking paradise.

But. Well. His yoga outfit is…okay it’s not as bad as Lane’s. Nothing is that bad. He really needs to burn that shit. But it’s still a bit, you know. Look. See. Okay. Lane said he needed something he could move in. Light and nonrestrictive, and then he went on a ramble about fabric blends and that shit which is when he tuned out and started thinking about power play formations.

Anyways, his point is, even though Smith has literally been inside of him, it’s still a little nerve wracking to send him a selfie wearing a crop top and micro shorts.

Listen, he didn’t even intend for this. At all. He just. Okay, the shorts he got when he was like thirteen for running and he only brought them here because he was stress packing and just fucking. Grabbed them. They had been sitting at the back of his drawers until Lane started getting very insistent that his workout clothing wouldn’t cut it, and went through every single item of clothing he had to pick something out. Thankfully Mack had moved the dildo to under his bed, or he’d be dead by now.

They’re small enough to honestly pass as weird looking underwear and curve up a bit to show the bottom of his hips, but they’re breathable and Lane Hutson approved, so who cares. The top is from his ex that he forgot to give back when they broke up and then accidentally threw into one of his suitcases when going through his collection of plain grey shirts. It barely reaches mid waist but it is also, unfortunately, really nice to wear. He’d be more embarrassed if Lane didn’t look fucking crazy, or could actually see him. Well, he can see him before and after, but he’s also mega straight and his Bro, so he’s way more concerned with his form than how slutty he looks.

Self conscious isn’t the world, but it’s decidedly very not Real Man-ish of him, or even Average Man, Trying To Be Man, or Vaguely Masculine. It doesn’t matter that Smith’s seen him naked or seen him crush someone into the boards. He’s 190 pounds of hard work sure, but he’s also 190 pounds of zero off-ice confidence, awkwardness and a general inability to take a decent picture.

His phone buzzes from where he’s dropped it next to him.

Smatan: Cmon Smatan: When else are you gonna get this kind of offer?

Shit. Fuck. Alright. Might as well dig himself a little further into his grave! He opens up his camera before he can start getting second thoughts, snaps a quite photo of himself that he doesn't even really look at, just clocks that it's a lot of skin, and sends it.

Smatan: Wow Smatan: Jesus fucking Christ Smatan: Are you doing this to torture me? Smatan: You have no idea how badly I want to fuck you right now

Mack has to take a second to scream into his mattress.

whats stopping u?

It would be such a bad idea to see him right now, but fuck if the idea isn’t a beautiful one.

Smatan: Grace stole my car steal it back Smatan: She's in Lexington uber Smatan: Everyone else is also downstairs watching the oceans movies for the hundredth time window? Smatan: Stop tempting me :( Smatan: It's too risky

Mack genuinely snorts at that.

and inviting me over wasnt? Smatan: Fuck off Smatan: If I could see you, I would fine Smatan: Don't give me that attitude

Mack’s about to say something incredibly attitudinal when Smith sends another message.

Smatan: How was your day?

He scowls at his screen, trying his best to physically send evil vibes towards Smith. Oh fuck he's turning into Lane. This is bad. He needs to talk to Aiden more. Whatever, he’s allowed to be a tiny bit annoyed, and also a slightly larger bit giddy that Smith wants to know things about him.

His inner voice mumbles something about him being a total loser.

fine got into another fight with coach in which i was right, btw but aiden bought me lunch so that was nice we shit talked the annoying parts of our family over seafood Smatan: Another? dw abt it

Mack isn’t a problem. Everyone else is. He might not be great at math or social interaction but he’s good at hockey and he’s not gonna sit back and let anyone do something stupid when he knows how to do it right. If that means he gets into it with his coaches and captain and teammates and pretty much everyone, ever, then…well. Who cares? Dada says he should stand up for himself more anyways.

Smatan: If you say so Smatan: Grace never wants to gossip about relatives with me Smatan: She says it's mean but she also threatened to dissolve someone in acid the other day, so I'm not rly sure wtf she's on about lmao just cause? Smatan: We think her friends boyfriend is cheating Smatan: I suggested to bug his room, but apparently that "isn't reasonable" as apposed to acid which is super normal Smatan: Well, if it's good enough for the cartel...

Just as he starts typing a response, he gets a notification saying his food is here. Fuck. Shit. Dammit. He can’t go down looking like this.

In the fashion of a wild animal who has rabies and also took some ketamine, he leaps off his bed and throws open the closet door. Pants. Pants, he needs pants. He grabs a pair of sweats laying on the floor and wiggles them on as he hops to the door, running into about four different pieces of furniture and the wall on his way. He barely manages to get on a pair of slides or remember his keys, and very nearly closes the door on his hand. But he’s chill. He’s also starved.

The driver is very nice and doesn’t even comment on the fact that he’s panting from sprinting all the way downstairs. He just tells him to have a goodnight and also try shooting on his backhand more, which, like. Alright. Sure. Whatever, Mack’s not about to get into a detailed conversation with a man named Bartholomew.

He gets a slightly odd look from the front desk guy when he walks back in, but other than that he’s left alone as he rides the slow elevator up. The second he steps back into his dorm he’s already texting Smith again. Moth to the flame or whatever.

sry, was getting food Smatan: Dw about it Smatan: Leno was bothering me about coming downstairs anyways

Mack frowns as he sets the bag on his desk. Why is it always fucking Leonard? The guy needs to leave him alone.

do u not want to?

Typing bubble. No typing bubble. Very, very long typing bubble, and then in the blink of an eye it fades away. He keeps a close eye on his phone as he takes his salad out, and carefully inspects the smoothie. It’s more of a juice than anything, but it tastes alright. He could deal with it being a little sharper, but he’s trying not to be so picky. Baby steps and all that.

He gets halfway through the bowl and a halfhearted attempt to reconnect with one of his Chicago teammates when Smith finally texts him back. He carefully sets his food aside on his nightstand before picking his phone up with slightly shaking hands. There’s really no reason for him to be this anxious about everything.

I like talking to you better

Mack chokes a little on his own spit. He’d rather be choking on something else—okay. Stop. Enough of that shit.

u would rather talk to me than ur real friends?

Bad. Bad, bad, very bad. What the fuck is wrong with him? He just did this shit, and now he’s right back to where he was earlier. It’s not like he can take it back, no matter how much he wishes he could. There’s no good way to say, Hey sorry I’m being such a cunt I just don’t really find myself worthy of your attention. Do you still think I’m hot?

Mack needs to find a life coach.

We could be real friends If you want

When Aiden first met his girlfriend, he called Mack at three in the morning. He’d been in Wisconsin, still buzzing after a late power play goal that gave them the win, and staring at the blank ceiling trying to restrain himself from waking Cam up to talk. The soft buzz of his phone had been a blessing, even though they’d already talked right after the game.

“Hey,” he’d said, slipping out into the hallway of their hotel. Aiden’s camera had been covered by half of a pillow, but the second he heard Mack’s voice he yanked it directly in front of his face.

“Oh my god, Mack.”

“Uhm. Yes?”

At that point, he found a small lounge to shut himself into, flicking on a table lamp, its warm light flooding softly into the room. He plopped down on the pillowy leather couch, and waited.

“I think I’m in love,” had been the next words out of his mouth, directly followed by him dropping Mack face first onto his bed and screaming into a pillow. At the time he considered that he might be asleep before Aiden’s face came back into view, a little flushed and grinning like he just won the cup.

“Huh?”

“Okay, okay, maybe not in love, but dude. Mack. Macky. Holy shit.”

“I…dude what—”

“I think I’m gonna marry her.”

Mack had shuffled back so he was laying his head against the thick armrest, and sighed.

“Are you gonna actually explain to me what happened or…”

“I don’t even know. We went out to this bar to celebrate and one second I was talking to Lane and the next she was just there. I thought i was fucking, like, dreaming or something. She’s so pretty, and funny, and cool, and she said it was her first hockey game and I played really well, and…Mack. Mack, she’s the best person. We talked for hours, it was like a movie. Holy fuck i think I’m going crazy,” he rambled, eyes focused on some point beyond what Mack could see like he was re-imagining the scene in his head. He’d been caught between wanting to make fun of him, being incredibly happy, and feeling a bit jealous. Things were off with his girlfriend, and even if they were doing better he’d never felt like that about her.

“Whats her name?” he settled on, tugging the strings of his hoodie tight to cover his face.

Aiden opened and closed his mouth a few times before giving a very aggressive and slightly embarrassed cough.

“I uh…I forgot to ask…”

Mack blinked down at him, fourteen hours and a time zone away, and still so blindingly familiar. He hoped that his judgment could radiate from the near hundred miles that separated them.

“Sorry, so. To be clear. You spent hours talking to the best person re-imagining ever met, and you don’t know her fucking name?”

“First of all young man, watch your language, and second of all…uhm. Yes?”

Mack had genuinely cackled at that, nearly falling off the couch. He could hear Aiden grumbling under his breath but when he looked back down at him he realized that there was a new set to his jaw, an unfamiliar glint in his eye. Holy shit, he’d thought, he’s really in this.

“What's that look for?”

Mack shrugged, and brushed away some of the hair that had fallen into his face.

“Nothing, I’ve just…I’ve never seen you with a crush.”

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

It settles in his stomach first. A soft buzz, like he’s swallowed a car engine. It dances the line of sickening and electrifying. The way he felt when Smith first walked into that bedroom, and every single time he’d seen him since. Like he was going to vomit and also jump for joy like a child at a fair.

Then, it moves. Slowly up his spine in little sparks, brushing against his brain stem, itching over his scalp, and finally reaching a hand into the chaos of his head to flick on a light. The glow explodes through his body, and then fizzles out just as quickly, leaving behind one simple truth:

He has a crush.

Oh fuck, Mack has a crush. He has a crush on Will fucking Smith. Blue eyed, blonde, bucktoothed, perfectly proportioned hockey god Will Smith. The guy who should be his sworn enemy, who he was doing really fucking good at hating right up until he just…stopped. Right up until he looked up at him, haloed by the soft glow of a light in an unfamiliar bed and thought that he was the most stunning thing on the face of the earth.

This is not good. This is so not good at all, what the fuck? Like, first of all, not very straight of him. Neither is the liking sucking dick thing, but this is just a whole other line that he shouldn’t be crossing. It’s a different matter entirely. Wanting to fuck a guy and wanting to like…have a life with one are two very different things. And it’s Smith of all the people in the world. He really cannot be feeling like this about him.

First of all. Oh fuck. Alright. Okay. First of all, they’re rivals. Point blank, end of story. It’s not something he can change. Second of all. Second of all Smith might be super annoyingly pretty but he’s still a man, and Mack should be not into men at all, that’s not in his detailed life plan whatsoever. And also, the league, and his family, and, and, and.

And it’s not possible. None of this is. Oh fuck why is this happening to him? What exactly did he do to deserve this? It’s the fucking voodoo doll, isn’t it?

His inner voice mumbles something about how he might be getting ahead of himself here.

Okay. So. Forget. Forget everything. Leave behind hockey, and Dada, and his reputation, and the entire world. That’s not important right now.

Mack has a crush on a guy, and that guy is William Charles Patrick Smith, and he wants to be his friend. And Mack…Mack like. Mack misses him, misses his scent and the warmth of his body and his stupid laugh and….fuck.

Fuck, he sounds insane. Maybe he is insane? He feels like he could run a marathon and also maybe drop dead the moment he stands. He misses Maple actually. Maple would know what to do here. He really should have brought her, but he’s a Real Man and that wouldn’t be up to code. He’s not even that sure what the code is, just that he has to follow it or the apocalypse will start or he’ll never score a single goal ever again.

If Mack knows one thing, it’s that avoiding things doesn’t make them stop existing. He can be a functional human being for long enough to answer a simple text.

His inner voice mumbles something about doubting that.

sry, phone fell behind my bed sure

He takes a brief moment to bite down on his fist, squeezing his eyes shut at the sharp pain. He needs to take up boxing or something. The yoga isn’t doing enough for his nervous system. Why is he agreeing to this? Even if he didn’t have a fucking…crush, on the guy, this is a bad idea. Astronomically bad even. He needs to make better choices.

Smith responds within the second.

Smatan: Yeah? yeah Smatan: Hold on, I gotta feed mackerel

Mack rereads the sentence about five times before giving up on trying to understand it. He’s too tired for this shit. They’ve been friends for all of five seconds and already he’s confused. He needs his cookies for this.

? Smatan: My fish ur what

In lieu of a helpful response, Smith sends a picture. It’s of a large tank, softly lit and heavily decorated. There’s even a little pirate ship. And, a fish. It’s white and red, speckled lightly with some black dots. Since when does he…what. Huh. What the fuck is happening to Mack right now?

Smatan: Mackerel wtf when did u get a fucking fish and why is it called that Smatan: Uhh, like a month ago? Maybe longer, idk. And Leno picked the name bro what Smatan: Lol Smatan: He's nice hes a fish Smatan: Yeah, and he's nice

Mack gives up on trying to figure this one out. He groans as he sits up, swiping the remainder of his salad off his nightstand and putting it in the fridge, swapping it with his bag of bad dietary choices. On his way back he flicks the lights off, plunging the room into darkness. Sliding under his comforter he reaches over to turn his lamp on, squinting a bit at the sudden glare. Smith is a mystery, a ten thousand piece puzzle. It’s entirely on Mack that he wants to solve him so badly.

sure Smatan: Don't slander my fish its a fine fish Smatan: You're just jealous you don't have a fish theres something wrong with ur brain

There’s a brief, sickening pause in response time in which Mack debates how long it would take for him to fall to the ground from his window. He’s saved by another picture coming through, this time of Smith with a spoon in his mouth flipping him off. Mack wishes it was something else between his pink lips—

Moving on.

He rummages through his bag and breaks off half of what he hopes is the chocolate chip one, shoveling it into his mouth.

shouldnt u be like asleep rn Smatan: Shouldn't you? no well yeah but i meant cause u have a game tmrw and then ur roadie

What a great way to reveal that he has the fucking BC calendar pdf saved, and looks at it daily! Super normal. Everyone does that. He’s going to die. Is this what having a crush entails? Shitty choices and not being able to shut up? It doesn’t feel like his last one at all. He’s very out of his depth here.

Smatan: Are you stalking me? i go to bu Smatan: No way, really? mf all of the team knows your schedule we have bets on how badly ur gonna lose Smatan: Asshole Smatan: But yeah, I probably should. Got distracted by my very stupid friend who was being mean to my fish

Mack screams. Okay, it’s more of a cut off screech than anything, but like, same thing. Friend. Smith might as well have proposed to him. Oh, he's so fucking ridiculous. Someone needs to electrocute him back into normality.

His inner voice mumbles something about how one can’t return to a place they’ve never been.

sounds like a dick Smatan: He's alright Smatan: Cute too cute????? Smatan: Adorable even i want you to die Smatan: I thought you said you wanted me to go to sleep?

Mack is going to hurt him. And then maybe put his tongue in his mouth for an extended period of time.

i said u should i dont care Smatan: Mhm Smatan: I'll miss you

Mack very nearly does drop his phone behind his bed at that, flinging it into the air before scrambling to catch it before it falls. He needs help. Where’s Lane? He probably has some weird cure for whatever’s happening inside of his heart.

in ur sleep? Smatan: I was thinking more on said roadie oh Smatan: But I do dream of you sometimes Smatan: Mostly about how good you look when I'm fucking you fuck offf Smatan: Take the compliment ... fine

He’s not quite so sure to say its not the compliment—if one can even call it that—that he’s losing his shit over, but the fact that Smith fucking dreams about him. It's probably not something he even should say.

Or. No, actually. They’re friends now, and also Mack wants to send him a fucking valentines card, so. He’s pretty sure Smith doesn’t cut it anymore.

Will dreams about him. About fucking him. He has, by some miracle of a chance, made it into his subconscious mind. This conversation is doing terrible things to his mental health. He needs to end it. It’s…well, it’s kind of early all things considered, but he should go to bed. It’s good for his health. Plus, he’d rather die than have Lane walk in on this.

go to sleep Smatan: Bossy pretty sure you meant correct Smatan: Come to think of it, I meant bratty dick

This dick. Why does Mack have to like him this fucking much again?

Maybe there is another version of himself somewhere out there in the universe that never got into all of this. Who was smarter, braver, better. Maybe he’s happier like that, with no distractions, nothing to hide, nothing to be afraid of. And fuck, Mack is so, so scared. It’s terrifying, all of this, each and every message he sends and every time he goes to see him is just another nail in the coffin. It’s just another moment in which he’s waiting with baited breath for the hatchet to come down and ruin his life.

Unfortunately for that other Mack and his own well being, he’s not exactly one to make good choices in the face of beautiful boys.

gn will Smatan: Good night Macklin

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

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𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Will knows two things for fact: he’s going to hell, and he's never finishing this fucking assignment. Fact, near fact, mostly fact. Regardless of what he wishes to tell himself about the first half, the second rings truer every minute. It’s not even that complicated: research and write six pages of media analysis on a topic of your choosing. Will picked youngest children, which is a very well documented thing to find, and yet somehow all he has is written down is his name. It’s not looking good for him.

All his problems have one root: Macklin Celebrini. More specifically, Macklin Celebrini and his stupidly adorable little smile and gap teeth and shoulders and how fucking good he looks in Will’s name, number, colors, clothing, bed. At this point there’s very little that he wouldn’t give him or give to see him. He needs a reality check but at the rate he’s going the only thing that’ll cut it is a near death experience or a trip to the Vatican. Neither of those things are super plausible right now, so he’s been sticking to cleaning and organizing and praying, and maybe if he does it enough, does it right, it’ll work.

The more likely thing to happen is that he’ll end up texting Celebrini at three in the morning that he thinks he’s beautiful when he comes. Basically, there’s little that can save him. But he’s doing fine. Will is completely one hundred percent A-OK. There has never been a single thing in his life that he’s backed down from once he’s started, save for baseball but he excludes that due to the circumstances. If there was a way to go pro in both leagues, he’d do it. Honestly, with the shit he’s been doing lately he’s starting to regret his choice. Though, seeing as BC has a baseball team, there’s a chance he would have ended right back at this predicament, just in a slightly different manner.

God, if you hate me just say so. Strongest battles, strongest soldiers, I know, but is there a chance you meant to pick someone else for this one?

God doesn’t answer, predictably.

He shuts his computer with a sigh, and blows out a breath. It’s quiet at Bapts, a combination of the earlier hour and pouring rain outside. Most of the student population has the common sense not to stray too far from their dorms, but Will was at Saint Mary’s before this. The storm had started just after he left, and the thought of running all the way back to the house was less than appealing. So, Bapts it is. Unfortunately its also fuckin stifling in here. Will would really rather be anywhere else in the world.

Like with Celebrini?

Alright. Fuck off with that. Will is a capable human being. He’s going to take a few deep breaths and then get out of here, rain be damned. Actually, it looks like it’s dying down a bit, so that’ll at least save him from getting drenched. Though with the way his chest is closing in on itself he’s fairly certain a monsoon wouldn’t stop him from leaving. Sometimes you just have to cut your losses and leave before doing something odd, like climbing out through the window and screaming on the roof. Something like that wouldn’t be very good for his reputation, and even if he had nothing, he would still have that. He’s nothing without a public image.

Or a private one. When’s the last time you were ever really yourself?

He stands so quickly that his chair almost tips over to the floor. He’s getting the fuck out of here. He’ll take a drive or something to clear his head, maybe up to Houghton Garden. He just needs a little break, that’s it. He’ll be fine. Will is always fine.

The rain has dulled to a stubborn drizzle by the time he gets downstairs, spotting dark against the gray of his USA hockey hoodie. It used to be about three sizes too big on him, but he’s not sixteen anymore. Now it’s almost too tight around his shoulders and barely long enough to cover his torso. He makes it work, even if Fowls says it’s part of his hoe collection. He’s still got no clue what any of them are on about with that shit.

BC is quiet and misty, which adds up to a blessing and a half. Will’s not sure if he can be a functioning human if talked to right now. He can’t wait for their upcoming roadie and the anonymity that it’ll give him. He’s exhausted of being recognized and tired of turning his head at every BU hoodie and thinking it’s him.

The terrible part of his dumb fucking yearning is that they haven’t even spoken since he watched him walk out onto his roof last week. He’d refused to look as he went over the edge, but ended up pausing on the second floor to just barely catch a glimpse of his broad frame carefully climbing down using the trellis and an oddly shaped column as a guide. He’ll have to put up a ladder or something—no. No ladder. A ladder implies that it’ll be a regular occurrence and even though he quite literally wishes he could put up a fucking billboard of Celebrini spread out on his sheets, he wont be. First of all, his mom would have a lot of questions about his financial management, and second of all that would be…it would be impossible, and bad, and very damning. Will’s just trying to get through the fucking month at this point.

He swears he’s trying his hardest. He’s staying late at practice and taking extra time to pray and trying to get ahead of all his assignments. He calls his parents and his dog and sets time in his schedule to talk to Grace. He makes plans for the guys and cleans the whole house from top to bottom and he’s doing better. He’s really fucking trying, it’s just that for some Godforsaken reason every single time he starts to doubt himself or feel like shit he wants fucking Celebrini to be there. To comfort him or make him laugh or fall asleep curled up with him in bed.

Will knows two things for a fact: he’s going to hell, and he has to get the fuck out of Chestnut Hill.

God’s sense of humor hasn’t really improved. Despite how blasphemous it is to say, it’s probably gotten worse. Will thinks He should consider psychiatry instead of stand-up.

He’s just barely past Merkert when he hears her.

“Will!”

Pausing with one foot hovering off the edge of the sidewalk, he turns. He’s cursed, isn’t he?

“Jeez, I’ve been running after you for like two blocks,” Grace complains, stopping just a foot away from him. Despite her claim she looks perfectly fine, not even the slightest sign of exertion on her face. She’s not even damp, and sure the rain has finally tapered off but there’s not a speck of water on her clothing either. Ridiculous.

“Miss me?”

“Not even a little bit. I do however have a use for you.”

When they were younger, Grace liked to use him like her own personal barbie. She’d dress him up in pink tutus, paint his nails and do his makeup. He looked like shit half the time considering she wasn’t really great at eye shadow, but it made her happy. Sometimes it would be her and her friends if they were having a sleepover. He’d liked the attention as much as he’d hated the whole thing.

It did give him one useful point of knowledge: the look she gets in her eyes when she’s about to annoy him.

Will groans before she can even continue, which earns him a very aggressive punch to the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Will, you play hockey. I guarantee that did not hurt.”

“Yes it did!”

“Okay then you have weak bones,” she says flippantly. Weak bones. What the fuck does that even mean?

Too quickly for him to argue, she loops her arm through his and starts tugging him with her down the street. He loves his sister, he really does. The urge to shove her into a shrub is merely a fleeting emotion.

“So my car’s out of commission—”

“Did you drive it into a pole again?”

“That was a golf cart you dick, and can you even park? Whatever. I need to go to Boston, you’re driving me.”

“I like how you assume I’m going to agree to this,” he grumbles, narrowly avoiding stepping into a puddle. God she walks fast.

“You are.”

“Why?”

“You’re a nice brother,” she beams, turning her biggest smile up at him. He glares back. That might work on their parents or dumb bartenders, but not him.

“Also, I’ll blackmail you.”

The jolt that goes through him is enough to almost tip him over sideways. Obviously she can’t know. She doesn’t. She’s just joking. Everything is fine, Will is fine, and she doesn’t know. There’s plenty of things she could blackmail him with, like telling their parents that he once stole a bottle of wine from a family gathering when he was fifteen and snuck out to drink it on the beach with one of the guys from their Falmouth church’s choir. He can’t remember his name but he can remember, like it was yesterday, the way the dying light of the sun glittered over the waves and reflected in his wide hazel eyes. The small scar on the side of his ribs from a car accident when he was younger, and the way the bronze of his cross blended with the wide expanse of tanned, freckled skin. Will had wanted to lick the salt off of his darkened mouth. He chalked it up to the alcohol, and cried himself to sleep with his bible in hand. They never spoke again.

He lets Grace talk about her classes and her friend’s boyfriend who they all think is cheating while they walk, letting most of it go in one ear and out the other. He acts surprised at the right parts, scoffs, agrees with her, rolls his eyes. Will is very good at faking things, and despite how well she might know him, nobody knows just how deep his issues run. Hell, he doesn’t even like to think about that shit. It’s a slippery slope and he’s got no intention of going down it.

Even though he would much rather not be under active threat of his mom finding out that he lost his virginity when he was fourteen or got high once with Leno in Novi after a shit loss, he doesn’t mind hanging out with Grace. The getting high was a one time thing though. He hated the feeling, and decided to stick to shitty stolen beer if he was that desperate to get out of his head, and he prayed extra hard after to atone. God probably has bigger problems than Will being a fucking idiot, but he's not going to take any risks.

He finds a little bit more energy to engage as they get closer to the house, mostly just because it means he gets to leave campus and talk to the person who—somewhat scarily—knows him best even if he wishes he could be alone to scream or go to a rage room. Maybe he should do that. Or he could start getting into fights during games, but he likes to keep his penalty minutes low so that may be an issue. Perhaps he’ll start boxing.

Like a nice person, he offers Grace the keys to his car when they get to it since she is first of all a better driver—though he’ll never say that to her face—and also knows where they’re going, but she simply scoffs and walks around to the other side.

Occasionally he wishes he was an only child. He wonders if Celebrini ever thinks the same—no. Jesus Christ, he needs to get a fucking taser or something and electrocute himself every time he has a bad thought.

Grace nearly falls on her face trying to get into the passenger seat and Will is so good. He doesn’t even laugh at her. There are tears in his eyes from the restraint, but he’s counting it as a win. Go figure that this would be as close as he can ever get to crying.

“Fuck you,” she grumbles, flopping down with a very aggressive huff.

“I said nothing.”

“I can feel your judgment.”

“No clue what you’re talking about,” he responds haughtily as he carefully avoids running into a stray trash can on the way down the street. He doesn’t need the embarrassment right now, or ever.

Grace insists on playing summery, bright pop music at max volume for utterly no reason other than to get under his skin. He doesn’t mind the genre or anything, far from it. Katy Perry is how he wakes up, but he’s just not in the mood to listen to some guy go on about…he's got no clue really.

Whatever’s playing now is softer though, a nice low bass line and soft vocals. He keeps a solid, firm grip on the wheel and his eyes on the road, letting Grace talk about how she really wants some interview to go well but half his attention is focused on the lyrics. He lets all of one half a line enter into his brain before the urge to break down sobbing hits him. It comes with the same familiarity that it always does: dry eyes, a horrible wrench in his chest and a lack of air in his lungs.

He tears me to pieces.

“Will?”

“Hm?”

“…you good Pats?”

He risks a quick glance at her and finds that stupidly open and caring expression on her face. He never wants to see it again and desperately wants to spill his guts.

Will isn’t a weak man. He’s survived this far, he can continue to do so.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says with a shaky smile. Will is always good. He might not always be spotless, but fuck if he cant lie about it. It’s probably just one sin, right? Like every time he’s done something wrong it’s just added up to a big thing and not a whole bunch of little ones. He can take that on, surely, but atoning for the hundreds of awful things he’s done might be the end of him. The whole strongest soldiers thing is seeming more and more like an excuse someone made up to justify their own sins.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Boston is gloomy, wet, and filled with shitty drivers. He might have little ground to stand on, but he knows he's not as bad as this fucking minivan. He’s been staring at the back of it for the past ten minutes in traffic and if he has to deal with this for much longer he might rear end it for fun.

Grace sighs and checks her phone again.

On second thought, maybe he won't. She’d kill him without hesitation and then probably have him checked into a psych ward.

He’s about to suggest possibly killing a small family when she starts to unbuckle her seatbelt.

“I’ll just walk,” she sighs, slinging her bag over her shoulder and offering him a quick smile.

“You sure?

“Yeah, it’s fine. Don’t worry about getting me after, I can just take the bus.”

Will frowns at that as she pushes open the door and hops out.

“…then why did I drive you here?”

Grace tilts her head to the side, her perfect blowout falling with it. A tiny smirk tugs at her mouth, a familiarly evil glint in her eye. Only child. Will wishes he was an only child. He’s never doing anything nice for her ever again.

“Bye!”

She doesn’t even give him the chance to answer or yell at her before the door is slammed shut in his face and he’s forced to watch her skip away down the sidewalk. He’s going to murder her. He’s not even sure why he expected a response. Grace always has her reasons for doing things and she never shares them.

He drags a hand through his hair with a sigh, and leans back against the seat to fiddle with his ring. Celebrini had said something about it once, an implication that he liked it or at least noticed it enough to realize when Will wasn’t wearing it. The soft flush over his face suggested that he hadn’t meant to let that information slip, which just made him all the more endearing. Maybe he’ll start wearing more, just to see how he reacts—

An ear piercingly loud horn blares behind him, and he jerks out of his daze to find the stupid minivan out of sight and an open road in front of him. Like the good Christian he is, he rolls down the window to flip the car off before starting to drive again.

Eventually, tired of the traffic and the noise, he pulls off of Commonwealth and onto a quieter side street, aimlessly passing the through tree lined blocks, brick houses, and clusters of BU students. He’s pretty sure he’s headed for South End, but he’s barely registering stop lights let alone where he actually is.

Alright. Game plan. He’s going to take some deep breaths, find a place to park, and get food. A good diet is important to improve play. He’s capable of being a responsible adult about some things. And then, well. Then he’s going to finish his fucking paper and spend absolutely zero time thinking about the way Macklin Celebrini looks first thing in the morning wearing his clothes. He’d filled them out in ways that Will could never have imagined, all strong shoulders and massive thighs that he prays he spent enough time on to leave marks. He loves the look of his teeth lingering on his skin.

God you’re fucking pathetic.

No thinking about that. Not now, not ever. There’s not even any music playing to drown out his mind, just him, the silence, and the memories. Worst case, he reads some Philippians from his pocket bible.

Will knows better than to falter now.

He parks next to a Dunkin, which considering how busy South End gets is a miracle. Open spaces are rare. He’s not complaining though. Any luck is appreciated.

Grabbing his bag from the back and a stray jacket that got left there, he steps out into the brisk autumn air, glancing down the street to the intersection. He doesn’t come around here all that often so he’s not super familiar with any of the stores but he’s sure it can’t be that hard to find a decent place to eat. He’s done harder things than walking down a block to get lunch.

He passes by a few Wentworth students as he turns the corner, narrowly avoiding running into what he thinks is one of their team’s goalies. He doesn’t really pay attention to D3 though, so fuck if he knows.

There’s a little sign a few meters ahead for a Chinese restaurant. He wasn’t really planning on something like that, but it could be nice. Stir fry, or maybe some kind of soup—

A bright burst of color catches his eye. There, knocking gently against the inside of their window is a pride flag, taunting him with its every minute movement. It stares back like it knows him, knows he’s watching and knows exactly what it’s doing to him. Fuck this shit, Will doesn’t care. It means nothing. He’ll find somewhere else. He stalks past it with a fiery determination. Not that he’s bothered. Will’s not that weak.

Above him a bang comes, sounding a bit like a chair was thrown at a particularly resilient window. He jerks his head up to make sure he’s not about to die, and finds a large sign drilled into the brick facade of the building that proudly reads: SMITH.

Will is going to get back in his car and drive it into the harbor actually, sins be damned. He’s already this far in, what’s one more? Hell is supposed to be cold anyways, so maybe he can still find a way to play hockey down there.

Silently cursing God and His shitty fucking jokes—in a polite and worshiping way of course—he stalks down the block, praying all the while that no one recognizes him. The last thing he needs right now is to have to pretend to be okay in front of a camera. He tugs the hood of his jacket up just to be safe, the soft fleece brushing against his cheek. In the aftermath of the storm the sidewalk is covered in puddles and fallen leaves, the wind swirling them gently under his battered sneakers.

Will knows that he’s been weird. Gabe keeps pressing him about it, and Leno swears he’s got a girl. Why else would he disappear in the middle of his own party after all? Plus, the fuck-ton of hickeys and bite marks littering his body don’t exactly help his case. The thing is, he thinks he’s being cool about it. If he pushed too hard on the lack of a person or his general innocence it would be objectively very suspicious. He’s keeping up appearances and going to church and being good.

Yet, somehow, Gabe knows something’s wrong, his fucking mom knows, even though she’s got no reason to, Grace knows, hell even Leno knows he's not acting right. He can’t figure out what he’s missing here. He looks fine. The permanent darkness under his eyes isn’t all that great, but it’s not an indicative sign of anything. Yes he’s been cleaning even more than and checking his phone at least twice a minute to see if he’s missed any texts and sure, his fake accounts have been getting a lot of use on Celebrini fan accounts and the BU page and his page but that’s…fine. It’s fine. Will’s fine.

Hasn’t anyone ever told you that lying is a sin?

In his moping he almost walks right past it. Jaho Coffee&Tea, a glittering open sign in the window and a cup decal on the door. Perfect. It doesn’t even look that busy either, just a few people sitting near the front and one hooded figure in the back.

He’s not going to let Celebrini or his fucked up head ruin his life. Will is going to get lunch, and work, and maybe then everything will be okay.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

He’s watching his spinach pie getting reheated when he realizes that he’s in for it.

The pie has nothing to do with the sudden drop in his stomach or anything. He’s actually looking forward to it. No, it’s worse than that. Far, far worse.

“You can take a seat if you’d like,” the guy behind the counter—Marius, with a little smiley face next to his name tag—offers with a quick smile, “I’ll bring it to you.”

Will should. Will should leave. Or die. Or…something. And he definitely shouldn’t do what he really wants to be doing. It’s a bad idea. He came here to avoid this shit. Will really needs to stop doing things. It would be so simple to just say actually, I’ll take it to go.

“Thanks,” is instead the word that comes out of his mouth as he turns towards the back. He just can’t help himself, can he? It’s like a disease, or some form of mind control. His body is moving without his consent, but fuck if he doesn’t want this. It’s stupid and reckless but this close, just a few feet away, all the reasons why he shouldn’t have been replaced with a desperate need.

In only a few quick strides Will’s there, staring at the brim of a low-pulled hood. He tosses his bag onto the empty booth seat, and sits down on the chair directly across from the one and only Macklin Celebrini.

“Hi,” he says, propping his chin up on one hand. No response. Celebrini keeps typing away at his computer with a determined kind of aggression. Will spots the slight glint of airpods underneath his hood, so at least he’s not just being a bratty little shit for fun. Will’s loath to admit it, but he does find it enjoyable. He likes a challenge.

He takes this rare opportunity where they’re not fighting or fucking to really look at him: a few soft strands of hair falling over his forehead, tired eyes still lit up a soft olive, a small bruise on his strong jaw. He’s beautiful, even though he looks a little pale and worn out. Will’s not really an expert on this stuff, but he thinks it’s a good description. Broad nose, pale pink mouth, furrowed brows. Will has a sudden, vile urge to lean across the table and kiss him.

He’s saved from that by a tray being set down in front of him with his food. Now that gets his attention. Celebrini flinches like a firework got set off next to his ear, tugging out his airpods and dropping them on the table. He glances rapidly between Will, the table and the receding figure of the Marius. His mouth is dropped open just enough for Will to see the tiniest hint of his gap teeth.

“What.”

“Hi,” Will repeats, sipping at his boba. He’s never been that into the stuff, but Grace brought him to a place last week and insisted that he try about five different flavors. By the end of it he’d managed to enjoy some. It’s way out of his diet, but he thinks he’s earned it, especially since he has to deal with this now.

No one told you to do this.

“What.” He leans back against the booth like he’s trying to get as far away from Will as possible, nearly knocking over his Redbull. From what Will can see he’s got three different kinds of caffeine laid out in front of him. Not that great for one’s overall health, but he doesn’t seem to be well rested.

“You should eat something,” Will says, picking up his muffin and dropping it in front of Celebrini’s computer. Not that he cares about him, or his diet, or if he’s doing well—okay. Yeah, sure, fuck it. Why not?

Will does in fact care a whole fuck of a lot about him.

“I…what are you doing here?” he demands, squinting at Will like he’s got a tracker on him or something.

“Getting lunch, working on a paper. Why, is there a problem?”

Will’s pretty sure he could die happy if the last thing he did was get to put that mild look of annoyance on Celebrini’s face.

“Okay, fine. Why are you like…in front of me though?”

“Do you not want me to be?”

Celebrini doesn’t seem to have an answer for that oddly enough. He splutters a lot, deflates, and very angrily takes a large bite of the muffin. Will can see the exact moment he realizes that it’s good by the way the tension around his eyes melt. It’s irrational to be jealous about that, right? Will’s probably—no, he’s definitely a better baker. He’ll have to prove it sometime.

“What if someone sees?” is the eventual response, a little slurred around the straw of his pale coffee. Of course he’d take his like that.

“You really think anyone is going to be paying attention to two people in the back of a cafe?”

Will does, in fact, think that. Well, its not so much that he thinks it, but that he's stressing the fuck out about it. At the end of the day however, the version of himself that makes conversation isn’t bothered by such trivial things. Or at least the version he is around Celebrini. He brings out something in Will that he’s never seen before, and he cannot for the life of him decide whether or not that’s a good thing.

He’s saved from having a crisis about that by a sharp kick to his shin. This fucking asshole. Celebrini gives him a smug smile, and sips delicately at some bright green drink. Will is not such a loser that he’d play a game of footsie at a cafe with the guy he hates-slash-fucks sometimes. He’s above that kind of thing.

Not above being a sinner though are you?

Gritting his teeth, he stabs at his pie and politely ignores Celebrini’s entire existence. He can feel the heavy weight of his gaze but takes the safe route of pretending that he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel like fighting or flirting right now: he wants to eat, maybe fuck with him a bit, and work.

And, well, you know. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it, his presence is…calming. It settles something within him, quiets the rapid pounding of his heart. It also makes him go into overdrive, but that’s another thing for another day’s thinking when he’s not on the brink of insanity.

Celebrini spends a few minutes staring at him eat like at any moment he might try to kill him or shove his tongue down his throat. In all fairness both of those thoughts have crossed Will’s mind, but it seems like more of his thing. After all, he did start all of this. Will was content to never see him again even if it felt like a supernova was happening in his skull that very first night. He could have walked away. He was going to. Celebrini just happened to kiss him first.

The rain picks up outside again, a rapid patter against the windows and he’s suddenly very grateful he didn’t decide to sit in the front. He can feel the slight chill of the breeze even from back here. Instead he chews on his tapioca and mentally prepares to study while Celebrini has gone back to doing…whatever it is he’s got going on. He doesn’t look super pleased to be doing whatever though, and he also hasn’t put his airpods back in. Intriguing.

He has to fight himself to not talk after throwing out his trash, knows that if he starts he’ll either do something he regrets or…well.

Or, they could have a nice, pleasant conversation like they’d done before. They could chat about annoying professors and ridiculous friends, about how much Will had liked having him in his space and how he knew Celebrini liked it too. Hockey doesn’t feel so big and unknown anymore, not after last week so he could even bring that up. He knows the Terriers have a road trip soon. Not that he’s stalking their schedule or anything like that. He’s just…aware of things that happen around him, and BU is very important. Rivalries are always going to be maintained, and he’ll be damned if they don’t finish this year as the conquering force.

Still, he can put aside his aggression for a moment if it means he gets to see the enthusiasm Celebrini has for hockey again. Not across the ice but across a table, something shared instead of something fought for.

He should probably start looking into psych wards in the area again.

Luckily Celebrini seems too wrapped up in his own shit to see how hard Will’s trying to cling onto, well. Everything. Whatever, he doesn’t have time for shit like that right now. He takes a few deep breaths and sends a quick prayer up to the heavens. They’ll doubtfully respond, but at least he’s trying.

Celebrini briefly looks up as he pulls his computer out, and flushes a soft pink when he catches Will’s eye. For all the confidence he has on the ice or that he tries to fake on rare occasions, he’s rather shy. It’s sweet. Will needs to go to church after this, honestly.

Either Bapts is cursed or Celebrini's presence alone has managed to bring out the motivation within him. Within twenty-five minutes he’s managed to scavenge his subjects, write an outline and even start the first paragraph. Or maybe he was just hungry. That seems more likely than the other options, since he doesn’t believe in ghosts and ninety percent of the time Celebrini makes him murderous. And a little aroused, but that’s his own problem to deal with.

He sips slowly at the americano he’d caved and ordered, staring at his blinking cursor. He’s focused, he swears. He knows what he has to do, he knows that he can. But there’s an evil little voice nagging at the back of his head that’s telling him to say something. Anything at all, so long as it captures his attention, makes him smile or laugh or roll his eyes.

It’s a desperate and insatiable itch, freezing his body and all sanity in his bones until all he can do is think about him. Airpods are still on the table. He’s got one hand resting on the table, the other curled loosely around his can.

You’ve already caved once. What’s wrong with more?

“Whatcha working on?”

Celebrini glances up at him with a start, the cord of his hoodie dropping out of his mouth. Will wishes that was him, chewed up and spit coated.

“Quiz. I mean, I finished it, technically, but my professor is a dick and decided to make the last question a fucking essay response, so. I mean who does that?”

“Psychopaths,” Will offers, resting his arms on the table and leaning forward.

“Exactly. Lane says I’m overreacting which is crazy. If he wanted an essay he could have just asked for one, honestly.”

“Mm.”

He tries to bite back a smile, but Celebrini just looks so adorable like this, scowling and bothered over something that for once isn’t Will. He’s been dying for this dumb shit, just hearing stuff about his day. He thought they were improving on that route, but after the radio silence he was having doubts. Clearly all Celebrini needs is a good push.

“And I swear he’s had it out for me since the start of the semester. Like sorry that I’m busy and have a life that also includes making money for the school which in turn gets you paid. No one told him to fucking work somewhere with a massive athletic program. And it’s like every single time that I do anything, even if it’s what he wanted, he’s pissed. God forbid I go out of state to play, or don’t pay full attention in class when I’m only gonna be here for a fucking year. He’s the worst. I hope he gets hit by a fucking car, and then the car explodes on top of him and then a sinkhole opens up to take him directly into hell.”

The moment he’s done talking—which Will was sort of doubting would ever happen—he takes a deep, gasping inhale and then deflates against the back of the booths. His cheeks are red from exertion, his chest heaving. Will wishes that was because of something else, like him, on his knees under the table with his lips wrapped around his c—

“Wow,” he blurts in an attempt to stop his brain from leading him down a bad path, “You really hate him, huh?”

Celebrini nods so quickly that a few strands of hair flop forwards into his face. Will’s reaching out before he can stop himself, tucking it gently back behind his ear. There’s a millisecond in which he’s just cradling his jaw, the soft skin warm against his palm before he jerks his hand back.

Will has never wished to remove his own brain from his head more than right now. What the fuck possessed him to do that? Celebrini doesn’t even say anything, just stares at him unblinking, a brighter red than Will has ever seen him even mouth open between his legs. God does he wish he’d gotten a picture of it. Naturally thinking about that means he’s reminded of what Celebrini had said, what he’d thought of Will.

Sure, he can be a distant, arrogant, stuck-up asshole sometimes. But he’s just as deep in this as Celebrini is. Even if somehow he wasn’t, he would never do something like that. It would look bad on his part too, and would probably cost him a chance at getting to the league. Besides, Will would rather cut off his own hand than ever hurt him.

Pathetic, always so fucking path—

He’s saved from his own conscience and or any other awful decisions by a particularly loud buzz. Celebrini swipes his phone up immediately, fingers flying over the screen, shoulders tensed. He looks a little panicked, and for a sudden and terrible moment Will thinks he might have to leave. Which is stupid on many accounts, but even though he knows that it doesn’t take the fear away. He wants him to stay, wants to ruminate in his presence for as long as he can get. He wants—selfishly, desperately, irrelevantly—to take his hand and see if the warm blood inside of his veins could somehow transfer over, make them connected down to the cell.

Alrighty then. Lobotomy it is.

“Asshole,” Celebrini mutters under his breath and Will is exactly one second away smoothing the furrow of his brows out by hand when he tosses his phone onto his bag and huffs out a sigh. He looks so young when he’s pissed off, like he hasn’t quite figured out how to tie in adulthood with rage. “Sorry, just Aiden.”

Will is caught, inexplicably, between annoyance that Celebrini’s own brother would dare interrupt…whatever the fuck they were doing, and relief that hes not about to be abandoned. He should know better than to question whatever’s happening inside his head by now.

“Still on your ass?”

“Pretty sure he was going to have an aneurysm after…yeah. Still debating murdering Lane for telling him I didn’t come home until like eight am. I swear they gossip about me when I’m not around.”

One of the many perks of knowing most of his housemates for years is that they all know better than to bug him about where he is all the time. If there’s anything important to mention they’d already know. It hasn’t stopped Gabe from pressing him about shit lately, but it’s better than nothing. Worst case scenario, he tells them he’s cleaning. They’d rather bag skate for hours than face his wrath for interrupting that.

Will should probably offer his sympathy and then move on. Direct them to some even footing, or inquire more about Celebrini’s life outside of hockey. Ask about his mom or something boring but still informative. Instead, a little prickle of irritation sparks. Will risked way more than he did that night and yet somehow he’s still the one being ghosted.

“Is that why you’re ignoring me again?”

The amount of expressions that manage to flit over Celebrini’s face within ten seconds is honestly impressive. He keeps opening and closing his mouth like even the idea of attempting words is too difficult for him. It’s a simple question honestly; Will can’t fathom why he’s having such trouble with it. Actually, it’s a fact. He’s being ignored. Repeatedly. He figured they were past all of that, but no. All he got was a left on read to his message asking if he got home safe. Not even a confirmation, a thank you, a bratty retort. Nothing about what happened, their talk, the morning. Celebrini can climbed down from his roof for fucks sake, and yet somehow he cant even muster a single text?

“I’m not ignoring you,” he settles on, all standoffish and indignant again.

“No? Then what would you call it, pray tell?”

“I…what, do you want me to text you good morning every day?”

Yes. Yes I fucking want that you dick, of course I do.

“No, but a simple response would have been nice,” he snaps, trying his best to keep his voice down. Whisper arguments in public spaces are pretty on brand for them, but he doesn’t need this to escalate any further. Celebrini just…has a knack for pushing his buttons. And toying with his emotions. And making his dick hard at inconvenient times.

“I was busy.”

“For a week?”

Its not really even a question, more of a pointed statement that he hopes conveys the message of: I know you’re a fucking liar.

“I have a life! It’s not like we’re friends,” Celebrini spits with a kind of vitriol Will hasn’t heard in a while. It does the job very well.

He flinches. God fucking help him, he’s trying his best but he does, and there’s no way to hide it either. Celebrini’s eyes widen a fraction, sucking in a sharp breath. He starts to say something, probably an excuse or a reminder that no, they aren’t, but Will gets there first. If being a coms major has taught him anything, it’s how to reroute a conversation.

You know you’ve been a worthless, manipulative piece of shit since birth. Don’t pretend otherwise.

“No. But I don’t hate you, and you don’t hate me. We’re neutral. So I think it’s a fair question to ask. Is there an issue I’m unaware of?”

He’s aware his tone is clipped, a far cry from what it was just moments ago. Celebrini knows it too from the way he’s looking at him. It’s repulsive. It’s…pitying. Caring. It contains way too much emotion for whatever the fuck it is that they’re doing, right now or ever. Will would tell him to fix it if he wasn’t so busy trying to regain his perfect control on his own feelings.

“Nope.”

“Really,” he drawls, pressing the toe of his shoe against Celebrini’s ankle.

“Really. I’m cool.” He presses his back.

“So am I.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile. Will wants to kiss him so badly it aches. But he won’t. Because he has restraint, and decorum, and he’s not a complete buffoon. That’s Leno’s job.

He does need something here though, a change in direction not just to avoid the silence but to avoid…that. As much as he’d like to tell himself that Celebrini holds no sway over him and that a simple fact can’t truly hurt him, it’s too blatant of a lie. Will’s pretty sure he couldn’t accept it even if he was Satan or something ridiculous like that.

“What were you listening to?”

Celebrini blinks in surprise, eyes flicking first to his discarded phone and then his closed computer. It’s a quick and very obvious shift, but he keeps up just fine.

“Oh. Uhm. Nothing, just uh…music?”

Will raises a single brow at that, and at the blush creeping back into Celebrini’s face. He’s so pathetically not smooth about a single fucking thing. It’s as terribly endearing as it is entertaining. He wonders if he’s a shit liar just to him or if it’s a thing with everyone else in his life. Not that Will’s in his life like that, but…oh whatever. He doesn’t have the energy to figure himself out right now, not with Celebrini right here in front of him squirming in his seat.

“Ookay…what kind of music?”

“It. Uhm. Uh. Nothing you’d know,” he fumbles out, trying to hide himself behind his watery coffee. Will’s not that gullible.

“Celebrini.”

“Smith.”

“What, is it Disney or something? Musicals? I don’t judge,” he teases. If anything it would just add to more of his reasons why he finds Celebrini interesting.

“No! It’s. Just. I. Why do you care?”

Will shrugs, absentmindedly toying with his ring. He notes the way Celebrini glances down at his hands and swallows, pupils widening just enough to mean something. He likes knowing that he drives him even a little bit insane. It’s only fair.

“Why are you being so defensive?”

“Am not.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Oh my God you’re such a child-”

“Sia!”

Celebrini claps a hand over his mouth, and even with most of his face hidden, Will can see the evident horror. He stares at him silently, the seconds ticking past as he attempts to process that information. He figured Celebrini would be into…country, or something awful like that. He’s got no idea what Canadians are into. Drake? He’s never really liked any of his music. This however…this is certainly unexpected.

“Like…with the hair or…”

“Do you know another one?”

“I’m just asking!”

Celebrini groans and lets his head drop down to the table as Will fights to maintain his composure. He won’t laugh. It’s not even funny, it’s just so out of left-field that he’s got no idea how to react.

“Okay…”

“You said,” Celebrini grumbles, face still smushed and hidden into the cool plastic, “That you wouldn’t judge.”

Will snorts, reaching out to tug his hood back. If he takes the opportunity to also run his fingers through the soft mess of his hair…well. That’s between him and God.

Now that he’s got nowhere to hide, Celebrini pouts up at him, all puppy eyes and a pink mouth. He’s making it so hard to be a normal, functioning human. He takes a deep breath and thinks about how cataclysmic of a scandal it would be. Sunday service. Falmouth. Peace, quiet, cleaning supplies.

Will can do this.

“I’m not,” he says softly—too soft, too…fuck—as he leans back in his chair, “It’s just unexpected.”

“Fuck off. I didn’t intend for it to happen.”

Will squints at him. Maybe he hit his head. Injuries can happen in practice.

“…I’m sorry?”

“Like, I didn’t set out to get super into her second fucking album dude,” Celebrini snaps, but it lacks the heat of genuine irritation.

“To be clear, you specifically like her second album.”

“Yes.”

Before Will can tell him there’s something wrong with his head or laugh in his face, he sits up a bit straighter and says with the air of someone who thinks this information does anything to help his case,

“Well, I got the CD first.”

Oh God, he’s so absurd. Will has to fuck him soon or he’ll die.

“You got the CD first,” he repeats, a little incredulous.

“Yes. It’s your fault actually.”

“How is this my fault?”

“The semantics don’t matter. Just is.”

Will is so confused by this conversation. Nothing about Celebrini makes any sense. He wants to claw inside his head, see how his brain works. Not even just to know what he thinks of Will, but to see what he thinks of everything. He’s a little like the sun in his blinding intensity. He’s sure there’s something in physics that would explain it. A magnetic pull or a black hole. Will wouldn’t mind being destroyed like that. An eternity of nothingness doesn’t sound too bad if Celebrini is the nothing.

Of course, that’s a ridiculous idea. He could never be nothing, not in life and not to Will.

“You’re judging me,” he accuses, crossing his arms as if that makes him look intimidating. Will’s fairly certain that the only time he’ll ever be able to pull off being even slightly imposing is on the ice. Mostly, it was hot.

“No, no. It’s…it’s cute. You’re cute.”

Why is it that you still can’t control your mouth? Useless, Godless faggot.

Celebrini makes a very odd sound, somewhere between a squeak and a wheeze and immediately tries to play it off as a cough. He doesn’t even remotely succeed. He doesn’t need to. Will’s already standing, scanning the room for a door. This is such a bad idea. This is possibly his worst idea ever, but he’s already in this shit. There’s no backing down now.

“What—”

“Shut up and follow me,” he orders, not bothering to look back to see if Celebrini obeys. He already knows he will. The store has all but entirely cleared out, just a single table outside and no sign of even the staff. Perfect for what he wants, no, needs. Keeping his head down and tugging his hood back up as he rounds the booths and twists open the bathroom door. Celebrini follows him in a second later, confusion written all over his perfect face. Will ignores the beginnings of a question that he doesn’t have the time to answer, locks the door, and pushes him up against it.

In the few seconds he has to think this through he notes that Celebrini smells like fresh linen and, inexplicably, maple syrup. Fucking Canadians. He’d be angry but it would be such a waste of time with what he’s got in front of him. Celebrini’s opened mouthed and a little out of breath, and it’s been forever. He’s never letting him get away for this long again, no matter how much it’ll kill him in the end.

“Smitty,” Celebrini whispers into his mouth.

“Hm?”

He feels a little drunk, not the shot of vodka and a shitty chaser kind, but the bottle of wine over a good meal sort. Indulged. All of this is an indulgence.

“Are you gonna kiss me now?”

By now he should know. Will certainly does. It roams around his skull, lingers in his mind at night when he tries to fall asleep. He’d never deny him a single fucking thing.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Will knows three things for a fact: he's going to hell, Celebrini’s lips are ever so slightly chapped and swollen from how much he chews on them, and he missed this more than he misses innocence. He spreads a hand underneath his hoodie, reveling in the soft, toned skin that he’s rewarded with. Celebrini shudders under his touch, a moan slipping out of his mouth as he grips at Will’s shoulders. Fuck. Fuck.

It shouldn’t be this good. Not after all this time and not because of the time. He should have gotten bored with this, with him, and left this in the past. A drunken encounter that one day he can tell jokingly to his buddies, in the straightest and least damning way possible.

That’s another lie and you know it.

“Fuck,” Celebrini mumbles, pulling back with a gasp. Will’s spit shines on his lips, and he has to lean down to suck a mark into what little of his neck is available. He feels like his heart might beat out of his chest, all that desperate ache finally starting to soothe away. He’s probably holding him too tight, fingers digging into his hips, but he can’t be assed to care. It’s been too long.

He also can’t deny himself this, a quick nip at his jaw, the firm, solid press of Celebrini against him. It’s never like this with girls, not that he’s even looked once at anyone but him since they started…this. Whatever it is. He’s all push back and hard edges that fall away to the gentle roundness of muscle. Will can feel all that strength in his arms, and knowing that Celebrini could take charge, take power over him but won’t, is an absolute mindfuck. He needs to drink about it. He needs to run drills about it.

He needs to go to fucking church about it.

Oh fuck he has to go. He has to go right now, what on God’s green earth is he doing? This is insane, anyone could find them here and Will would be absolutely done for. He hasn’t been doing all of this shit for nothing. He’s good, he's doing good and he's trying and he cant fucking let it go to waste because Macklin Celebrini likes weird music and makes him feel like he’s finally found what life is supposed to be like.

He jerks himself away and turns away from the flash of surprise and hurt across Celebrini’s face. He’ll live. Will on the other hand…

“I uhm…I gotta go—”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll…I’ll see you?”

Celebrini cringes over the last part as he shuffles away from the door, looking every bit a scared seventeen year old and it takes every last shred of the person Will has created not to be ruined by it.

“Mm,” is all he manages to get out before he’s unlocking the door and stepping out, shutting it swiftly behind him. There’s still no one here, thank God, and Will is already very practiced in clearing away any evidence of his existence in a timely manner. He packs his bag with a numbness that reaches down to the bone and nearly runs out the door when he hears Celebrini coming out behind him. He’s a stronger man than that though.

No the fuck you aren’t.

The walk is a blur, he knows that much. He passes by an overflowing garden and a park filled with school children, bus stops and lively restaurants. He acknowledges none of it, just sets his sights on what he needs and lets his body do the rest.

It’s dark. Well, not dark but dim. The storm clouds have come back, and if he was more hubreic he’d say they were summoned by his mood. He knows better however—though he rarely knows better when it comes to anything else—than to think he could possibly hold the will of God within his own hatred. Regardless, Holy Cross is dim, lit mostly by candles and some stray light coming in through the stained glass.

The confessional booths are inlaid with the white walls. He nearly collapses inside of one, dropping to his knees and bowing his head. There’s no priest inside. Honestly he’s not sure if there’s anyone in here at all.

When he was younger he used to tell the truth in confession. He’d say that he lied to his parents or stole something from Grace. As he got older he stopped, or rather he stopped telling the whole truth. Maybe it’s time he starts again.

Forgive me Holy Father for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession.

He swallows around a rough throat and for just a flicker of a moment, wonders if he feels the sting of approaching tears. Naturally, he doesn’t cry. How foolish to believe such a thing could happen.

I have lied, to others and to myself. I have judged, I have dishonored myself and in turn I have brought dishonor to You. I have despaired over my acts, I have drank, I have acted in hatred to those I love, I have lain with a man as I should with a woman, I have detested every inch of my body in doing so and I have loved it just the same. I have strayed from the path, from Your word, from who I am meant to be. I have marked my name upon Hell’s waiting list again and again for mere mortal pleasure and I haven’t cared that I’ve done so. I don’t think I can call myself your child anymore. I don’t think I can ever really fix this. I think I might die like this, a shell of what I could have been, and it is all because I made the foolish, impudent choice to seek comfort in the arms of one who I never should have touched. I have become—

The door bangs open across from him, the rustle of fabric and a low cough coming next.

“Hello?”

Will does not turn back from adversity. He faces it head on like his mother taught him, like his coaches drilled into his body, like God raised him to act.

As of late however, he hasn’t been doing a whole lot of in the will of God shit. So, he does what he has to: he saves himself. Preservation first, fixing later. Will always fixes things. Maybe he’s yet to take that approach with himself, but surely it can’t be that hard.

If it was easy, you’d have done it by now.

He runs. Straight out of the booth, down the aisle and out the doors. He takes the steps two at a time and lets all the conditioning and endurance training propel him down the street, letting the slowly down-pouring rain and whistling wind nip at his heels. He knows exactly how to wrap all his tangled thoughts and rattling emotions up in one big fistful and set it on fire. He’s done it a thousand times before, and he’ll do it a thousand times again.

Maybe he’s nothing more than a vessel for sin, because sprinting down Washington Street with a storm at his back makes him feel a little like he wrought it upon earth, if only to do so to himself. Hubris, lies, more and more things to throw onto his pile of iniquity.

Will has better things to do than debate his religion. Will has to get to pretending again, and yes that surely makes him a bad person and a bad son, brother, friend, lover, Christian, a bad soul. Right now he doesn’t care.

He’ll atone for it later.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

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He almost missed it the first time. In hindsight, it’s a little embarrassing that he didn’t notice before. Maybe it’s because he still holds onto some old beliefs that need righting, or maybe it’s because everything else about them was so overwhelming that something like that was overlooked. Within just a few months they had gone from barely knowing each other to being attached at the hip. That’s likely what blinded him: nothing was odd with them anymore.

It happened at dinner. Looking back at it now, it had been evident for hours, but it wasn’t until later in the evening that he finally noticed. Tabea had insisted on inviting Will over, had been so happy to see that Macklin was making a friend his age. The first morning of dev camp he had complained about it, said something along the lines of, Smiths evil and i hate him.

He had returned with a toothy smile on his face in the passenger seat of Will’s car.

From that moment on it was a done deal. They were one solid unit, growing closer by the day. On the ice they were a machine and off it they were a nightmare. He couldn’t even complain about it, not without feeling bad. They were happy, Mack especially so. He had worried when he first arrived that he would struggle adjusting, and had hoped for a miracle. And then, Will showed up.

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The doorbell rung around five, right in the middle of him telling a story from his rookie season.

“I swear on my life it—”

He’d been abruptly cut off by Mack flinging himself off of his stool and springing out of the kitchen, and was left standing there with half a lime in his hand and a world of bewilderment in his head. From down the hallway came a bang and some muffled swearing before he heard the door swing open. Immediately, there was laughter. He had rolled his eyes and gone back to his cutting board, ignoring the growing ruckus. Boys will be boys and all that.

Mack had returned three minutes later, his hair disheveled and cheeks red but grinning, Will barely half a step behind. He’d flopped back into his seat and demanded that Joe start the story again so Will could hear it. The man in question was more polite, even shook his hand before Mack dragged him to sit next to him, eyes wide and eager. That kind of joy was infectious and he’d never felt it more than then.

Eventually he had corralled them outside, the table already stacked with plates and the grill open and ready. River had insisted upon playing basketball with them despite being at least a head shorter, and he’d been about to tell him not to annoy them when Mack had stolen the ball from him and made a shot that went a solid four feet off of the net. Will had been too busy laughing to help for the first few minutes of their game, but once recovered, had teamed up against Mack. His reasoning was that he had an unfair advantage, what with the Warriors, and that also, beating a child is petty. That mentality had lasted up until Mack had aggressively pouted at him, and then it was MackandWill again. River never stood a chance.

“They’re sweet,” Tabea had said, a soft smile on her face. “Its good that they have each other.”

And yes, it was very good. Just…maybe not for everyone else around them. Already there was this bond there, something inseparable and untouchable. And there was also an overwhelming amount of idiocy in the air surrounding them. He’d already heard his fair share of complaints from Patty and some of the older guys on the team. Dumb teenagers are needed for the rebuilding process, but they’re also a tiny bit of a headache. Fresh faced and energetic with absolutely no concept of how to be an adult. He finds it as endearing as he does annoying.

“Got over the hating thing pretty quickly, didn’t he?”

At that, Tabea snorted, and reached over to grab the pitcher off the table next to him.

“They always do.”

Dinner—despite the way it started—was a quiet but jubilant affair. Will was more closed off, clearly a bit un-used to being on the older side of the family but he still made an effort. He could easily see how Mack had younger siblings though, that loose grin and the way he joked.

They fed off each other. That was what he noticed at first: one would make a comment and immediately look for a smile or approval from the other. It had juvenile shyness written all over it, the way Mack would tease about his graying beard and whip his head to the side to catch the exact moment Will began to giggle. At first he thought it was just youth, the fact that neither of them really knew anyone else out there and certainly no one who could understand what it was like to be them. He had Sergei in his rookie season, but that was pretty much it. He knew Patty already, but they weren’t teammates until some years into the league. It’s different for those two and he knew it from the first day he saw them together. Now though, he can see why.

It was Tabea, of course, who’d first pointed it out.

They had talked late into the evening, River and Ayla having long since gone to bed. Mack was on some tangent about how obviously hockey is Canada’s sport even if there’s more American teams. Will disagree on the basis that football was invented in Canada and yet is now, obviously, America’s sport. Therefore, why not hockey too? Already Joe knew better than to try and interrupt them when they got like that, and instead had helped clear away dishes with a conspiratorial smile.

“They’re quite close, aren’t they?”

He glanced over to Tabea who was watching them from the patio doorway.

“Sure,” he’d shrugged, not really paying it any mind. A lot of rookies got close, and yeah maybe he’d never seen it happen so fast or as deeply connected as the two of them, but you see new things every day. He was way more focused on teaching them life lessons and breakaway tips than pondering their friendship.

“Joe.”

“Mhm?”

“They’re…close. Aren’t they?”

At that, he’d looked up from the sink and squinted at her. He’s not the brightest bulb in the box, but he likes to think he’s not entirely stupid. From the tone of voice it was evident she didn’t agree.

“…yeah?”

A sigh was the only response she’d given before going to check on dessert.

At that point, he’d made an attempt to take her words to heart. Yeah, they were close. Mack had an ankle resting over one of Wills under the table and their elbows were pressed together Sure, every time one of them even slightly moved the other followed like they were chained together. New friendships were like that, wanting to be as close to someone as possible, wanting to reach new depths of understanding.

By the time they got back outside the argument had subsided and instead Mack was gently cradling Wills hand in his own, giving him a palm reading. Kids these days.

After way too much conversation, bickering, and some well intended ribbing—all directed towards him—it got too cold to stay outside. Tabea had waved them into the living room and insisted she could bring dessert in herself. Like a polite husband and an aspiring role model, he ignored that entirely and left the kids to talk about some show they were watching.

“So,” she started the second they stepped into the kitchen.

“So?”

“For the love of god Joe, do you see what I mean or not?”

He can distinctly remember blinking down at her and saying nothing. It was probably very evident that the gears of his brain were still trying to work things out and from the heavy sigh she gave, she knew it. He was trying, but…they were close. What more was there to say?

A loud screech came from the other room, followed closely by a very high pitched yelp and immediate giggling. At least, he’d thought, I get to see into the future of fatherhood now rather than later. Also, I need a drink.

In the end, all he got was Tabea handing him two plates of strawberry shortcake and hissing under her breath to keep an eye out. His eyes had been out. She just wasn’t very specific about what they needed to be looking for. He’s had a few hits to the head, implications aren’t his strong suit.

When they’d returned, the two of them were sitting politely on the love-seat, panting and disheveled. Tabea had squinted at them, the way there was an obvious imprint of the carpet on Mack’s face, the imprints of a hand around Will’s wrist. Those two loved to wrestle, or rather, Mack loved to prove a point and if he couldn’t do it by arguing, he would do it by force.

They had simply smiled with the air of two people who fully believed they were good at lying, and accepted their food with a very false sense of casualty. As he sat down across from them he caught Tabea’s eye and had a brief moment of solidarity in their antics. She rolled her eyes at them in a similar manner to when River and Ayla argue about something stupid: tired and still incredibly fond.

It was already getting late, nearing ten o-clock but talking to the two of them made the time pass without notice. Tabea wanted to know what it was like living with Patty, what Will liked about Boston, how it felt to be on the other end of the country. Asked about their previous and mostly forgotten rivalry, which got Mack on a tangent of complaints about the dick trick, how annoying it was to see his face all over the city, and then somehow onto the topic of his brother.

“I swear,” he’d said in between shoveling icing in his mouth, “you’d have gotten along great with how much you like to torture me.”

“When have I ever tortured you?”

“Every single day,” he snapped.

“Okay, when has Aiden ever tortured you. He’s perfectly nice—”

“No he’s not! That’s just what he wants you to think! When we were little he’d make my life a living hell and then act all innocent in front of our parents and they would always believe him and i just looked like some fucking crybaby—”

Mack cut himself off with a firm click of his jaw, a little out of breath and very flushed. In the corner of his eye Joe saw Tabea raise an incredulous brow, while Will on the other hand seemed to find the whole thing delightful. There was a wide grin on his face as he stared at Mack who was staring directly at the floor.

“Passionate, huh?” Will drawled, brushing a casual hand through Mack’s hair to fix a stray lock.

“Shut up,” he mumbled around an aggressively large mouthful. It left a smudge of whipped cream on the side of his lip that Joe was about to point out like a nice caring person. He didn’t get the chance. Instead Will reached out to wipe it off himself with a gentle brush and licked it off his finger.

Kids, he thought, and then oh shit.

He’d felt like he was watching a movie, the two of them sharing a soft, lingering look. Mack looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen him: posture loose, eyes soft and a shy smile directed entirely at Will, like he was the sun and Mack had just spent his whole life underground.

It made sense, all of a sudden. The rapid attachment, the conspiratorial glances and late night phone calls. Of course they lived in each other’s pockets and laughed at terrible jokes and ended up sitting halfway on top of one another. They were together. They were falling in love.

He caught Tabea’s look, and finally he got it. It was like they were shut out entirely, the two of them locked up in their own little bubble. She narrowed her eyes. He narrowed it down. One of the perks of a long relationship is the ability to communicate without words…mostly. Sometimes he’s a little slow on the uptake. Regardless, he understood her then and in perfect clarity.

By the time they had finished eating and cleared away any remaining mess, it was past midnight. Will had gotten all of two words out about driving home before Mack interrupted.

“Just stay here,” he’d insisted, crossing his arms and putting on his most demanding face. Will didn’t even protest, just blew out a defeated sigh and mumbled something about having a spine. Joe had seen the proof of it, or rather the proof of the lack. When Mack wanted something, Will was there to give it. Hell, the kid even pushed for it. No wonder they were dating.

Tabea had sent them off to the guest house with a hug and a breakfast invitation. The moment the door shut however, she whirled around to face him.

“You really think they’re…”

He hadn’t quite found the right words to describe it. He still hasn’t. Dating feels too childish even with their age. Fate seems about right. Destined, cosmically intertwined. Soulmates. That’s what he would later go to bed thinking about. It’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to what they are.

“Well you saw them.”

He blew out a sigh, scrubbed a hand over his face. Of course nothing could be simple in this team.

“Yeah, yeah I did. I’ll have a talk tomorrow about, you know. General safety. Good communication.”

“Wear a condom and don’t go to bed angry is your grand plan?”

The critical brow she raised made him feel a bit like a scolded child. It was also kind of hot.

“You got a better one?”

At that she’d shrugged and leaned back against the wall.

“Not really.” Then, after a brief bout of pondering silence, “They’re cute together.”

“Adorable.”

“I hope they last,” she’d said, tone a little sad.

They could be supportive all they wanted, but the fact of the league still remained. Even if they did manage to work out a relationship with hockey, no one could really know about it. He’d known his teammates to fall in love with each other or some random guy outside of the sport entirely. It never really seemed to end well. He’s still got his hopes up. Maybe they’ll prove the narrative wrong: be the best at the thing they loved and the best at loving each other. Fuck did he hope, and fuck does he still.

Come morning time, Joe had finalized his talk. Will was still sleeping when Mack came in, but he figured he could do it with just the one. It was a little awkward at first and he didn’t really have all the right words but he got the point through. Don’t be stupid, use protection, always talk about your feelings. He’d made him swear to pass it along to Will, not wanting to have a repeat conversation. Mostly, he was glad he didn’t have to worry about one of them getting someone pregnant. Fuck if that isn’t a talk he hates having.

The man himself had shown up fifteen minutes later and pressed himself up against Mack at the counter, immediately launching into a story about some dream he had. Close, he'd thought, reminiscent and a little bit in awe. Close wasn't even scratching the surface.

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After that he couldn’t not see the moments. Post training chatting in their stalls, heads leaned together on the bench, the late nights over and mornings where Mack comes home late. He’s pretty sure some of the other guys have started to notice it as well; a lingering glance or a tilted head. They never talk about it, just find it, hold it and move on. It’s partially out of respect and partially out of a fear of breaking something so beautifully fragile. It was MackandWill and WillandMack, attached at the hip and unbreakable no matter what. The perfect pair.

Tabea was right, like always. They really do make a cute couple.

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𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Mack’s dissociating at a wall when his phone buzzes.

To be clear, he didn't intend to be staring into the wide abyss of a landlord special or anything, he just got tired after breakfast and the team meeting got pushed back a bit, and he didn't really have anything else going on, so. Wall. He's not even quite sure where he is in the arena, just that he wishes he was asleep and he won't get to do that for far too many hours. Game days are hell like that, but at least practice isn't as rough since they have to play later. Sure, he’ll get in a nap a bit before they play, but that’s a big step down from his bed.

His phone buzzes again, a row of texts coming in within seconds. If it's Aiden, he's going to commit fratricide. Sighing, he swipes it open without checking the name.

It's not Aiden.

Smatan: You ever think abt killing someone

Smatan: That's a joke

Smatan: It isn't

Smatan: Ryan has gotten stuck on the roof

Smatan: Why, you ask? To catch a bird

Smatan: The bird? A kite our neighbors were flying

Smatan: Fucking kill me

Mack blinks down at the screen. Blinks again. Closes his phone and turns it back on to make sure he's reading everything right. It's probably a wrong number, meant for his sister or one of his other friends. No, not other. Actual friends.

His inner voice mumbles something about Freudian slips.

Smatan: You think I could borrow Aidens ghost for a sec?

Smatan: Not that I'm gonna haunt anyone

Okay, so. Not a wrong number. Very much intended for him. He can be chill about this. Absolutely.

send pics 

Smatan: Asshole

He sends one anyway. It's a little blurry and very zoomed in but it does clearly detail one Ryan Leonard clinging onto a wall for his life. And he is…on a roof. This is the best thing to ever happen to him.

Smatan: The fire department has to come

lmaoo

leave him

Smatan: Dude we have practice in like ten minutes, I might 

howd he even get there

Smatan: Fuck if i know

Smatan: He is screaming a lot tho

pls tell me ur recording

Smatan: Fowls is on it

He can't help the stupid smile that comes to his mouth, the way he can imagine the annoyance on Smith's face. A little furrow between his brows and a scoff. He should get help. Maybe he needs to be doing healing yoga more. Not that he believes any of that shit but you know, desperate times and all that.

Smatan: Actually, don't u have practice?

tape review got pushed back 

sitting in a hallway and waiting

Smatan: Alone? Don't u literally play with ur brother?

Ah yes. His brother, who will surely question him about his life. Mack kinda wants to go back to the time where he didn't have a life. It's way easier to seem boring and sad than to hide all of this. He can't wait until it's over. He ignores the way that idea sends a pang to his heart and instead focuses on Smith. As per usual.

this is more entertaining 

Smatan: glad i can be of some amusement to u

Smatan: fire departments here

Smatan: ill lyk if he falls off trying to get on the ladder

👍

Good god, a thumbs up? What is he, a middle aged man? He's going to die in a hole, why cant he have a normal fucking conversation without being embarrassing. At least Smith isn't here to torture him in person. Like, obviously he isn't, why would he be here. Haha that’s crazy. Mack doesn’t imagine what that would be like. Crazy. Mack doesn’t even like him, not as a friend, not as a crush, not even as a semi-acquaintance. If he enjoys kissing him and talking to him and getting fucked by him then, well…

Alright, he doesn’t have an excuse for that at all.

Eventually, he does drag himself up from the floor…after watching ten minutes of an anthill live stream. Look, entertainment can come from anywhere. If he likes watching weird shit with five viewers on youtube, then so be it. It's his life. He still makes it to tape review early enough to avoid Aiden, only a few other guys in the room. He picks a seat in the back corner and presses himself against the wall. After a moment's debate and a quick check to make sure no one has magically appeared behind him even though that’s literally impossible, he tugs his phone out again. It’s only been a few minutes but already he misses talking to him.

His inner voice mumbles something about how that probably means that he does like him.

Fucking asshole, honestly. If Mack wanted someone to point out his faults all the time he’d call Dada more.

i take it he didnt fall?

Smatan: Unfortunately 

Smatan: At least I have great blackmail material now

u at least get to practice on time?

Why does he care? Literally what does it matter to him? Hell, it would be better if he didn’t make it, seeing as it would mean he won't be as prepared to get his ass beat tonight.

Smatan: Kinda

Smatan: Tape review rn, only missed a bit of it

Smatan: Wbu?

still waiting, still avoiding aids

Smatan: Avoiding?

Shit.

yk 

Smatan: I don’t, actually

its kinda hard to lie about where i am all the time

seeing as we play together and i have a roommate 

Smatan: Oh

Smatan: I'm sorry

Two simple words, and Mack feels like his heart’s going to break out of his chest, grow wings and take to the skies in song. He might as well be living in a musical, or a 90s rom-com. He really needs to get his emotions in check, especially since they love showing up on his face so much.

its fine

good cause to do so

Smatan: Yeah?

u know it is

Smatan: Sure, but if u wanna go into detail abt it...

Smatan: Wouldn't complain

A brief thought flashes through his mind of Smith pinning him down and making him say exactly what he wants done to him, the way his breath would blow hot against his skin, the steady rhythm of his fingers inside of him and the first aching press of his cock—

egotistical much?

Smatan: Big word

sry ur vocabulary is microscopic 

A loud bang comes from across the room, the door bursting open. He holds his phone closer to his chest as Aiden walks in and tugs his hood further over his head. Smiths still typing, the bubble flickering in and out of life every other second. He avoids chewing on his nails for once and instead takes it out on the strings of his hoodie.

“Hey,” a voice calls. He glances up to find Aiden walking right to him. Fuck. This is so not the time.

Right as he sits down, knee pressed to Mack’s, Smith responds.

Smatan: Ur cute when ur being bratty

Smatan: Makes it more fun to fuck with u

He can't help the way his eyes widen at that even though Aiden is right there, within range to lean over and see his screen. He knows for a fact that he's blushing, can feel the way the burn floods across his face.

“You good?” Aiden asks, squinting down at his phone like he can see through the case. Mack hates his life sometimes. He pretends that he doesn’t hear him. Hopefully it works.

that so?

He needs to stop, needs to turn off his phone and never speak to Smith ever again.

Smatan: I mean

Smatan: Fuck with, fuck you

Smatan: Same thing really

“Macky?”

If the apocalypse could start right now and save him that would be great.

jfc

aiden is here

Smatan: Oops

Before he can tell him to get hit by a car or drown in the harbor, he gets another text.

Smatan: Gtg, coach is abt to kill me

Smatan: Can't wait to ur ass later

“Mack,” Aiden snaps. The speed at which he shoves his phone away should be studied in a lab. He stares at him. Aiden stares back in a way that suggests he wants to strangle him. That’s cool. Mack can play this off. For sure.

“Hi.”

“Who was that?”

“Connor,” he blurts, even though he's got no fucking clue what time zone he's even in.

“Connor,” Aiden repeats incredulously.

“Yeah. Bedard. Plays for the Blackhawks. First overall. We were teammates when we were younger, you remember him right—”

“I’m going to hurt you.”

Mack falls silent at that and tries his very best to bite back a smirk. He catches Lane's eye from across the room and finds that for once he's not afraid to look back. He can totally fuck Smith on the DL and keep his friends from knowing. Lane can't read his mind.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Lane can read his mind.

He's at a slow, easy, jog on the treadmill when he sees a flash in the corner of his eye. Lane steps onto the one next to him, squinting as he turns it on. Mack faces forwards because he's a coward.

“So,” he starts, suspicion dripping from his tone.

“What's up?” he says, super duper casually. Definitely not a squeak. Mack doesn’t squeak. That would be crazy. Lol. Rofl. Lmao. Lmfao, even.

“So, who were you blushing over earlier?”

Mack almost trips and falls on his face. Instead he manages to grab on to one of the sidebars and keep himself upright. His sanity doesn’t feel upright at all. He misses Covid. Well, not Covid, but he misses the masks. That was a nice era of his life. He needs to bring that back, say it's a new fashion or something.

“Huh?”

He looks over just in time to see Lane roll his eyes, a very very familiar sight.

“Don’t lie to me Celebrini—”

“I’m not!”

“You are!”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Macklin, don't be a child about this. Is it…”

He trails off, glancing around to make sure there’s no one in their immediate ear shot. The gesture sends chills down Mack's spine.

“Is this about the other night?”

There's many nights. There have been so many nights, which fucking one. Holy shit he's going to go absolutely insane. The night he didn't come home until four in the morning, the night he left abruptly to go sit by the water and debate his entire existence, the night he—

“Which,” he blurts before he can get too deep into his head.

“Documentary,” Lane says flatly, voice holding no emotion. It's better than pity or the former accusatory tone, but it still sucks. Mack doesn't want to think about that. It never happened. He said nothing, he did nothing. He watched a documentary and that's it.

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

Lane sighs, a little reminiscent of his mom when she knows he's lying, and slows down his machine. After a beat of silence he reaches over to do the same to Mack's, bringing them both to a meandering walk. His feet are barely moving yet remain on that border of almost too fast: one second too early and he's done for. It's a familiar sensation.

“Was it your dad?”

Mack blinks, then blinks again, and then considers how quickly he could sprint out of here and find a nice, quiet hallway to scream in. Probably too risky.

“What? No. Why would it be him? Why would I be blushing over my dad—not…not that I was doing that. But if I was, it would not be because of him.”

He spits the last word out with a little too much venom, and from the raised brow he gets it didn't go unnoticed. He really hopes he and Aiden don't talk about him. If they start tag teaming he’ll never survive it.

“Oookay. You just seemed to have a bit of a rocky relationship,” Lane says placatingly, eyeing him like he's about to jump ship. In all fairness, he’s actively calculating the distance from here to the locker room. He can shower at the dorms if worst comes to worst and this conversation continues.

Mack's got a totally normal relationship with his dad. Yes, he's hard on him but he has to be otherwise Mack won't be the best and he has to be the best. Dada’s just helping. If he feels like he's been run over when he yells or gets disappointed or even looks at him a little weird it's just his stupid emotions getting in the way. He's a Real Man and he's not gonna cry to one of his, like, four friends about his hypothetical daddy issues.

“We’re fine,” he snaps, and then in a super calm fashion hops off the treadmill without bothering to turn it off. Fuck that shit, he's getting out of here. He needs to scrub the sweat and worthless feeling off of his body, rip it out from his veins and start again. Get his head on straight, or rather as straight as it can be when the one thing he wants more than a shower and a dark room is to see Smiths dumb fucking face. He can wait until tonight when he's making the Eagles doubt their faith in god.

He ignores the odd looks he gets from some of the guys and keeps his head down passing the trainers. He's not in the mood for any of it anymore. Hopefully Lane doesn't say anything to Aiden. Mack really cannot handle that right now. He picks up his speed a bit as he nears the showers and prays that he’ll be alone.

Blessedly there's no one in the room, just him and the water and familiar scent of rink soap. He strips as quickly as he can, tossing his clothes in the corner where they won't get wet. He turns the knob all the way to boiling and lets the thunder of it burn away his skin until he can't feel it anymore, until he's rubbed raw and fresh and can think straight again. There's still no one else there to watch him twist the water down to freezing and bring the feeling back to his body, a full reset of his system. Works like a charm every time.

He halfheartedly towels off his hair, mostly just concerned with getting the fuck out of here before anyone decides to talk to him. He needs a vacation. World Juniors is probably the closest thing he's gonna get, but at this point it can't come soon enough. He’ll take Sweden over suffering any day even if it means he’s just gonna have more eyes on him. He probably should talk to Connor come to think of it.

It’s still quiet as he slips into the locker room, hastily tugging on his clothing and reaching for his headphones like they’re his only lifeline in a storm. Immediately he feels better, the world gone fuzzy around him. No buzz of the lights, lingering shouts from the gym or chatter in the hallway. Clean slate.

He walks to the exit as quickly as he can without getting to an actual jog, pressing play on his last playlist as he pushes open the doors. Without thinking he goes to his texts and types out a message to Smith. He presses send before the action can really register, a sure sign that he didn't stay long enough in the shower. It should have removed this feeling from him, the endless and constant want—no, need. If the pounding music is his lifeline, Smith is a lighthouse in a tsunami. A savior and a blessing sure, but at the end of the day Mack’s just the idiot that keeps crashing at his shore.

howd practice go?

It's dumb. He's aware it's dumb. He's pretty sure the collection of tiny dogs standing next to him on this street corner know it's dumb. They're nowhere near that close and they never ever will be, but Mack can't help it. He wants to know how practice went and not just to tease him or tell him just how badly BC is going to lose tonight.

Which they are. Mack’s not that crazy…yet. He just also wants to know that he can still put his tongue down Smith's throat after.

The response comes in CVS.

His phone buzzes when he's in the refrigerated section looking for a decent energy drink. Luckily there's no one in the aisle to see him nearly drop it twice in his eagerness.

Smatan: Pretty good, Leno got yelled at which was fun

Smatan: Ready to kick ur ass

u wish

Smatan: I do, actually

Smatan: It's more of a soon to be reality, but yk wish works too

kys

Smatan: It's just a fact, don't get so worked up baby

Mack has to bite down on his lip to prevent a grin. He tastes the blood before he can even type a response.

dont call me that

Smatan: You like it

someone could see. we should b more careful

Smatan: Ur blushing aren't u?

literally die

Smatan: Cute

Smatan: How was your practice

good

mostly

kinda

idk

Four texts in a row. He should never speak to anyone ever again.

Smatan: Wanna talk about it?

what, the way we're gonna destroy you tonight?

Smatan: Funny

Smatan: Seriously tho

Mack stares down at his screen for too long. Turns off his phone and grabs a C4 out of the rack. Why does he even care? Mack's not his girlfriend or even his buddy. They fuck. That's it. Well. Mostly it. Whatever, it's not important. It never will be.

He texts back while looking for condoms.

nothing rly

just lane

dw abt it

Smatan: Wouldn't dream of it

Smatan: Wyd?

Even though he shouldn’t be, Mack is eternally grateful for the topic change.

cvs

Smatan: Sounds riveting 

was the size right?

Smatan: Sorry?

the size

Smatan: ...of?

the condom

Smatan: Jesus fucking Christ

Smatan: What was that about being careful?

oops

Truthfully, Mack enjoys the brief moments where he can catch him off guard way too much to be careful about anything. They don't need more, not unless Smith wants something different. If anything Mack’s a little proud of how good he picked in sizing. It had only been one very drunken encounter at that point. Go figure six inches would stick in his mind.

His inner voice mumbles something about how six inches also stuck itself in his ass.

Smatan: It was fine

Smatan: Why, were you planning on making use of them more?

Mack blushes deeper than the red of his BU hoodie.

eventually

Typing bubble. No typing bubble. Typing bubble again. It comes and goes enough times for Mack to make it to the register, pay, and take the first few sips of his drink. He stares at his phone for the duration of the time.

Smatan: I have a proposition for you

big word

Smatan: Shut the fuck up

Smatan: U want to hear it or not?

shoot

Smatan: A bet

Mack almost runs into a stroller. Bets don't work out well for him. And there can certainly be nothing between them that’ll be anything normal. He takes pity on himself and walks a few feet to a bench. He needs to get control of himself. He doesn't even know what Smith's talking about. Information then panic.

go on

Smatan: It's simple

Smatan: Whoever wins tonight gets whatever they want

Smatan: Within reason of course

If he wasn't in public he’d scream. Frankly he's still considering it.

anything?

Smatan: Anything

Mack should totally say no. Like, he’ll win, but there's something dangerous about Smith's tone that he can feel even from miles away. He really really shouldn't do this.

Unfortunately, he's a competitive freak and the idea of putting Smith in his place is too good to refuse.

deal

Smatan: I'm gonna fucking crush you

It's the use of I that gets him. He has to take a second and bury his face in his hands. No we, no mention of a team, just Smith. Mack wants to be crushed. That sounds great. Legitimately, Smith could do whatever he wanted to him right now and there would be zero complaints. Not a great way to start off a bet, but apparently he's useless in the face of blond hockey players. He needs help.

dont count on it

Smatan: <3

Mack stares at that for a while. Long enough that his leg that's tucked underneath him starts to cramp. Ever since that lunch things have been different. Weird. Off. Ever so slightly moved in a way he can't quite figure out. He’s got no clue how he's managed to get so deep into this mess but what he does know is that he's got no desire to leave.

He stands.

He hearts the message.

He walks.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

He tries to be calm on game days. Well, as calm as possible. Puck drop is at nine so he’ll get to the arena at around seven thirty. It gives him about four hours to fuck around and do whatever. First order of business is to get food. He picks a back table at Life Alive and sips at his strawberry matcha between eating, people watching and stalking Smith on instagram. The food’s good as always but he's a little nervous every time the door opens that it'll be one of the guys. The last thing he needs is Lane. There's a small part of him that wants to invite Aiden, that misses what they were before all this shit happened. It's illogical and he knows it. He stabs his grain bowl about it, and when he finishes that he shoves half a pita sandwich down his throat. One can't talk or text when they're choking. He's so smart.

He's not a complete dick of a brother, so he picks Aiden up an acai bowl and drops it off outside his room. Like a loser who can't handle confrontation, he sprints for the stairwell right after he knocks. He can hear him calling out a faint hello right before the door slams shut. He's already a flight down. He's not going back for anything.

Lane’s got class so when he gets back to their room—ran. He ran back. Five flights of stairs, lobby, out the front door and down the street, his lobby and up another six flights. If he didn't already know there was something wrong with him, that would do it—he’s free to flop down on his bed and scream into his pillow. He lies there pathetically for a moment afterwards, before groaning and flipping over. Fuck.

Despite all of it, there's still this unbeatable urge to text him, to hear his voice. Mack's not that insane. Instead, he tugs out his phone and pulls up an interview of him from the USNDT. His hair is shorter and his face a little less defined, but it's still him. Pretty and perfect and fuck, Mack’s never getting out of this, is he?

He plays it on repeat until Lane gets back, at which point he rolls over and pretends to be asleep. It’s lame and obvious but it works. He can hear the disappointed sigh and rummaging behind him. He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about easy things like swimming in the morning and goalies who never closed their five holes and Smiths laugh and watching shitty movies with Aiden and Smith and—

By the time Lane leaves, suit on and bag over his shoulder, all Mack can think about is how he’s finally going to see Smith across the ice and he doesn't know how to deal with that. Hockey was untouched: a known middle ground, but it wasn't talked about. Not really. He couldn't think of ever really mentioning it outside of teasing or practice. Obviously it was there, it couldn’t not exist, but Mack had gotten used to how little it mattered. Smith doesn't want to fuck him cause of how many goals he scored, and Mack isn't desperate to get on his knees just cause of a stat sheet. It's a terrible revelation. He needs to put on his suit and ignore all his feelings, not agonize over a guy.

Maybe he should talk to Charlie.

On second thought, she would tell Aiden, who would tell mom, who would tell Dada and then Mack would be so astronomically fucked that not even death could fix it. He’ll stick to agonizing in solitude for now. He’s not so pathetic that he can't deal with that.

He lets himself wallow for a singular extra minute before getting ready. It's all muscle memory, the repetitive familiarity a small comfort in his trying times. He’s a socks first guy, followed by his least embarrassing but still low effort briefs. Shirt that he misbuttons five times. Pants. He debates a tie before deciding that it's way too much of a hassle and instead shoves a beanie on. Bag. Phone. Wallet. Shoes. Keys.

He stares down at his voodoo doll for a solid twenty seconds before walking out the door.

Here’s what's gonna happen, he tells himself as he slowly descends via elevator, you’re going to go out there and play the best hockey of your life and it will have nothing to do with Smith. He doesn't exist. You will crush BC because that's what it means to be a Terrier. It's a simple rivalry. Nothing more, nothing less.

His inner voice mumbles something about needing to visit a psych ward.

Overall though, he's fine. He walks out into the brisk and slightly misty air, lets the leaves swirl up around his feet as he makes the walk. It’s not long by any means, but it's not short enough that he can ignore all his thoughts. He has many thoughts. Some might say too many. Mack is some. He doesn't bother to put on his headphones though. He’d rather be aware even if its not like someone's waiting to jump out of the bushes and terrorize him at any moment

It just.

You know.

Feels like it.

He’s sure that's normal. Everyone sleeps with their college rival. He’s just being dramatic as always. Mack can do this. He just has to ignore every single feeling he’s ever had in his entire life and play hockey. He does that all the time, usually after Dada calls or comes to a game. Smith's no different.

Well, obviously he’s different but—

“Yo.”

The voice is barely an inch away from his ear and combined with the sudden arm slung around his shoulders, Mack nearly jumps a foot into the air.

“Holy fuck,” he yelps. It’s covered up by the sound of cackling laughter. Mack wishes he was an only child sometimes. Well, less so an only child and more so the oldest child.

“Chill. You’re so high-strung, it's like being related to a violin,” Aiden teases as he drags him along down the street. They get a few odd looks but for the most part the general population of Boston University is accustomed to their athletes.

“I don't like you at all.”

“Love you too kiddo.”

“We’re basically the same age,” he argues. They're not, but you know, a guy can dream. What do a few years really matter anyway? Mack thinks he’s earned a bit of respect even if he is seventeen.

“Sure,” Aiden allows. “Hey, thanks for lunch.”

“Huh,” he blurts before he can tell himself to be a normal person. Aiden squints at him from the corner of his eye as they approach the path into the arena.

“Lunch. You left it outside my door?”

“No I didn't."

“Yes you did.”

“No.”

“Yes you—okay. Whatever you say,” he grumbles. Part of it is that if he admitted to it then he’d have to explain why he ran away after. The other part is that he enjoys being annoying. Smith never seems to mind. Takes in his antics with a fond smile and a—

So. The whole no thinking about him thing? That starts now. He’s going to talk to his brother and change and fuck up a bunch of Catholics. Nothing more, nothing less.

His inner voice mumbles something about pathological lying.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

“Leonard fucks with you tonight and I'm killing him,” Lane mutters, glaring over at the other side of the ice.

Leonard himself isn't paying any attention to his death being plotted. He actually looks pretty normal for a guy who almost fell off a roof this morning. Of course, he’s about one hundred feet away and the lights have put a glare over his bubble, but Mack thinks he sees an easy grin on his face as he chats to Perreault.

“Or you could not go to jail.”

“On ice incident. Totally accidental. I’ll even cry at his funeral.”

“Why would you be at the funeral?”

“To show my innocence,” Lane says in a tone that suggests this should be obvious, and Mack clearly doesn't know the first thing about getting away with murder. He’s wrong. Mack thinks about how he'd get away with murder a lot.

“Why him in particular?”

“Looks like a dick,” he answers simply, and then turns his focus on fucking around with a puck.

Mack tries to do the same, but ends up getting distracted after about ten seconds. He’s not usually this out of it during warmups. He’s stretched already, taken a few shots at goal. His head feels like it's been shoved into a microwave or something, his heart beating at all the wrong times. He’s trying. He’s trying so fucking hard, it’s just that he can practically feel the guy.

He’s been avoiding looking at BC entirely, but now Lane’s got him set on Leonard and from there he looks up and lets his gaze travel across the rest of them. Fowler’s doing slow loops behind his net like he's possessed and Vote and Powell are chatting near the blueline and it's so easy to keep going, flicking over numbers and names and oh.

Smith looks like something straight out of a GQ magazine, or a hockey porno—not that he watches those. Haha what that's crazy, Mack would never do that. Like hello? Insane. In any case, he’s a fucking vision and he’s right there, just inches away looking all pretty and perfect in his cream and maroon. Mack wants to skate across center ice and kiss him stupid.

Or.

You know.

Punch his face in.

He's got his cage off, a glove tucked under an arm, fiddling with the strap. He’s been letting his hair grow out a little longer, curling over his ears and falling over his face and holy shit Mack is so not surviving this game.

Before he can do something incredibly stupid the horn sounds to call them off, Lane poking him with his stick. He catches Smith’s gaze as he glances across the ice. It’s there and then gone in a flash: a tiny quirk of his mouth, a widening glint in his eyes. It feels like a dare, a come get it, come get me. It twists its way into Mack's gut, settles inside of him. He can practically feel Smith inside him, a hand on his hip, warm voice shutting off his brain.

“Yo, Celly. Time to go,” Lane calls from the bench, snapping him out of his daze. Mack blinks, and the spot where Smith had stood is vacant. He skates off the ice worse than when he came on, and he can swear he knows exactly who’s laughing as BC goes down their tunnel.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

It starts predictably harsh. Aiden gets checked into the boards behind their net with a too aggressive stick only two minutes in, and it draws both a penalty and a scrum that doesn't really go anywhere. He catches Smith’s eye on the bench as he skates up for the faceoff, a sharp jolt going through his spine. He doesn't register the ref or whoever’s across him as he leans down, just that piercing look and all the other, better places Mack’s seen him. Like, for instance, on his knees—

He wins it.

The puck gets knocked back to Lane who gives it right back the second Mack finds a bit of free ice. He can see the opening as clear as day, top shelf on the right. It’s not an easy goal to make. Too much force puts it off the crossbar, too little and Fowler can make the save.

But, well.

He’s Macklin Celebrini, and if there's one thing he can do, even if everything else in the world is trying to suffocate him, it’s play hockey.

From the moment it leaves his blade he knows it's a goal. He doesn't even bother to watch it hit the back of the net, just looks for Lane as the buzzer goes off. Smith’s staring at him as he skates past their bench on his way off and by some fucking miracle he manages to avoid looking back. Aiden tells him it was gorgeous just before the crowd roars at the replay, but even that has nothing on the way Smith called him perfect.

Their lead, predictably, doesn't stay long. Tempers are high and BC is good even though he's loath to admit it. Leonard gets one back five minutes later and then Vote follows it up on the next shift. He pushes and pushes until the buzzer sounds, but the score doesn't change, even with a two minute shift. He ignores the gnawing at the back of his mind and instead finds a dark closet to sit in for a few minutes. He’s fine. He has to be.

The second period brings three almost-fights and a slew of penalties. Quinn tucks one in on a breakaway but fucking Perreault and his stupidly good shot brings BC’s back too soon to even enjoy the tie. Mack’s frothing at the mouth after it and probably looks about as deranged as he feels. Coach sends him out with a firm demand to score, and he does. Clean faceoff win, perfect zone entry and a quick one-timer setup from Aiden. This time, he doesn't even look at the other bench. Who gives a fuck if Smith’s paying attention? Well obviously he's paying attention, but like. To Mack and not just the game.

His inner voice mumbles something about how ridiculous everything he does is, and that maybe he should work on bettering himself.

The score holds. 3-2 is good but it could be better. Coach tells them to dig in, stop turning over pucks and win their board battles. They head to the room with careful confidence, and Mack wants to upturn the contents of his stomach. He refrains only to avoid the concern it would cause.

They’ve barely looked at each other, let alone spoken a single word but he can just fucking tell when Smith’s on the ice with him—no. Not with. Against. They’re rivals. Enemies. He’s going to win this game and he won't give a shit about how Smith feels, and then he’s going to take whatever he wants from him. There's no fucking reason for him to be going this crazy about the guy. Sure he gives great head, but that's no excuse.

Mack's gonna bash his head open on his stall.

Good things don't last. It’s one of the many lessons Dada instilled in him when he was younger, and once again he’s right. Barely two minutes in and fucking Leonard, again. Mack wishes he’d fallen off that roof. Wishes Smith had left him there to suffer. He’s gonna blackmail him or something, anything to avoid having to look at his dumb face after he scores.

The rest of the period feels like one of his mood swings. Every other shift they have a chance ta scoring, but the ones in between they're almost being scored on and fucking Smith is everywhere. Pressing him into the boards, stealing pucks off his blade, laughing just a few feet away. His self restraint is slipping away faster than he even knew was possible. He just wants this stupid game to be over with.

It’s the bet. Mack knew it was a bad idea to begin with but fuck if he doesn;t love a challenge. It’s the only explanation for how when, with less than five to go, Mack steps on the ice and looks dead into Smith's pretty blue eyes and watches him skate in a daze. He tracks him from behind the BC goal, puck on his blade over the blue line, center ice, past Mack and into the zone. He tries. He knows he tries, can feel the swing of his stick as he fucking tries to slow him down. It does nothing. Smith is, at the end of the day, some sort of god on the ice as far as Mack is concerned, and he’s kind enough to give him a front row show to just how good he is.

Maybe, he relents as he watches the puck lift into the air, it’s the whole situation that’s done this. That's a likely reason for why he can't seem to get his head on straight and instead has to stand there and trace its perfect arc underneath Howie's glove and to the back of the net.

It’s a home crowd but the BC fans came out in earnest and even through the ringing in his ears he can hear the cheers. More importantly, he can hear Smith's laugh, see the flash of teeth through his cage. Mack wants to kill him and yet he cannot wait until he gets the free time to talk to him. It’s a terrible conflict of emotions

The goal takes the life out of them to say the least. Mack can barely manage to get into neutral ice let alone try to get one back. He ends up watching the final seconds tick down from the penalty box after a shitty tripping call, and swears to himself that he’ll get revenge. How he's going to accomplish that he doesn't know, but he’s determined to make Smith suffer.

He tries to make it as clear as possible that he’s not in a talking mood afterwards. He spends barely a minute in the shower, just enough to rinse the top layer of sweat off, and gets dressed faster than he ever has in his life. Aiden attempts to invite him to a late dinner and drinks but it's clear from his tone of voice that he knows the answer will be no. Mack tends to wallow after bad games, gets inside his head until the only thing rattling around his skull is: failure. If he can he’ll get back on the ice, in the gym, anywhere that can make him better.

Tonight though, he’s got other plans and it involves getting a break from people and talking to the person who’s actively ruining his life. And yeah, Mack wants him to drown in the harbor for that but he also really wants to have the memory of his sparkling eyes and wide smile etched into his brainwaves. He’ll think more about that when he’s a functioning person again.

His inner voice mumbles something about how he’s never achieved that.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

════════════════════════════════════

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Lane stopped him on his way out to say that he and Quinn were going bowling for some unknown reason, so when he pushes open his door their room is dark and empty. He doesn't even turn on the light, just flings his bag and shoes into the corner and lays down on the floor. The wood is cold under his palms, and a few weak rays of moonlight dance through the open windows. He’s tired, drained in a full body way, more than just muscle and bone. He feels both empty and packed to the brim, like he's on the verge of total collapse or exploding at any moment.

Idly, he waits for one of those things to happen.

Five minutes tick by that, his eyes falling shut and brain slowly settling down. Lane will probably be pissed than he’s fallen asleep here again, but he's got none of the will power to move—

His phone buzzes.

Like a sleeper agent, he whips it out from his pocket, sitting up so fast he gets dizzy.

Smatan: Heyyyy

Smatan: So I totally won

Smatan: Do I get something extra for the goal?

no

Smatan: :(((

Smatan: You played really good

Mack is going to vomit. At least, he thinks he’s going to. All that's really happened is a vague squeal coming out of his mouth which needs to never occur again.

u too

Smatan: So

Smatan: About what I want

should i be worried?

Smatan: I'm nice

Smatan: I'm very nice

Smatan: Hence why I'm very nicely asking you to come over

Mack stares at that unblinking for long enough that his eyes start to water.

Smatan: Well technically I'm telling you

Smatan: Semantics

over where?

Mack prays he's reading this wrong. He doesn't even know why he wants to be wrong. There's too many possible reasons, too much of everything. Even though he’s both annoyed and freaked out there's still this unbeatable excitement in him at the idea of seeing Smith again.

Smatan: My place

Fuck.

u want me to go to BC rn?

Smatan: Technically it's a few minutes off campus

oh thats totally fine then

Smatan: Lol

Smatan: Please?

“Fuck,” he mutters, already moving to stand. He should not at all be agreeing to this, bet be damned. It's ridiculous on so many different levels. It's not like he's just some guy going to some random other college. He’s going to fucking BC, specifically at Smiths house. With his roommates and fuck knows how many people from the team and—

fuck u

Smatan: Is that a yes?

...

fine

Smatan: Good

Mack’s heart kicks into double time at that. Which is dumb. Obviously. It's a word. It means nothing. This means nothing. If it sounds eerily close to good boy, then, well. Uhm. Uhhhh.

Whatever. Moving on. He needs to get his basket of unmentionables, he needs to shower and he needs to get out of here. It’s closing in on midnight already, and he’s still reeling from the game. Nothing that the peace of a shower that doesn't include other people can't fix. And dick, his brain unhelpfully supplies as he digs around under his bed for the bag. He’s going to die by the time tonight is over.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

He is, once again, blessed with an empty bathroom. The day the housing department finally accepts their request to move to a new dorm(specifically one with a bathroom)is the day he’s finally going to believe in god. Regardless of his qualms, he’s got a mission and he’ll be damned if he doesn't complete it in record time.

The second time is apparently the charm with the whole water balloon ass thing. It’s way less weird, and a little faster. He even manages to multi-task while doing so, scrubbing his scalp until he feels like he’s bleeding and stumbling through an attempt to wash the soap off his legs. That didn't go so well, but there's probably just a learning curve to this kind of thing. He’ll get there eventually.

By the time he's done, despite having had plenty of time to talk himself out of this at various stages, all that's happened is an increase in wanting. Smith’s clearly stepped up his curse shit, cause Mack wasn't even this bad last time. Now though he's almost fucking vibrating with the need to see him, touch him, feel his sheets under his skin as he gets fucked. At least he hopes he gets fucked. Or. He. Okay. What? Moving on.

Smith didn't specify beyond wanting Mack to come over, so fuck if he knows what he's in for. He can never really tell with Smith if he's gonna get the sweet talker or the sadist. It’s occasionally refreshing and constantly annoying. Keeps him on his toes at least. Getting comfortable in this whole situation is the same thing as offering Smith a loaded gun and begging him to pull the trigger.

He brushes his teeth at the speed of light and hopes that he doesn't look like total shit. He’ll attempt to dry his hair when he’s waiting for the car to arrive, but for now he’s going to shove all his crimes back into his bag and get dressed. Everything is fine, and there's no one here to judge him. Except, you know. Himself.

Whatever.

He shoves his crime back into the bag and then almost falls over trying to stand up. He’s still sore from the game and the whole water thing has apparently intensified that. He should probably stop seeing Smith on game days, but fuck if he doesn't want to. It’s cool. He’s cool. He puts his shirt on backwards and inside out in his effort to get back up to his room as fast as possible, but he's being super cool about this.

Magically he manages to avoid eating shit on the stairs or running into someone else, but he does slam face first into his door while unlocking it. So there's that. At least Lane isn't home. That would truly be the end of his life.

In his efforts to get ready, he had tossed his phone on his bed and ignored it post texting Smith. Now though, it occurs to him that he probably should have asked for his address. He tosses his shirt at his hamper first and then flings himself up onto the bed to text Smith. He clicks it open and is about to type in his password when he sees the slew of messages, all from Smatan.

That works too. Saves him the effort.

Smatan: Chestnut hill terrace, big white house at the end of the street

Smatan: Can't miss it

Smatan: If u walk through the backyard there's a door at the back u can go in through

Smatan: For discretionary purposes

Smatan: Hold on Leno needs me to find the vodka

There’s a ten minute break in the texts, and then:

Smatan: Anyway

Smatan: Fourth floor, door in front of the landing and then I'm the first one on the left

Smatan: Gtg, the people want to see their hero ;)

That's the last of it, nothing extra about the bet, no further mention about apparently having a party. Simple directions and fucking Leonard. Mack wants to kill him a tiny bit. He’ll refrain because, well. You know. It would take a lot of effort, and he’s not sure if he has the emotional strength to take a life but if he did it would be Ryan fucking Leonard. Smith can wait.

k

He’s not expecting a response and he doesn't get one either, but it still stings. Smith's probably just living his life, getting drunk at a well deserved afterparty. Mack needs to get his shit together. Okay. Okay. Game plan. He needs a game plan. He can do that. Mack's a capable adult. Well, sometimes he is. Mostly he's an idiot, but he's an idiot who can do order and rules.

The game plan goes as follows: get dressed, dry his hair, get a ride, try not to die on the way over. And, if possible, avoid running into anyone he knows. That would be a massive hitch in the plan.

He refuses to give any real effort into what he's wearing other than putting on some new and never worn briefs that he bought solely for this and refuses to think about otherwise he’ll be very embarrassed and also have a crisis. Sweatpants with a little strip of plaid on top and the first clean hoodie he can find. He really needs to do laundry one of these days. He's down to two shirts and one pair of jeans that are so skintight they might as well be latex.

It's almost twelve thirty when he gets the notification that his ride has arrived, and his hair is sticking up in five different directions. In a moment of pure shock he screeches, almost burns himself on his blow-dryer, and falls off his bed.

“Fuck,” he mumbles into the carpet.

He debates just laying there and waiting to die, but then he thinks about Smith and decides that if he's going to pass away, it can at least wait until after that. He’s not a quitter. With a groan he pushes himself up and swipes his phone off the floor. Smith better make this worth it.

Keys. Deodorant. Tiny bit of cologne. Gum. Tiny bag filled with necessary supplies. Shoes, he needs shoes. As he stands up from sliding them on he catches his reflection in the mirror, and finds that he looks absolutely fucking insane. He grabs a hat and shoves it on backwards in an attempt to hide the hellscape that is his hair. It somewhat works, and even if a few pieces stick out from the band it seems sort of intentional. Whatever, he doesn't have time for this. He's literally the only person who cares right now.

He steps out in the hall and turns for the stairs only to find a group of cheerleaders giggling by the door. So. Fuck that, he’ll suffer from the elevator. He speed walks over and aggressively pushes at the button, glancing to the side to make sure no one’s noticed him. Luckily they seem too caught up in conversation to pay him any mind, and the elevator comes quickly enough.

He shares the ride down with some guy from his biology class, who says absolutely nothing to him and spends the whole time coloring his nails with a black sharpie. It's a nice change of pace from the sheer amount of people who demand that he talks to them Like yeah, team environment and whatnot, but can a guy not catch a break? He doesn't really want to have an endless conversation about some random girl on instagram or if he thinks he’d be a good goalie. Which, like, yeah no shit he would be. If Dada had wanted that he’d be the second coming of Brodeur. But it's not exactly a fascinating topic, and certainly not one he wants or needs to be having with someone he’s only gonna be playing with for a year.

It's cold as shit outside as he jogs down to the street and slides into the backseat of a pristine Kia. The driver squints at him in the rearview mirror and for a sickening moment he thinks he's going to be recognized but then the guy just turns to the road.

“Mark Chapman?”

Yes, he has a fake uber name. Fuck off. Mark Chapman has served him very well.

“Uhm. Yes. Hi.”

“…interesting name.”

“Oh,” he says like the eloquent human that he is, “I guess?”

“Mm.”

Mack’s got no clue why that's interesting, but he's not about to ask. Instead he checks his phone to see if Smith has said anything—no—and reads through a string of texts that Aiden sent.

Aids: Yk im proud of u right?

Aids: I forget to say it sometimes

Aids: But ur fucking incredible mack

Aids: And if dad like, said something to u then forget about it

Aids: You know half of what he says is bullshit

Aids: Im sorry for pushing you to talk to him

Aids: Ig i just didnt know what to do to help and he always seems to be the thing to get through to you

Aids: Which i am a bit jealous of, but i get it, its different to talk to your brother than to your dad

Aids: Anyways, I love you kiddo

Aids: And u can ignore it if he calls u tonight, or ever

Mack can still remember like it was yesterday trying to sneak down to the kitchen a few days before the left the conversation he overheard. Aiden had already been at BU for a year, and part of Mack was only going there for him. Yeah sure the facilities were cool and they had a great record but that was his brother. He’d follow him anywhere.

“He’s your responsibility,” Dada had said, a harsher tone in his voice than Mack had ever heard before. “You fuck this up…”

“I won’t.”

Mack had been just about to try and slowly get back upstairs when Dada had sighed.

“You know, you really could have been good. Instead you decided to be a fucking disappointment. Don't let it rub off on him.”

Mack had, for all intents and purposes, been ready to walk out there and rescue Aiden. How, he has no idea, since its not like he was going to fight Dada or something, and his only other idea was to burst into tears, but he was so fucking ready. Instead, Aiden had mumbled an agreement and walked out of the kitchen to find Mack standing on the landing of the stairs, open mouthed and shaking. They’d stared at each other for a solid twenty seconds before Aiden had looped an arm around his and tugged him upstairs. Despite the hard set of his jaw and the way he turned his head away, Mack still caught how red his eyes were.

He knew. Has known, always will know that he’s the favorite. He still figured Aiden and Dada had a fine relationship anyways. Who wouldn't be proud to have him as a son? It wasn't until then that it clicked for him that no, actually, they didn't, and it was no wonder Aiden was always trying to escape to the other side of the country. They hadn't talked about it, or rather Mack was too much of a coward to ask, and instead had fallen asleep side by side after watching half of Mrs. Doubtfire.

He figured that would somehow connect them, like, they'd reach a new level of understanding and maybe Mack would find the courage to tell him that yeah he loves Dada, of course he does, he owes him everything but sometimes hearing his voice makes him want to crawl out of his skin and die. It didn't. If anything, once school started, Aiden got weird about it, kept asking and asking and asking if he'd spoken to him, and if it wasn't asking, it was demanding to do so.

He’s got three missed calls from Dada and twelve messages. He ignores all of them, deletes them off his notification wall, and goes straight to his texts with Aiden.

i love u too

“Here?”

Mack almost jumps out of his skin.

He looks up to find a dark and unfamiliar street outside the window. Even from within the car he can hear noise coming from further down the street.

“Uhm. Yes. Thank you,” he blurts, and even manages to not fall on his face while getting out. Good things do occasionally happen to him. Who’d have thought?

Mack's not really a house party kind of guy. They're too loud and too many people want to talk to him and it sometimes feels like he's in this glass bubble of sanity that no one else has ever entered. He's not a genius but they make him feel like fucking Albert Einstein. He hates feeling compressed, squished in and sweaty and not in any of the good ways. So, staring down at a big white house at the end of the street decorated with hanging lights and BC banners, he feels like he's about to walk into hell.

He walks slowly, keeping a close eye on the people standing around the front porch. They're drunk enough not to notice much more than their own dumb jokes but he's not taking any chances. He pulls his hood as far over his face as he can manage and hurries around to the back. Luckily there's no one in their small yard, so he's free to tug open the door without issue.

The sound hits him like a wall, music blasting and people yelling like this is a rave instead of a campus. He can already feel the itch in his mind, the pressure to get out of here as quickly as possible. Oh fuck, he's in Smiths house, on the Boston College campus at a party for a game that they won over him. What on earth is he doing?

He needs alcohol. Well, it would actually be a very bad idea to do that, but it worked last time, so.

He passes by the stairs on his quest for confidence and makes a quick mental note of it. There's like five people sitting on them, so that’ll be just fabulous to have to deal with. He’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it. For now, he spies a tray of shots and a mostly empty kitchen. Absolutely perfect. Is this a bad idea? Yep. Is he doing it anyways? Of course. He picks up the glass closest to him, already filled with clear liquid and tosses it down his throat before he can think of the ten million reasons why he shouldn't.

Mack's had vodka once, and he almost coughed up his stomach lining afterwards. This is much the same, except he's not even prepared for it so the second it enters his system he feels like his brain has imploded. He manages not to hack it up like a dog at the vet, but it's a close thing. Distantly he can recall that this is because of Smith, both the being here and the drink itself. He wishes desperately that he hadn't managed to find it. He likes tequila better than this, and that's really saying something.

A group of frat guys pass him by, thankfully none looking too close as he smushes himself back against a counter. It's a nice kitchen actually, an island and bright cream cabinets. Of course it's also covered in shit currently, but Mack doesn't have any kitchen. This is like a dream. Everything right now feels like a dream, or rather like he's floating in and out of consciousness and desperately trying to cling on to something real.

He tries to get a hold of himself, digs into his pocket and presses his thumb against one of his key chains for stability. He needs to get out of here. There's at least a hundred people here, probably more and he’s pretty sure all of them know who he is. Fourth floor on the left. Okay. He can do that. He really hopes this isn't some elaborate prank to embarrass him or out him or something. Smatan would totally do that, but Smith…

Mack feels like his head might split open. Everything is just so much, the noise, the people, whatever the fuck is going on with his head. He really needs to get out of here. Fuck going upstairs, he needs to leave this house. He needs to go back home and find Aiden and then everything will be okay. He’ll even do fucking yoga if it makes the ache inside him go away. He wants to believe this so bad, wants it more than he wants another win, a championship, the NHL. He’d vomit if he could make his body work for him.

“Fuck that, I'm getting you one!”

The voice is loud, close and annoyingly familiar. Leonard. Of course it would be him. And, from what Mack can tell, he's coming this way. Shit. Fuck. Shit. He freezes for a second, and it's long enough for Leonard to walk into the room, back facing him thank god. Like the genius he is, instead of running or walking past him with his head down, he drops to his knees behind the island. Even with how noisy it is, he can still hear Leonard rummaging around in front of him. Slowly shuffling over, he peaks his head around the corner. Leonard doesn't notice, just focuses on whatever it is he's doing. Mack feels like his heart might fall out of his ass.

It only takes a minute for him to leave, but it's the most stressful minute of Mack's life. He's going to yell at Smith for this. Bastard. Sure Mack's got this thing called free will, but it always seems to disappear whenever he's around. Like a moth to the flame or some shit like that.

His inner voice mumbles something about how he's more akin to a dog with a new master.

Regardless of whatever their dynamic is, Mack needs to get upstairs and do it now. And if it is a massive scheme, then, well…he can just fake his death, change his name and move to rural Italy.

Luckily, the three people sitting at the bottom of the stairs have disappeared so he only has to awkwardly step around two. They're also half asleep, so they don't really pay him much mind. The second he gets to the next floor he starts moving faster, taking steps two at a time and praying to every single deity that has ever existed on the face of the planet that no one sees him. It's deserted up here and quieter as he climbs higher and higher.

He walks up the last few steps and finds himself face to face with an old wooden door that has a sign hanging on it from a rusty nail. Attic, it reads in scratched out blue paint, a few equally fading roses painted next to it. Huh. Not what he thought it’d be. Slowly, a little scared of what he's going to find, he twists it open and shuts it softly behind him.

There's string lights adorning the dark wood walls and leading down to a large single door. It’s been left ever so slightly open. On trembling legs he goes forward. Stop just outside it and rests his palm on the front of it. He can do this. He's Macklin Celebrini, and he's a Real Man. He's not scared of ghosts in attics or beautiful boys who make him feel like the world has been reborn.

He can do this.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Mack feels a bit like he's walked into a dream. Specifically, one of his dreams in which he's being slowly fucked into the sheets of Smiths bed. The scenery changes every time: a messy frat house with trash in the corner and clothes on the floor. A dorm room, sometimes on a bunk, sometimes with the waiting threat of a roommate that’ll come back soon. A clean cut slate, nothing to get attached to, or a BC themed shrine.

It's none of those.

Overall it's neat; his bed is tucked into the back left corner, covered in a thick grey striped duvet. Pillows stacked in a row, a throw blanket tossed over the end. A dark wooden nightstand with a softly glowing built in lamp. Rugs, plants, bookshelves, a clothing rack and some well loved furniture. Picture frames and posters and a few gold medals hanging on the wall. It both perfectly fits Smith's image and is nothing at all like what Mack was expecting.

He wanders in further, kicking his shoes off by the door and setting his bag by the foot of the bed. It smells nice too, for an attic. Clean and fresh, and a perfect linen. Mack hates how much he loves it, wants to sink into the sheets to get more of it into his lungs. He sits back against the headboard, his arms flopping uselessly at his sides. His hand brushes against something fuzzy, and he lifts it up to find a round and smiling bear plushie with the BC logo on its stomach. It's so entirely out of place for the rest of the room, for Smith, that he has to laugh. He sets it down gently, brushes a little strand of fur from its tiny eyes.

He tugs his phone out of his pocket, notes the time—too late to be doing any of this, but alas—and then texts Smith.

im here

No response. Naturally.

He scans the room for anything interesting. There's something covered with a tarp in the corner that he ignores for lack of motivation to stand, and he's not about to go digging around in the guys closet for shits and giggles. Nightstand it is.

There's three books on top of it: a well loved bible, a brown leather book with w.c.p.s etched into the cover in gold, and a little pink covered book. He goes for that, notes the lack of a bookmark but sheer amount of tiny little tabs sticking out of it. It’s clearly been read a few times over. He flips open to the prologue, and finds a clear sticky note over the first paragraph. It’s in messy cursive, so small that he can barely understand it. Whatever. He’ll attempt if he has the time. He's not much of a reader, but he's got time to kill.

It starts simply: I have seen three pictures of the man.

He goes through the first chapter in a trace, makes notes of which lines Smith has underlined, where he's tabbed, the tiny doodles at the corners of pages and the long winded notes he's made. It feels like stepping into his head, like he can peer through the inner workings of his thoughts like this. He even gets better at reading his handwriting, catching notes like metaphor for grief, or 13th birthday, and one that simply states fuck. A lot of the writing goes way over his head but at the same time it strikes him as familiar, experiences he’s had or things that have come to his own mind. He can't fathom why picture perfect William Charles Patrick Smith would relate to any of this, but it's not like he really knows the guy.

He has to pause at the start of the second chapter at a sentence that feels like a gunshot: “You did it on purpose.”

Fuck this honestly. He tosses it back onto the stand, checks his phone again. Just past one. This is honestly fucking crazy. He needs to be asleep, in his own bed and far, far away from this whole mess. His legs refuse to carry him upwards, and instead he shuffles himself further back into Smith's cushions. He sniffs at a pillow and finds it smells like him. Well duh. It's his room. But still, it's nice. Comforting. Mack needs help.

He looks back over at the book. It taunts him, which is dumb since it's an inanimate object, but it does, so he flips it off like a normal person would do. His gaze flicks to the leather book. It would be rude, right? Like it's probably personal. He shouldn't. He won't. That's worse than going through someone's closet. Mack is the bigger person here.

He reaches over.

Just as his fingers brush the cover, a door bangs open. Thankfully it's not the one leading to his room, but it's close enough to be on this floor. He flinches back but before he even has the time to think about hiding, Smith is there.

It's only been a few hours but it feels like forever, like the game never happened and Mack is some lonely wife waiting for her husband to return home from war. Obviously that's not the case and is also in his top ten stupidest thoughts ever, but it's not like he can control the things that happen in his head. His brain is its own person at this point.

“Hi,” he says, a little stumped for words as he pushes himself up so he's seated.

“Hey.”

Smith looks good, his hair a little sweaty and pushed back. It brings out his cheekbones in a way Mack was not at all prepared for but he's not complaining either. He's got on a pair of indecently small cargo shorts that make his thighs look fucking insane and a shirt that he’s clearly outgrown from the wait it cinches around his waist and barely fits his shoulders. It's got a lobster on it and some fading writing that says Cape Cod. Mack wants to kiss him until he forgets where his own body starts.

“Um…congrats.”

“For?” Smith asks, voice low and pointed as he walks over. Mack's going to cry actually. He forgot just how impossible it is to hold a conversation with the guy like this.

“Your win,” he chokes out as Smith comes to stand between his legs. The soft lighting makes him look a little ethereal, or like he's a mirage that Mack will never be able to touch. He’s got a bit of a flush across his cheeks and he smells like cheap perfume and beer. For some inane reason Mack wants to replace that with himself, leave Smith rotting with it. It's both selfish and pointless but he can't quite escape the urge.

Smith says nothing, just gazes down at him with an impossible expression. If he didn't know better he’d say it’s fond. Mack usually hates when people look at him for too long, hates the pressure, the scrutiny, the eye contact. This doesn't feel like any of those things. He feels…he doesn't know how he feels. Wanted? Cared for? He really does know better, but, well. He gets delusional sometimes.

“I like seeing you here,” Smith mumbles after an achingly long minute, “In my room, in my bed.”

Mack blinks up at him like a moron. He cant think of a single possible response—fuck, he cant even really think at all. Whatever he figured Smith would say—loser, I hate you, wow you’re pathetic, ect ect—has poofed out of existence along with his ability to breathe or have a normal sinus rhythm.

“Oh.”

Smith grins at that, and steps forward to close the last few inches between them. Carefully, like he thinks Mack might shatter—which is, in all fairness, exactly how he feels right now. Fine china has nothing on him—he brings his hands up to rest on either side of his face, holding him like this means something, like Mack means something to him. They stay like that for a beat before Smith reaches up to knock his hat off and runs his fingers through his hair. Mack can't really tell if it's affection or a shitty attempt to fix the mess.

Either way he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Before he can talk himself out of it like he probably should, he wraps his arms around Smith's waist and smushes his head into his chest. Like this he can feel each rise and fall of his lungs, can hear the way the air enters his body. Smiths heartbeat is just slightly too fast but it falls in sync with Mack's own fluttering chest. It helps quiet his nerves a bit: knowing that Smith is human too, out of his depth too even if he's way better at dealing with it. Mack wishes he had that strength.

They stay cocooned in each other for long enough that Mack starts to get a little sleepy. He knows logically that it can't be more than a few minutes but between the quiet of the room and the gentle carding through his hair he can't really be blamed for his brain shutting off. He doesn't want to ruin the fragility of the moment but even in the state that he's in he wants to talk. He wants to know how Smith's day was, if he thought of Mack, if playing against each other was weird for him too. He’s been feeling unnaturally and unreasonably greedy about him. He's got no ground to stand on for it, but he's never needed a reason to do anything before. Why start now?

It's an ear piercing shriek that breaks it. Even so far removed it still rings through his ears.

“Jesus,” Smith mutters, flinching. Mack gives himself a second longer in his grip before pulling back and making a halfhearted attempt to put a suave and unaffected look on his face. He’s going to be cool about this. Maybe he’ll even make a joke.

“I don’t think he’d be at a college frat party,” he tries.

Smith stares down at him incredulously, clearly fighting a smile and trying very hard not to let it come through. Mack can’t quite recall why he didn't want to come here anymore. He’s sure he had a reason but it's unfathomable to him now.

“Frat?”

“Yeah.”

“Literally where are you getting frat from?”

Smith pokes at his cheek to emphasize his annoyance, a scowl covering his delicate features. It's incredibly cute.

“You give off the vibe,” he says with a shrug.

“Me?”

“I meant collectively, but yeah, you.”

“How,” he demands, crossing his arms. Mack would be nervous if he didn't find this so funny. He’s finally found his way underneath Smith's skin, and it's calling him a frat bro. Oh, how the turn tables.

“You know. You’re kind of a nepo baby. You play a sport. You live with your friends who also play a sport. You’re cocky but you still manage to be laid back about everything. The way you walk, the way you flirt, the way you act with your bro’s. It’s frat-ish,” he explains, thinking about some of the frats at BU. Smith would blend in seamlessly with them.

Smith opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a sexy fish. Mack busies himself by twirling a loose thread from his shorts in between his fingers.

“Okay,” he says after a minute, “First of all: we don't even have frats here. It's a house party. Second of all, you’ve described half the male college population. Third of all, how do you know what I'm like with my friends?”

It’s a sign that he’s in over his head that the first thing he catches onto is friends, the implication that Mack isn't one of them, that he's separated from Smith's life. Like duh, no shit he is, but it still stings. Then he realizes that he's spilled his secret stalking pastime. He shouldn't know that is the thing, but he does because he spends way too much time going through the saved folder in his camera roll of dumb videos he’s found of Smith. Some of them are with past teammates, some from BC, but regardless of who he's with he acts the same way. Mack doesn't know whether or not to be jealous that Smith only puts on a facade with him. On one hand it means Smith cares enough to change, on the other it means Mack doesn't matter to him.

“Lucky guess,” he squeaks, silently cursing himself to hell and back. He really needs help, and maybe to escape through the window.

“Uhuh,” Smith drawls, brushing a stray lock of hair from his eyes. Mack has to catch himself before he leans into the open palm, before he shows just how much he needs this. He can't give Smith any more power here.

“Anyway,” he blurts instead of crying or begging to suck his dick, “How was it?”

“How was what?”

“Your house party.”

Smith takes a sharp inhale, and looks up to the ceiling like he’ll find god there to help him answer.

“It was fine,” he starts slowly, completely unaware of the way Mack’s staring at his strained jaw and exposed neck. He wants to pull him down and sink his teeth into his warm flesh. He wants to consume him.

Clearly he should never drink vodka again. He can't deal with it for shit.

“But I spent all of it thinking about you, so I wasn't really focused on the vibe,” he continues, dropping his head back down and staring directly into Mack's soul.

Mack watched this show once—on a flight from Minnesota to Cali—about cells. He can't remember the name or how he even found it, but he thinks about it sometimes. If his body were to be made up of tiny people with tiny thoughts, what would they be doing now? Dying, he presumes, or maybe throwing a house party. Whatever the case, he feels like a human firecracker, ready to burst at the slightest spark of flame.

And Smith, with his soft eyes and pretty smile and perfect shoulder to hip ratio is Mack's personal equivalent of a forest fire.

“What do you want for the bet?” he rasps, throat dry despite his bleeding heart.

Smith considers him for a second, flicks his gaze between their bodies. There's only a few inches separating them but Mack wants it to be zero. If he could, he'd make it a negative number.

Just as he’s about to ask again, Smith presses a hand to his jaw, leans down, and kisses him.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

It reminds him a bit of the first time. The dark and secluded room, the height difference, the lingering scent of sweat and alcohol. This time however, Mack knows what he's doing—kind of, not really, but he can pretend—and he knows exactly what he wants. With a swift yank he pulls Smith down onto his lap and finds a firm grip on his thighs. The gasp he gets in return is worth all his pain and suffering.

He’s not sure whether it's because Smith is a little tipsy or just unprepared, but the kiss is messier than usual. Not that he minds, like, at all, but it is a little odd to be the one attempting to control them. Smith licks into his mouth like he’ll die without it, nails dragging over the back of his neck and sharp bites of his teeth. Mack would put more effort into giving it back if he wasn't so focused on making sure they don't fall on the floor. Instead he's just along for the ride, letting Smith use him and barely managing to keep pace while he does.

Smith shifts in his lap and Mack thinks—hopes—that it’s so he has better leverage to grind himself down against his cock. It is not. Instead, Smith pushes him back into the sheets, catching himself before he can fall with a hand next to Mack's head.

“Hi,” he squeaks out. Smith tilts his head and grins. That’s more like it, more like the guy he knows: arrogant, commanding and edging on rough. Mack would rather die than admit just how much he's into it, but the obvious strain in his sweats is kind of giving him away. Smith barely even touched him and he’s about to lose his mind.

“Arms up,” Smith orders, voice low and impossible to deny. Mack lifts his arms. He feels a bit like a puppet as Smith strips his hoodie off, immediately leaning in to press his mouth to Mack's throat. He shivers at the chill in the air but Smith’s close enough to provide a solid source of warmth. Mack drops his arms down to loop around his neck as he bites down on his collarbone. Mack doesn't whimper, because he's way above doing something like that. Whatever noise he just made was uhm. Uh. It. Fuck.

Yeah okay that was a whimper.

Smith seems determined to make him a walking bruise from the way he’s moving, sucking marks into every inch of skin he can get to as he slowly moves down. Mack’s gonna get so much shit tomorrow. How on earth is he going to explain this to Aiden? Whatever, he's not going to think about his brother when Smith’s pushing him back further on the bed, his head falling back against his pillows. This is way more important.

He licks across Mack's chest, flicking his gaze up to meet his eyes before that evil little grin comes back. He’s got no time to prepare before Smith's mouth is closing over his nipple, tugging at it gently before biting down. A whine tears its way out of his body as he presses himself up further, desperately chasing the sensation against his own will. Common sense has long since left him. Fuck, he's pretty sure his brain has dissolved at this point.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, pulling weakly at Smiths hair to get him back up. Luckily he takes pity on him and goes willingly, leaning over him and allowing Mack to lazily nip at his mouth. He really doesn't know how he's going to get the energy for the rest of this if he's already tired. In his defense it's been a long day and Smith’s bed is really cozy and he knows that even if he doesn't lift a finger to help, Smith’s gonna take care of him.

“Why,” he pants after a minute into the soft skin of Smith's jaw, “Are you still clothed?”

Smith snorts softly as if there's anything funny about that. Mack finds absolutely nothing amusing right now. It's incredibly unfair to hide all that perfection from him. He tugs at the bottom of Smith's shirt until he leans back and lets Mack peel it off of him. Immediately after tossing it away he leans up and presses a kiss to the center of Smith's chest just under where his cross rests. He can feel the hitch in his breath under his hands but doesn't get much time to linger in the feeling as he’s once again shoved down. Unfortunately he can't even coax Smith back into his lap this time seeing as he pulls back to kneel between Mack's open legs.

The stormy blue of his eyes is almost entirely gone, his pupils impossibly wide and focused solely on the tenting of Mack's pants.

“Lift,” Smith says as he hooks two fingers into the waistband of his pants and just under his briefs. Well. Mack’s not about to fight him on that. He’s barely shifted his hips an inch off of the bed before Smith’s sliding the fabric from his body, a trail of goosebumps appearing in its place. He’s about to mention the bag of things—lube, too many condoms, his keys, his phone—when he notes the way Smith’s legs look in this position. Those fucking shorts are criminal. Mack wants to burn them just as much as he wants Smith to never wear anything else for the rest of his life. There’s still lingering tan lines near the hem, that familiar golden glow turning into a pale ivory. Mack wants to get his teeth back on them, wants to bite down until he finds bone. He’s not as defined as some guys and not as big as Mack is but like holy shit. Mack could die happy between them.

Smith seems oblivious to his utter loss of sanity and instead has gone back to trying to turn the majority of his skin red. They really do need to be more careful about this shit, but like. It's hot. And it's not like he's in a logical state of mind when they're doing this, so, who cares?

“Celly?”

“Hm?”

Smith’s knelt over his stomach now, one hand placed gently on the side of his ass and the other propping himself up.

“You don’t have to be quiet this time,” he answers with a brief, blinding smile, and promptly leans down to suck the head of his cock between his lips.

“Holy fuck,” he gasps, hips jerking up into the wet heat of his mouth. Mack’s not really into religion and all that, but he’s pretty sure that this qualifies as heaven. Trust that getting blown by a Catholic guy would make him see god. Last time he was putting a lot of energy into not getting caught, but here he can fully appreciate one of the few true facts he knows about Smith: he gives head like it's his purpose on this planet. Mack thought he had done an alright enough job especially considering it was his first time, but Smith’s either been doing this for a while or a natural. Regardless of the cause, Mack’s gonna fucking dream about this.

He sinks down to the root with ease, swallows around the tip in a way that makes Mack see genuine stars and just keeps fucking going at it: licking up the sides, hollowing out his cheeks and taking him so deep that Mack can feel a soft exhale against his skin. Mack can't do anything but lean back and watch, sliding a hand over the back of his neck just to feel the way the muscles there tense. He’s probably being embarrassingly loud but there's no way that he can't be. He could totally get used to this. Not that he will. Or. Like. This isn't. This isn't like that. Well. Alright. Fuck, he needs to stop thinking when they're together. It only leads him into bad places.

To be fair, his lack of thinking also got him into this mess, so. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't.

Smith pulls off with a pop, not even a slight change in his breathing to be found. The only evidence of his efforts is in the flush over his cheeks and redness of his lips. Mack wishes he could take a photo of this. Obviously he cant for a whole slew of reasons but fuck if he doesn't want this framed.

“Good?” he asks, like he doesn't have the proof right in front of him.

“No shit,” he grumbles back. Why is he getting annoyed that Smith is better at giving some than he is? That is objectively the dumbest reason to be upset. He needs to find the grip. It cannot keep evading him.

Smith looks like he's about to say something incredibly bothersome that Mack will unfortunately find to be incredibly attractive, and he refuses to let that happen. He had a goal coming here—hah, coming—tonight, and he's going to stick to it.

“The bag,” he spits out, as if that's an explanation for anything. Smith stares at him like he's deranged, which is honestly not too far off from how he's feeling.

“By the bench. Lube. Condoms. Figured id come prepared,” he explains hurriedly, fighting against the very strong urge to cover his face and also his general nether region with a pillow. He settles for looking firmly up at the ceiling and trying to ignore Smith's entire presence. Its a bit difficult seeing as he can feel him fucking breathing on his dick.

“How generous of you,” Smith drawls, but immediately lifts himself up and hops off the bed. Mack catches a glimpse of the bulge in his shorts as he goes, mouth quite literally watering at the sight. Good god is he a wreck.

He sighs and shimmies himself back into the pillows as he waits for Smith to come back. It’s comfortable, the kind of softness you could sink into forever, but he’s not tired anymore. His nerves feel like downed electrical wires, like he’s about to vibrate straight out of his skin. The game resides in his mind like it happened a lifetime ago, fuzzy and unimportant. He should absolutely care more, he should have ignored it when Smith texted, or at least waited until tomorrow. Well, today. Point being: lying in the bed of the guy who just scored the game winning goal against his team on the same night as the win while he waits for him to come back and fuck him is a crazy thing to be doing. Luckily for Mack, everything he does nowadays is crazy. This is just another Thursday.

Smith tosses a condom directly onto his stomach, pulling Mack out of yet another internal debate. No thinking. Just doing. Smith seems to have no problem following that agenda as he bends over to give him a firm kiss. It's stabilizing in a frighteningly familiar way, as if they do this all the time, like this really is just another Thursday.

The worst part is, of course, very simple: he wants that to be true down to his anatomical structure.

Smith starts to position himself back between his legs but suddenly pauses with a hand hovering mid-air.

“How do you want to do this?”

Mack blinks in confusion. The day is starting to catch up to him. Clearly his confusion is obvious since Smith sighs and waves his hand around as if to conjure his words magically. No words are magically conjured. Mack would judge him but he does that all the time, and he really should stop being such a hypocrite.

“Position-wise,” he furthers, “I mean, do you want me to prep you like this or…”

Yes, Mack's mind screams at him, Yes, yes I do, I want to see you, I want to feel you, I want—

“No,” he snips in his most indignant tone, and very gracefully rolls over to his stomach. Holy shit he’s literally going to die. What is wrong with him? He must look so dumb, like what the fuck. He attempts to shift himself into a slightly less un-sexy position, but all it does is shove his ass up an awkward inch into the air. He’s pretty sure his face is the color of a fire engine right now, so thank fuck Smith can’t see him.

Nothing happens behind him for a sickeningly long second before he hears the sound of Smith moving. He softly places his hands on Mack’s hips, tugging him upwards and back a bit, and then reaching down to spread his legs open further. If he lies to himself enough he’ll probably be able to erase how much he likes the manhandling. Surely. Like, yeah it makes him feel like he’s real and solid and steady in a way that not even hockey can but it's not a big deal or anything—

He flinches at a sudden, sharp bite over his waist. This. Bitch.

He can hear Smith laughing softly behind him as he continues down, pressing a kiss to the bottom of his spine before nipping at his left glute.

“Dude,” he complains, his voice muffled by a pillow.

“Problem?”

“If I have a single mark on my ass tomorrow I am going to kill you.”

“Don’t worry baby, I’ll stick to fucking up the inside of you from now on.”

Mack's mouth drops open at that but he's given zero time to process or formulate a response before he feels the press of Smith's lube-slick fingers at his rim.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he says conversationally as if the last sentence that left his mouth never occurred. Mack’s stilling running it through his head as he slips the first one in. It’s an easier glide than last time since Mack at least knows what to expect and has maybe possibly been practicing tensing and relaxing his muscles down there. It's just another thing to improve at. Super duper normal. Totally.

Even though he's a bit more prepared to be, well…prepared, it’s still a little weird. It’s not like he's been doing this to himself on the regular, and even if he had been it's a totally different experience to have another person inside of you. Smith's slow and steady, almost too delicate. He fingers Mack the same way he plays: precise and thoughtful. For some fucking reason, that precision and thought is also being used to entirely avoid his prostate.

Smith removes his finger for a moment and Mack hears the soft click of the lube cap before he slides in the second. It's a good burn, the kind you get when you’ve hit the perfect weight in a workout or get stretched out in the PT room. Mack can't help the way he presses himself back against Smith's hand, a silent demand for more. He can take it, he knows he can. He would also appreciate it if Smith would focus a little less on the prep and more on the pleasure. He knows for a fucking fact that he’s aware of what he's doing given what happened last time. Mack would give anything to have that back, that overwhelming sensation and desire. He could have came just from that, fuck he wants to. If only Smith—no. This is Smatan. If only he would be a nice person and give Mack what he's earned.

“Smith,” he grits out.

“Hm?”

“Can you just…”

“Just what baby?”

“You know what,” he whines, long past feeling any embarrassment. He's still moving, three fingers now and somehow not a single one of them is applying any pressure to where he wants it most. He wiggles around, trying as hard as he can to get any form of friction but it does nothing. He’s harder than he's ever been in his life, on the verge of coming and Smith’s still finding a way to get under his skin.

“Hmm. I don't think I do,” he mocks, twisting his fingers just above it.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Hot.”

Mack cant even fucking. Okay. He needs to get a hold of himself. And maybe stop literally using Smith's hands as a dildo. He’d much rather have something else in him right about now and from the way he's been rocking slowly against him it's pretty obvious.

“Can you just fuck me,” he snaps, turning his head to glare at him over his shoulder. Wow was that a mistake. Smith looks like a fucking greek god or something, like, apollo reincarnated. His hair has slid into his eyes all messy and hot as shit, eyes pinned on him like he's the only thing to exist in the whole world. There's a flush going down his chest which Mack also has a whole lot of feelings about that he refuses to get into, cause if he lets himself linger on his chest he’s never going to stop, and he does have a life to be living.

“Eager, are we?” Smith replies. Mack hasn't heard his voice that gravely, well. Ever. It’s objectively the hottest thing to ever be said to him despite how bothersome it is. The guy is a walking conundrum and unfortunately Mack is really into it.

“Smith,” he repeats, not even caring about how he sounds right now. He's on the verge of doing something insane—what, he doesn't know seeing as he already is being insane—but Smith pulls out of him at last. Yay, he thinks, finally. He glances to the side to watch Smith pick up the condom. The condom does not move. It lays there in a similar position to him: sad and begging to be used. Instead of doing the thing he literally made him come over for, Smith slides off the bed and glances back at him after a few steps.

“Stay,” he orders. Mack stays. Mack would probably play fetch with him if it meant that he’d come back sooner. That's a wild thing to think about someone. What is he even on about right now? It's probably the sleep deprivation. That absolutely explains it.

He watches Smith disappear into his closet, a light flicking on and some rummaging happening. He’s got absolutely no clue what he's going in there and it is both terrifying and the most excited he's been in a while. Mostly terrifying.

The light goes off, the door slides back open and Smith walks back out holding a bundle of fabric and wearing zero clothes. Mack can't even pretend that he isn't staring. Like. His dick. Is right there. How can he not be? Smith’s like the perfect human specimen, minus how annoying he is. It's not Mack's fault that he isn't blind.

“So,” he says slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed. Mack’s almost too distracted by the sight of his hard cock against his thigh to notice the tone. It's…suspicous. Mack doesn't like it. Maybe he was right to be terrified.

“So…”

“The bet.”

The word rings in the air like a death sentence. Honestly Mack had kinda forgotten about it. In his defence he had other things on his mind. Smith’s the one who didn't even answer when he asked, but oh, yeah, now he wants to bring it up. Insufferable bastard.

Mack squints down at whatever's in his hands. It’s…it’s cream colored. Some gold, some maroon. The number 6 stands out in the dark room.

“Smith—”

“I want you to ride me,” he interrupts calmly, “And I want you to wear this while you do.”

Mack isn't often struck speechless. He's a pretty talkative guy in the right circumstances, and at the very least he’ll manage a laugh or an eye roll in response to someone. Alas, it has finally happened. He has nothing to say. He barely has anything to think. He is no longer a human being, just a shell. Maybe he's dead. He feels a bit like he might be. It's a reasonable assumption, because he must have heard him wrong. It's impossible that he didn't.

“Celly?”

Mack stares at him, still hard, jersey still clutched in his hand. He's got an expectant look on his face as if he just asked something and needs a response. Which is crazy. No one has said anything. Hah. What? Like. What the fuck—

“Huh,” he chokes out.

“I want you to ride me,” he repeats slowly, “And I want you to wear this.”

Mack flicks his gaze between Smith and it.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I'm feeling like I really did not.”

“You did,” he insists.

Alright. So. Thats. Wow. Okay. Maybe this is a dream?

He bites down on his tongue as hard as he can. Nope yeah, not dreaming. That's nice.

“I…I'm not a fucking girl,” he snaps angrily, ten thousand emotions swirling inside of him. Smith snorts and rolls his eyes, reaching over to brush some of Mack's hair out of his face. If he was a lesser man he'd bite him.

“Never said that, did I?”

“It…you…no.”

“Well, a bet’s a bet. Unless you’re too much of a pussy?”

Mack is going to smother him with his stupid fucking BC bear plushie. He's not a pussy. He's a Real Man, and they don't back down from things. If Smith thinks he’s going to chicken out of something as simple as this, he's got another thing coming for him.

“Fine.”

Smith offers him the jersey. Good god, he's really doing this isn't he? This is more than just sex, this goes against his entire being. There's a line between having sex with your arch rival and wearing their jersey while you do so. He sits up and takes it as aggressively as possible, shoving it over his head without a word. It's then that he notes the scent. This isn't just a jersey, this is the jersey, the one Smith was wearing tonight.

“Problem?”

Smith raises a brow and waits, practically dripping in haughtiness. Mack grits his teeth and tries to avoid the way this makes him feel or rather how it doesn’t make him feel. He figured it would be humiliating but instead it’s like being wrapped up in Smith, his senses clouded and brain finally starting to turn down into that place he only gets to with him. This is objectively the most ridiculous thing he's ever done in his life.

“I don’t like you at all,” he growls as Smith moves to lay in the spot than he had been. He holds a hand out for Mack to take, for balance and he doesn't even hesitate to reach over and take it. Smith’s are a bit smaller than his and despite his profession they're really soft, barely even calloused. He gets a sudden vision of them holding hands walking through some downtown street without a care in the world. Smith's eyes would glitter in the dying sunlight and they'd stop under the shade of a maple tree and Mack would get to kiss him like they belonged together.

“Celly?”

Mack flinches at his voice, and looks down to find concern spread across Smith's face.

“You good?”

“Fine,” he rasps. He takes a deep, steeling breath and then swings a leg over Smith's hips. Holy fuck he’s really doing this. Wow. Okay. Why not?

“Condom?”

Smith hands it to him worldlessly, a glazed look in his eyes as Mack rips it open, spitting the plastic out of his mouth with a grimace. Lube doesn't exactly taste great. He's seen flavored ones, but it's not like he's got much of a use for that. He’ll be basic for now.

It is way fucking different to put a condom on another guy rather than himself, especially sees as the other guy is about to have said condom in his ass. In unison. With his dick. As one does. For sure.

He slides it on slowly, trying to avoid thinking too hard about how he's going to have all of that inside of him soon. It's not very easy to distract from, especially as he drizzles some extra lube over the tip, skin still hot even through the layer separating them. He kind of regrets not getting to blow him again. He really wants to get it right, to make it the best he's ever had and ever will. That's a bit possessive for a casual hookup isn't it? Moving on. He's got a dick to ride, so. Here goes nothing.

Immediately, it feels different. The leverage, the angle, the way he has to hold himself up using Smith's shoulder. He sinks down slowly, his spare hand gripped around the base while he digs his nails into the base of Smith's neck. He doesn't even complain about it, doesn't seem to notice it at all. Mack's focus is on watching himself get closer and closer to Smith's stomach, but Smith is staring directly at him, lips parted and panting. It's not like he's even done any work. Asshole.

Smith's hands come up and under his jersey to clutch at Mack's waist, and even though he's still a bit mad at him the extra stabilization is a welcome help. Also, it's a nice feeling even if it probably should be one. He likes it when Smith treats him like he's the stronger one even though Mack has to be at least ten pounds heavier. He’ll never admit that to anyone. Hell, he's barely allowing it to be admitted to himself.

Slowly—possibly too slow but like he's the one choosing the pace here so. At a perfectly normal speed—he draws his hand away and seats himself firmly onto Smith's cock. He feels like he's been both split open and fused whole all at once. Smiths so fucking deep, and logically he knows he cant be but Mack can once again swear he feels him in his throat.

He thinks Smith might be talking, but his eyes have fallen shut and it's like his head is filled with cotton. Every cell in his body is focused on where they're connected, the way Smith’s hips feel underneath him, the warm, centering points of his hands and wow. He might have been opposed at the start but he certainly isn't now.

“You okay?”

Mack tilts his head back down and opens his eyes to find Smith staring up at him like he's in awe or something.

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Can you say an actual word,” Smith prompts with a small but slightly less evil smirk, squeezing at his waist.

“You feel so fucking good,” Mack whines, the words spilling out of his mouth despite his utter lack of a desire for them to do so. Well. Alright. That's just great. He’s going to pass away now. Crumble into dust at any second. He wishes Smith had brought back a gag or something from the closet. That would make his life way easier.

“Oh?”

“Shut up.”

“I mean you said it, not me so—”

Smith cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as Mack clenches around him as hard as he can. Hah, loser. He looks like he's about to do something bothersome, which is a no for right now. Mack leans forward before he can say a word and kisses him, reveling in the slide of his mouth, the way he can map out the shape of his lips with his tongue. He finds that rather bluntly, he'd like to do that for a very long time. He wants to know what every inch of him tastes like, moves like, feels like.

Fuck, he needs to stop being such a sap about someone he hates and get on with the casual sex part of this arrangement.

He breaks away from Smith and gives himself one singular moment to feel giddy over the way he chases him an extra inch before he moves. One hand gets tangled into the soft curls at Smith's nape, the other placed firmly on top of his shoulder. Mack's an athlete. This is nothing.

Mack could go slow, could take his time. He probably should do that, but he’s finally found that fullness again and he's pretty sure this angle is going to be perfect, so fuck it. He lifts himself up with a surprising lack of resistance, letting each inch of Smith’s cock drag against his prostate before fucking himself back down.

“Fuck,” Smith groans, blunt nails digging into his skin. He rolls his hips forward, the head of his cock brushing against the fabric of his stupid jersey. It gives him some much needed friction as he rocks himself back and forth, eyes slipping shut at the near overstimulation.

“Fuck,” he agrees. At least they can find some common ground in this.

It's remarkably easy to build up a rhythm after that. Smith does fuck all to help, but its probably in his right or whatever, as the bet winner. In any case he just sits there and looks pretty as Mack fucks himself on his dick. He notes on more than one occasion Smith's eyes dropping to the logo on his chest before very quickly moving down to where Mack’s cock just barely peaks out from underneath. The hard part about it is mostly picking the way he wants to move: if he bounces himself upwards he can get Smith deepest, but if he grins forward it’s more friction where he wants it. Naturally indecision would strike him in one of these moments, but he thinks he's got a pretty good balance going on between the two.

What he doesn't really have is any lingering strength in his legs.

He digs his fingers into Smith's chest, a little bit enamored by the way his chain glints in the moonlight while also trying his very hardest not to pull a muscle. His thighs are quite literally quivering with the effort of his work. Maybe if it hadn't just been a game day he could manage this for more than a few minutes, but as it is he's just about ready to collapse.

“Smith,” he starts.

“Hm?”

“I can't—”

His voice cracks with a moan as he falls down into Smith's lap. He tries to push himself back up but his body simply won't cooperate with his mind.

“You tired?” Smith asks, smoothing a hand over his ribs. Mack nods, sweat damp hair falling into his face. He glances over to his left to check the time. 2:09. Fucking hell its late. Or early, he supposes. Point being, he's got every right to be tired.

Smith shuffles them both back a bit so that he's propped up better by the pillows. In an almost reverent fashion he brushes Mack's hair back, a softer look in his eyes than usual. It’s bordering on genuine emotion in a very uncomfortable way. Mack kind of misses Smatan right now.

“Hold on,” he warns. Mack frowns in confusion but obeys nonetheless, looping his arms around his neck. Smith brings his hands back under the jersey—Mack's gonna fucking burn the thing after this is done—and gets a hard hold on his hips. That's all the time he gets to prepare before he roughly fucks up into him, hitting his prostate dead on.

If he could speak he'd either be cursing Smith out or singing his praises. As it is he cannot find any words, so instead he really is just left there to hold on for the ride as Smith drills into him at a mind numbing pace. Mack's delirious with it, whining incoherently into his shoulder. He's pretty sure he's crying a bit, or drooling. Maybe both. He hopes neither, but it's unlikely.

Smith fucks him like he’ll die if he doesn't, all demand and dedication. It's nothing like their last time where Mack could hide from him, try to ignore who exactly was driving him to the brink like this. He’s inhaling Smith's scent with every breath, and this close he’s gotten past the beer and Victoria's Secret body spray shit. He’s trying very hard not to be jealous of whoever was close enough to him to get it to linger. Beneath all of that he can appreciate what he actually smells like, warm and a little musky. Inexplicably, it reminds him of sitting in a hammock on a sunny day. That makes zero sense whatsoever, but his brain tends to make odd connections between things.

Mack might have underestimated him a bit. Yes sure, they're both professional-ish hockey players and that requires a lot of strength, but he's seen Smith play. Like, a lot. Way too much. It's a problem. And not only has he watched it but he's played against it, so he'd like to say that he’s got a pretty good idea of his level of physicality which is to say there is none. Maybe it lulled him into a false sense of security. That while yes, he was an athlete and therefore had the capabilities that came with it, he wasn't like…this strong.

This strong, meaning that he is somehow able to lift Mack up without the slightest hint of struggle, hands gripping into the bottom of his thighs and that newfound leverage pushes him right over. Somehow it manages to overwhelm him even more than he thought possible, not that he's doing much thinking beyond repeating fuck over and over again. He bites down at the juncture of Smith's neck, likely just on the edge of drawing blood. All that building pressure and heat floods through him, turning his brain to a pleasant static. He thinks Smith might be talking to him, but he can't hear much past the ringing in his ears. What he does know is that he collapses like a lawn chair at the feeling of Smith coming in him, the condom doing absolutely nothing to dull the sensation.

“Jesus,” Smith mumbles into Mack’s hair.

“Mm.”

“You alive?”

“Mm.”

“Great.”

“Mm.”

They stay like that for a few minutes and even though it's a little uncomfortable, Mack would rather die than move. He's totally crushing Smith, but if he wanted to get up he probably could. Mack's got all the dexterity of a pencil right now.

He's just on the edge of drifting off when Smith starts pulling the jersey away from his sweat sticky skin. Well, it's sticky with other things too, but he doesn't really want to think about cleaning up that mess right now.

“Mack,” Smith murmurs, lips brushing against his temple.

“Mm?”

“Mind helping me out here?”

“Mmm…”

“Once again, can you please speak a word?”

Ugh. It’s like he wants to kill him.

“Must I?”

“It would be beneficial—”

“Big word.”

“Fuck you. It would be beneficial if you would move so I can get this off. Unless you want to keep it on?”

Oh, ew, no. Ew on so many accounts. Fuck that shit. With a frankly Achillean amount of strength he sits up in Smiths lap, whining at the way his softened cock gets a tiny bit smushed. Smith either doesn't notice or doesn't care about his suffering as he tugs the definitely ruined fabric off and tosses it into the corner.

“Should burn that,” Mack suggests. For some reason, he doesn't even feel all that self conscious despite the fact that he is now one hundred and ten percent naked and using another guy as a chair. At least he's a very comfortable chair.

“Probably.”

See this. This is awkward. Staying seated is weird, moving is weird, existing is weird. He needs help. If his guardian angel would like to come down and give him some advice right now it would be much appreciated. Not that he really believes in that sort of thing, but you know. Desperate times.

A sudden boom of thunder makes them both flinch. Maybe he can just…slide off. But like. All forms of movement are bad. This is the worst moment of his entire life, why on earth did he agree to do this?

“Shower?”

Smith seems way too fucking chill about this. Mack would love it if he showed any form of stress, ever.

“It's down the hall,” he continues casually, “And I can lend you something if you want.”

Mack does not need to be lent anything. He's got clothing. It's not like he's planning to stay or anything. He’ll say no, obviously, cause why wouldn't he make the rational, logical choice—

“Yeah, that’d be uhm…great. Thanks.”

Why is he like this? Legitimately what went wrong in his early childhood development to do this. Smith lifts him—again, like what the actual fuck—up with an arm under his ass—not weird at all, why would that be weird—and places him gently back down on the rumpled sheets. Mack wonders how many other people have ended up in this position, fucked and semi discarded in his bed. The simple idea is enough to make him feel a little sick.

Smith disappears into his closet again, this time giving Mack a great view of his ass. There's also a few red marks over his upper back that he doesn't recall making, but oh well. If he has to deal with locker room scrutiny, so does Smith.

He returns wearing a loose pair of boxers with a little golfer on one leg and a flag stick on the other. Mack’s seen him golf, ie, he's stalked through his mentions and found a video of him doing so. Apparently the love runs deeper than he thought.

“Here,” he says, offering Mack a small pile. There’s a pair of grey flannel pants and a big hoodie with the Red Sox logo sewed on the center. It’s got a little hole near one of the cuffs and some fraying at the hem. Obviously Smith wears it a lot. Mack refuses to think about the implications in that, and instead takes it from him and tries to not super obviously hold it over his crotch. From the way Smith bites back a smile he does not even slightly achieve that. Whatever. He's fine. He's cool.

“Thanks.”

And now to make his walk of shame. Well. Walk of shame for him. No one else will ever know about this.

He can fucking feel Smiths gaze on him as he hurries out of the room, door shutting firmly behind him. There's a brief moment of panic in which he considers that someone else might be up here, but a quick glance around proves him wrong. He can barely even hear anything downstairs either, which is a good sign.

Quickly, so as to not keep standing around naked and covered in cum, he twists open the bathroom door and flicks on the light. It's rather…small. A sink to his immediate left with an old silver medicine cabinet hanging above it. Toilet next to that and a few small shelves on the wall. The shower curtain has a massive BC Eagles logo on it, because of-fucking-course it does. Trust Smith to be fucking weird like that.

His inner voice mumbles something about how he’s got BU bedsheets on most of the time.

Well. Whatever. It was free. Who gives a shit?

He places Smith's clothes on the edge of the sink and tugs the stupid curtain back to twist on the shower. It is also remarkably small, like, enough so that he’s gonna have to bend down to get under the water. Delightful. It's better than nothing though, and he's not one to complain about getting to rid himself of dirt.

God, what the fuck is any of this? What on earth is he doing?

Showering, some oddly helpful part of his brain supplies, You’re taking a shower and you’re fine. Strangely, it sort of sounds like Smith…

Shower. Yeah, he's doing that.

Smith’s got Ocean&Air scented body wash, like the pretentious bastard that he is. Mack hates how nice it smells and the intimacy that comes with using it at all. He's also got some expensive looking shampoo that smells like orange and the side of his neck. This has to be in the top ten worst choices he's ever made. Random hookups in a mutual acquaintance's spare bedroom? That's cool. Coming over to his house and having sex in his literal, actual bed? Not cool. Not casual. Not normal.

Mack gets a bit of soap in his eye in his distraction and nearly hits his head five times trying to wash it out. The burn is no worse than the one he knows is eventually going to come with this whole thing.

He does finally manage to get knocked directly in his cheek by the stupid shower head as he climbs out twenty or so minutes later, scrubbed to the best of his ability and smelling very nice. Doing his very best impression of a guy who doesn't overthink things, he swiftly pulls on Smith's clothes. He's not going to be weird about it. He's just a dude. Wearing another guy's clothes. After showering the scent of the sex they just had off of him. That's normal. It's also normal to want to drown in the feel of Smith wrapped around him. Absolutely. Very sound logic.

The soft patter of rain greets him as he steps back out into the hallway, steam billowing around him in the cool air. There's a small sliver of light slanting onto the floor from Smith's room, and if Mack wasn't in need of his bag he'd have bolted already. This whole night has been so fucking weird, and he's tired and he wants to go home and he doesn't even know what home means anymore. Growing up sucks.

At the end of the day Mack’s got this far on faking confidence to a very shitty extent, so he might as well keep it up. He gives himself one singular second to prepare before marching back to face the crime scene.

The crime scene has changed sheets. That's the first thing he notices, and then the next thing is Smith sitting on the edge of the bed, praying. He's got a rosary wrapped around his palm, his eyes shut and lips silently mouthing…something. Mack's got no idea how prayers work. He's pretty sure they contain god and amen, specifically the capital G kind, but he can't recall the last time he even stepped in the near vicinity of a church.

He knew, like, somewhere in the back of his head that Smith is a good Christian boy. Fuck, he told Mack himself that he was. Still, it's a little jarring to actually see it. Mack’s never known what to do when faced with someone's faith. He’s not like a total nonbeliever who thinks there's nothing out there and that life is pointless, but he just…doesn't know. Hockey is his form of religion, and he's cool with that. Even if it cost him things like meaningful relationships, sleep and most of his childhood, he wouldn't trade it for anything. He loves hockey, and hockey loves him back.

He watches Smith as quietly as he can, most of his focus trained on the various scratch marks and bruises littering his body. He looks so peaceful like this, almost unnaturally so. Mack's a little thrown off by it, by seeing Smith as he truly is and not just the way he acts around him.

“Amen,” he finally says after a few minutes, briefly pressing the crucifix to his mouth before dropping it into the top drawer of his nightstand. He lets out a long sigh as he drags a hand through his messy hair. Why does Mack look stupid when his hair’s a mess but Smith manages to look like he's in a fucking magazine? How is that fair?

He ever so slightly shifts his weight against the doorframe but due either his shitty luck or the fact that this is a literal attic, the floorboards creak underneath him. Delightful. Just…great.

Smith jerks his head up so fast that Mack’s surprised his neck doesn't snap.

“Uh…hey.”

Smith says nothing, just stares at him slack jawed. Why is he fucking cursed.

His inner voice mumbles something about the voodoo doll and the possibility of an evil past life.

“Thanks for the uhm…shower. Clothes. Everything. Yeah,” he rambles as he slowly meanders over to him. Still no response, but he does rise to face him, swaying a little bit to each side. Maybe he's been possessed? Weirder shit has happened.

He stops about a foot away and this close he can see that Smith's pupils are blown wide enough that Mack would worry about him being high if he didn't know better.

“Uh. Smith?”

Nothing.

“Smitty,” he urges, stepping closer now. Oh fuck is he possessed? Mack's got no clue how to fix something like that. That's way too much pressure.

“Will.” For good measure he pokes at his cheek, and that seems to finally snap him out of it. Having to call a priest would be super awkward on so many levels.

“What?”

“…you alright?”

“Huh? Wha—yeah. I'm fine. I’m fine,” he insists like he wasn’t just five seconds away from becoming the newest star of an Exorcist movie.

“Ookay.”

Smith drags a slow look over him, and between the fact that he's still shirtless and it being, well, him, it's enough to make Mack feel like he’s going to explode. Fuck him for being hot, seriously. Such bullshit.

Mack squirms under his gaze, focusing as hard as he can on A: not actually getting hard and B: not looking like a total loser. He’s pretty sure he's failing on both accounts, but he feels like it's not his fault. Smith’s the problem here.

“Gonna shower,” he says roughly, eyes pinned on Mack's mouth like a fucking freak. Unfortunately, Mack is no better.

“Kay,” he squeaks back. Honestly it's like he's trying to embarrass himself at this point. He flops himself down on the bed, watching Smith brush past him to grab a hoodie off the floor as he heads for the door. Pause. His hoodie. Oh, wow, okay. That's…yeah. Mack's fine. This is fine.

Smith is almost out of the room when Mack notices what the pattern under his hands is. Tiny little dachshunds, some of them with hats or bowties. It's so out of pocket that he has to laugh, biting down on his lip when Smith turns to look at him over a shoulder.

“Cute sheets,” he teases, nodding to the bed. Smith scowls, glaring like Mack told him that Boston cream pie is overrated.

“Fuck you, I like dogs.”

“It's soo adorable.”

“You’re much easier to handle when you're horny,” he mutters just before slipping out the door.

What an ass. Why does Mack have to be into him again?

At last, he’s alone. Probably not a great thing to be seeing as he always has weird ideas when left without supervision. He drags a hand through his damp hair and sighs. This is honestly like a fever dream. He’d believe it to be fake more if he wasn't very, very sore and completely fucking exhausted. He should probably check to see if someone’s died and or found out where he is.

He rummages through his bag of provisions and keys to grab his phone, shuffling back on the bed to rest against the pillows. He needs to figure out what room spray Smith uses. That’s not weird or crossing any boundaries, right? Like, having his own bed smell like the guys room is totally normal. Yeah. Mhm. Totes.

He’s got one message from Aiden that came in a little after he texted in the car.

Aids: Go to sleep

Welp. He failed at that. It doesn't count if he doesn't know about it, right?

hutty: Fuck u at

hutty: Mack

hutty: Macklinnnnnnn

hutty: Macklin hockey stick celebrini

hutty: I do not want to have to let u in at like 3 am

hutty: Its so nice just talking to myself over here

hutty: U finally getting ur dick wet?

hutty: Props if so but how fucking long r u gonna take

hutty: I am going to bed

hutty: Do not wake me

hutty: Also if you dont respond soon ill tell Aiden

hutty: xoxo kisses hugs and so on

Mack has both a lot of things and absolutely nothing to say to all of that. Whatever. Lies first, then thinking.

im at LCA

chill

and i will fucking kill you if you say anything to aid

and ill steal ur crystals

With Lane sufficiently threatened he scrolls through some other random shit. RJ sent a picture of him and Cali, Quinn sent something indecipherable—bruskwefine—followed by a five second video of Lane nearly falling over the rails and into the river. Of course. It reminds him one of one the first summers after they moved to California, Aiden and him on a late night walk on the pier with ice cream dripping down their wrists.

Look at that, Aiden had said, pointing at some far off area in the ocean. Mack had turned to see what on earth he was on about when the cone was slipped out of his hands and he was pushed directly into the freezing water. He’d whined about it for weeks, and eventually Aiden had let him do the same as payback. Looking back at it now, there's a fondness to the memory, even though it sucked at the time.

He wonders if he’ll feel like that about Smith.

Part of him still thinks that maybe one of his friends is like…in the closet or that there's a hidden camera on his bookshelf live streaming the whole thing. He probably would have seen something about that from Lane by now if that was the case, but he can't shake the idea no matter how irrational it is. It wouldn't even really cause any backlash at Smith. At most a few fans would think it's shitty, but Mack would be the one crying while riding him in his game-worn jersey after a loss. There’d be no coming back from that.

“You good?”

Smith's voice jolts him out of his stupor, standing just beside the bed. When the fuck did he even get here? And why on earth does he look so good in Mack's clothes? Actually no, why does Mack feel like this about seeing him in a random hoodie. Fucking…ugh. It’s gotta be the voodoo doll shit.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Why?”

“Just looked like you were a little…off,” he says with a shrug, sitting next to him with a bare ankle pressed against his own.

Mack considers this. Considers being a dick, saying something like How the fuck would you know, we’re not friends. Let’s the words roll in his mouth a bit, just to see how they'd taste, how they'd feel. The weight feels like lead on his tongue, so instead he picks the other option: emotional vulnerability, which for him always comes with the sting of bile and tears.

“I kinda thought this was like…a prank.”

“Hm?”

“Like, you invited me here to record me or tell all your friends or something. Like, you're only here to ruin my reputation or out me or…”

He trails off weakly, squeezing his eyes shut as his breaths come shorter. He feels like he's inhaling smoke, like Smith’s finally lit him on fire, turning him into nothing more than a plume of dying ash. Or maybe he's just having a panic attack. Probably that.

“It’s stupid, I don’t know, I’m sorry—”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, you’re okay. Mack?”

He’d love to answer, love to be able to do anything, but it's like his body is stuck. He can't move his tongue, can't make his lungs expand, can't find it in himself to do anything but wait for the inevitable shame.

“Mack,” Smith presses, and all of a sudden there's a hand on his jaw tilting his head up, another around his waist trying to coax him into sitting up. “Can you look at me? Please?”

He wants to, he wants to so fucking bad but he just cant. He refuses to cry despite how much he wants to, refuses to give in and let the weakness take over even though it's so tempting. He wishes Smith would yell at him or something, call him disgusting and tell him to fuck off. Why does he have to be so good? Mack doesn't deserve any of this, and he certainly doesn't deserve him. He thinks his nervous system is breaking down.

“Baby.”

That does it. Of course it does. Mack’s eyes flutter ever so slightly open, and Smith is the only thing he can see, wide blue eyes and the slight slit in his right brow, or at least the right for Mack. Three particularly stark beauty marks: forehead, under his left eye and on his right cheek. Mack wants to kiss all of them.

“Easy, okay? Follow my breaths, here. That's it. That's good, you're doing so good,” he coaches, placing Mack's hand on his chest. In, out. A steady, even rhythm. Something to hold onto, to tether him back into his body. It must be some sort of gift, to be that beautiful even in the face of suffering. He looks like an angel, like someone whose face you'd see painted and hanging in a museum or carved into stone. He deserves to have someone spend that much time on him. Mack would do it, would spend a lifetime dedicated to him. He'd do it in a heartbeat.

His inner voice mumbles something about how not only is that utterly fucking psychotic, but incredibly gay and also not even remotely casual.

Between Smith's gentle soothing and the calm drizzle of rain pattering against the window, it doesn't take too long for Mack to come down from the edge. It's still humiliating, but at least he didn't start crying like he did with Lane. He’d never get over that.

Somehow, he's ended up in Smith's lap, back to chest, his legs on either side of Mack's and his chin just above his head. It's all encompassing, like he could just sit here and sink into the warmth of Smith's frame and that would be okay. Not even the closet in his childhood bedroom felt like this.

“Feeling better?”

He’s close enough for his breath to tickle the shell of Mack’s ear. Mack wants him to be closer still.

“Mhm.”

Smith doesn't say anything else, just lets out a shaky sigh and loops his arms around Mack's stomach. This is…nice. Very nice. Even though he knows it can't last and he’ll have to go home soon he still hopes.

“You um…”

Smith sucks in a deep breath, his grip tightening for a brief moment before going slack again.

“You really think I’d do that?”

Mack's never heard Smith sound that fragile, that small. It kinda sounds like himself. He shakes his head quickly, but there's still just that hint of lingering doubt. Still, he hates that he's the cause of whatever Smith's feeling, even if he doubts that he's important enough to him to ever really make something hurt.

“No? Well. Yes? I don't know, I just get really in my head about things and there's no reason for you to like me or be doing any of this, I mean not that you like me, but you know, and it just made sense in my head that you'd be doing this to like…get over on me. Fuck me up like everyone else.”

The confession hangs in the air, his throat clenching up again. He's not going to cry. He won't. He's a Real Man and Real Men don't—

“Oh, Macklin.”

Smith moves then, shifting himself over so they're somewhat face to face.

“I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like I hurt you. I'm sorry that anyone has. You don't have to apologize for that, okay?”

For the second time in one singular night, Smith has managed to remove any possible response from his mouth. He's at a loss, one big ball of confusion and instability. He's never felt like this before, and fuck he doesn't even know what it is that he's feeling, but he…he doesn't hate it. It's weird and a little slimy and a lot uncomfortable but it’s like…

It's like Smith is his walking closet. A safe, enclosed space disguised as a human being. He wants to sink into him and never leave.

He's lost the plot, hasn't he?

Since he’s already irredeemable, his reaction to this is also plotless: he leans forward and brushes a soft kiss to Smith's mouth.

Mack’s long past his first kiss. Obviously, like, no shit he is, but for some inexplicable reason, it feels like one. Fragile and nervous and…oh, wow, he's fucked. Smith kisses him back like they're in some cheesy romcom, all languid and sickeningly sweet. There's no disguise of lust or any rush to it, just…them.

After what feels like hours but could have only been a handful of seconds Mack pulls barely a centimeter away, inhaling the air that Smith breathes out. The act alone makes him dizzy, let alone every other thing that's happened tonight. He feels like his perception of reality has been turned around and spun on its head before getting slammed directly into a brick wall. Apparently good dick does that to you. Who'd have guessed?

His inner voice mumbles something about how it's totally more than just the sex and he damn well knows it.

“Can I see it?”

Wow, Mack. Totally normal, explanatory and non sexual thing to ask a guy apropos of nothing. For sure bud.

Smith squints at him. If he were to kick him out right now Mack would totally understand it.

“The…the video. Of Leonard. On the roof.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah I've seen your dick already so—”

“Don't act like you didn't hear it too,” Smith quips, reaching over to grab his phone off the nightstand and then settles once more against the pillows. Mack rests his head back on him as he pulls it up. His lock screen is a very adorable and slightly demonic looking dog.

It is, predictably, one of the funniest things he's ever seen in his entire life. There's a whole lot of shrieking and some very creative insults that he's totally gonna steal. He can hear Smith giggling in the background as Perrault tries to coach some amount of calmness into the scene. He doesn't really succeed, but he does at one point tell Leonard to Chill the fuck down or I will tell your mom that you’re not a virgin you dumb freckled fuck, which is easily the best thing to happen to him. About halfway through there's a dramatic zoom in on Smith's judgmental face as he sips at a steaming mug.

No one told you to do this, he calls up to Leonard's shaking frame, which gets him a very loud fuck you in return. He’s not sure at which point the laughter coming from Smith's body starts and his own ends, but he does know that once the video ends their conversation doesn't. Smith details the lead up to the event: banging, screaming and crying included and then somehow moves on to drama from his sisters friends. He talks about growing up in Lexington, how he's excited to play for the Sharks but still feels like he's betraying the Bruins. It gets Mack on a tangent about Vancouver and how he misses it in comparison to California, which then gets him talking about the Junior Sharks and what that was like. From there he’s not even sure what the fuck they talk about. Everything, nothing. He spends just as much time trying to keep his hands to himself as he does with Smith's mouth on some part of his body.

Mack doesn't really have friends. Too much hockey, too much pressure. Staying up this late with someone just to hear the sound of their voice, to laugh with them, to enjoy their company…he’s never had that. Well, he kind of did with his ex, but it feels different now. Not that, you know. Not that that's what this is or what they are. But when Smith pulls the duvet up over both of them he doesn’t complain, when he presses a fond kiss to his temple he leans into it instead of away, and when his eyes fall shut he doesn't bother opening them.

On a good day he's one hundred percent will power. Clearly, this is not one of those.

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

Mack wakes up to sun in his eyes and a beeping alarm. Odd, since he always has his curtains drawn shut, and his alarm does not sound like that. Maybe it changed? He can’t recall ever doing that, so maybe it's Lane’s? But his is some weird yoga motivational thing that scares the shit out of Mack. No one wants to wake up to a creepily calm voice talking to them from the void. Maybe he’s still dreaming? He's been known to have some unnaturally realistic ones in the past, but this feels pretty real…

Beside him someone groans and he can feel the bed shift as they move, the alarm turning off after a second. The fuck? He can't remember Lane falling asleep next to him last night or anything, but maybe his memory is just really shit right now. He rolls over, squinting blearily at the shape in front of him. It doesn't look like Lane. It's not Aiden. Who the fuck—

“Oh shit,” are the simple words that leave the mouth of William Charles Patrick Smith.

Mack is. Mack is in his bed. It is the morning, and he's in his bed. In his house. On the BC campus. The night hits him like a semi truck, a tsunami, a fucking meteorite.

“Oh shittt,” he repeats, scrambling upright and staring at Mack with his mouth hanging open.

“Dude,” Mack starts, pushing himself up with one arm to see the time. 7:02. Not ideal. Not ideal at all, oh he is so completely fucked right now.

“Don’t dude me when you had your tongue in my mouth a few hours ago.”

“Literally fucking die. Like right now.”

“It's a fact Celly, don't be mad.”

“Mad? Mad? William i am in your fucking bedroom at seven am. I have every single reason to be mad at you holy shit,” he snaps, head clearing surprisingly fast from the fog of sleep. Rage will do that to someone.

“Relax, it's fine.”

As if god is mocking him, a bang comes from the hallway, and Mack knows in his bones exactly what it is: the door has opened.

“Smitty!”

Smith blanches and starts trying to smother him with the duvet. He’d be offended if he wasn't doing the same thing himself.

“What?”

“You heard from Fowls?” Perrault calls, still—thank fuck—sounding a like he's a good amount of distance away.

“No!”

There's silence for a minute, and then a shouted response.

“Well, I can’t find him, Leno is fucking dead or something and no one else is up. Viens en bas, or I will actually fucking kill someone.”

Smith snorts at that. Personally if it was Mack, he would not be finding a single thing funny right now.

“D’accord, mange pas tes bas,” he yells back. Perrault says nothing in return, but a moment later the attic door shuts. Mack thinks his heart is actually about to beat out of his chest. Smith whips the covers back from his face, his own looking a bit ill despite how casual he’s acting. 

“So. I was going to suggest for you to just sneak downstairs, but…”

“I’ll pass,” he snarks, sitting up and leaning against the wall. 

“Fuck me,” Smith mutters under his breath. He drags a hand through his hair, a few curls falling back into his face. Literally who looks like that when they wake up? Fucking psychotic piece of shit. Mack refuses to be jealous of him about anything, but this is just getting ridiculous. 

“Alright,” he says after a few seconds in which he looked like he was about to die, “Alright.”

Smith stands and turns to him with a scarily determined expression. 

“I have a plan.”

Five minutes later, Mack is about to rip his throat out with his teeth.

“You want me to what?!”

“Its the only option!”

“No the fuck it isn't.”

“Point me to another one,” Smith argues, crossing his arms, the sleeves of Mack's hoodie slipping down to his elbows. Fuck. Fuck. This was such a bad idea. How could he be so stupid? He should have called a car the moment it was over, used the cover of the party to slip away. He shouldn't have been here in the first place really. If guardian angels are real, his must really fucking hate him. 

Regrettably, Smith is correct. This is really the only way out. 

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and turns to look tiredly at his escape: Smith's window. It leads out to a small drop onto the roof, and then from there he can leaver himself down to the third floor, which has a slant going to the second. After that he can either jump or try his hand at climbing down the trellis. This is so fucking crazy. 

His inner voice mumbles something about how he's the one who brought up James Bond in the first place. Lying and parkour, right?

Mack would vomit if he had the time. 

Despite the whole hookup buddies thing, Mack is still a bit insecure about being naked around Smith. That gets tossed out the window—along with himself pretty soon—as he hurriedly undresses and puts his own clothes back on. Smith’s left wearing what he was, which is also like…a thing, even though it shouldn't be. He doesn't have a lot of time to think about it before he's suddenly standing with his bag in hand in front of an opened window. 

Well. 

Time to find out if he's scared of heights or not. 

“Hey,” Smith says from behind him as he hooks one leg over the side. “Don't die, okay?”

Mack rolls his eyes and clambers out the other side, keeping a firm grip on the sill.

“I’ll try my best,” he promises, the words coming out way more sincere than he intended them to.

“Good. I already had to call the fire department for this shit, and I don't really feel like doing it again,” Smith teases with a rare non-evil grin. He looks…boyish. Cute. Pretty. 

Maybe the shower head did more damage than he realized.

He hesitates there, crouched on the fourth story roof of an unfamiliar house with a horrifically familiar face in front of him. For one sickening moment he considers kissing him goodbye, but manages to restrain himself. He stands on shaky legs and turns to the ledge. Just…don't look down. 

Behind him he hears the window shut with a click and receding footsteps. At least he won't have an audience if he falls to his demise.

He stares out at the clear blue sky, not a hint of clouds in sight. The sun filters gently through the trees and overhead a flock of sparrows pass. He's got no clue why Leonard was freaking out about this. It's pretty nice up here. 

“You’re fucking crazy,” he mutters to himself as he lowers himself to the next level down. “I mean really. Who does this shit?”

The wind ripples underneath his hoodie, lifting the lingering scent of Smith to his face. He’s never washing this. Also crazy, but you know, all things considered it's pretty average for him. Might as well keep up with the memo. But honestly, the whole roof thing isn't that bad. The weather is a bit off-putting sure, but it's nothing to scream about.

It’s not until he’s faced with the view from the second floor to the backyard, that he realizes just how far two stories is to fall for a man. 

𖹭❄︎⋆⁺₊❅.🏒.❅₊⁺⋆❄︎𖹭

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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