Archive of Our Own

Auston woke up with a pit in his stomach.

It wasn’t nerves, not exactly. It wasn’t the kind that used to rattle his hands before playoff openers or press conferences. It was something quieter. Something heavier. It settled behind his ribs and refused to move, even when the alarm buzzed and the hotel light cracked against the corners of the blackout curtains. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling, his gut spinning along with the thoughts in his mind.

Today was game day. The game. He should’ve been thinking about systems, lines, the matchup. He should’ve been visualizing zone entries or stretching, or hell- anything other than him.

But his brain didn’t work like that anymore, it refused to. Not when Vegas was in town. Not when Mitch was in town.

He reached for his phone on instinct as his vision unblurred from his sleep, the lock screen glowing too bright for how early it was. No new messages. No notifications. Not that he expected any. He let his mind wander, opening Twitter as if it was muscle memory, but it was a bad move. It always was.

It was everywhere. 

Leafs vs. Golden Knights – the former Toronto duo play on the same rink once more, but now as enemies.

Enemies. Right. His eyes snapped down to photos from practice, Mitch’s crooked grin under the gold of his helmet. The way his curls still stuck to his forehead even after all this time. Someone had tagged an old video from years back, Auston and Mitch throwing foam pucks at each other with their sticks during a morning skate, their laughs ringing across the boards so loudly they had to stop to breathe.

He should’ve looked away, shouldn’t have even let his eyes keep going past the title, but he didn’t.

Auston tossed the phone onto the nightstand and sat up, elbows on his knees, dragging a hand over his face. His mouth was dry. His chest ached in a way he hated, like a bruise you keep pressing just to make sure it was still there. To make sure it still hurts .

He didn’t say anything to the guys at breakfast. Just nodded along, forked eggs around his plate, kept his hood up and headphones in. Everyone else was amped up, it was a home game, full barn on a busy Saturday night. But for Auston, it was anything but that. He wasn’t even sure if he would be able to lace his skates without his hands shaking.

He found himself going to the rink early, earlier than usual. Just to be in the quiet before the noise. He liked the smell of the fresh ice when no one was around yet. Liked the way his blades sounded when he was the first to carve into the surface. It was steadying. Familiar.

But even there, in the place that comforted and grounded him most, he couldn’t focus. He kept seeing flashes through his mind. Mitch on the opposing bench. Mitch tapping his stick on the ice during warmies, or spinning around endlessly like he always used to do. Mitch nodding at him after a big shift, as if he was trying to say I saw that. I know you. I still do.

He’d imagined a lot of things since Mitch left, all the what-ifs and the what-should-have-beens. But nothing prepared him for what it actually felt like. Knowing they’d share ice again, but this time on opposite sides. It made him feel unsecure. Uncentered. Like he didn’t know where home was anymore. 

He tied his skates too tight at morning skate, and pulled his jersey on like it itched. Someone cracked a joke in the locker room and he didn’t even hear it. When they asked if he was good, he nodded, rubbed at his jaw, then muttered “Yeah, just thinking.” And no one pushed. They never did, not with Auston. And it would be crazy to push on it today of all days, when it was already obvious what had the man going mad.

There was always that weird space between morning skate and the game. Auston tried to kill the time like he usally did, take a nap, eat a meal, stretch, but nothing landed right. The bed felt too stiff, the meal was too bland, and his legs jittered with leftover tension. It didn’t help that every TV in the hotel lobby was set to hockey that night. And not just any hockey, but all about the game tonight. Leafs vs. Golden Knights.

Commentators were already building the narrative.

“The former Toronto stars go head to head for the second time this season-”

“Auston Matthews and Mitch Marner: the breakup everyone in the league still talks about-”

“Do they still talk off the ice? Can that kind of friendship really survive that distance in the opposing jerseys?”

He shut it off instantly. He didn’t need to hear it. Didn’t need the reminder that everyone was watching this like it was something more than just a regular season game. He knew what they all wanted. The handshake at center ice. The grins. The back pats. The remember us? We were magic once moment.

And maybe, in some universe, Auston could’ve done that. Maybe if things had ended differently, cleaner. Not like this. Not with silence between them that stretched for months. He still didn’t know who was at fault for leaving it hanging. Maybe they both were. 

Back at the arena, things were sharper. More real. 

He pulled on his warm-up shirt and adjusted the pads on his knees. He tried to breathe through the energy humming around the room. The guys were dialed in, loud yet focused, already half-taping sticks or slapping hands. But Auston felt stuck in his place. 

He stared at his helmet longer than he needed to before putting it on. Caught his own reflection in the blue shine for a second too long. He grabbed his gloves, and instead of throwing them on like he usually did without a second thought, he paused. His eye lingered on the empty blank space near his palm of the glove, then he grabbed a sharpie from his bag behind him. It was stupid, maybe a bit hopeless, but he drew a small heart. It was simple and faint, barely even noticeable, but he knew that he would notice if anything.

Auston slipped the gloves over his hands, as if the fabric would hide their subtle shakes, then the door opened and cut his thoughts short. A few staff filtered through, trainers, a PR rep, then a voice between the flood of staff had said Vegas had just arrived. Auston didn’t even ask, he didn’t need to. He had already felt it like a change in the air pressure. 

He laced his skates slower than usual. When he looked up, Willy was watching him. 

“You good?” Willy asked, his voice low, almost knowing, as he tapped a puck against his palm.

Auston nodded. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“You always think too much when he’s around.”

Auston blinked. Didn’t answer. And Willy didn’t wait for one, cause he knew they both knew enough was said without words anyway.

The tunnel was loud. He stood in his place in the line, visor tilted up, gloves flexing over his stick. He could see down the opposing tunnel if he craned his head just slightly. A sea of gold and black. He wasn’t looking for him, at least that’s what he told himself. But then he saw it. Saw him . If he tilted his head just a bit, if he squinted, if he pretended the colours were wrong, it almost felt like nothing had changed. Almost.

Mitch was bouncing on his toes like always. Chewing at his mouth guard. Head ducked, grinning at something one of his teammates had said. That stupid grin. That same bounce. That same twitch of his shoulders that Auston could probably still map with his eyes closed. Auston felt his eyes move on their own, drifting to the hands he used to reach for every time he walked onto the ice. And it was there. The barely visible blob of a smudge right near his palm, and Auston knew that it was anything but a smudge. He knew it was in the same spot as the doodle he had placed on his own glove earlier, and he knew exactly what was there. Auston pried his eyes back up, glancing at the way his smile beamed across the tunnel. His eyes never once looked his way, but Auston knew Mitch saw him. He knew he felt it too.

It hit him like a slap to the chest. A reminder, a harsh reminder, that once upon a time, Mitch had stood right beside him in this exact tunnel. Not across from him. Not wearing someone else’s colours. And he couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter. Not when his heart was hammering. Not when he felt the ghost of a glove tap on the hand behind his back that would never come. Not when the person who used to feel like home was suddenly the stranger standing across the line.

The puck dropped. Auston didn’t hear it. Not really. He skated out with legs that felt too heavy, and vision that was too narrow. Not tunnel vision, not focus, just static. Like everything was being processed through molasses.

He went through the motions: chased the loose puck, dropped back to cover, swung wide when Willy streaked into the zone. But nothing stuck. Every stride felt off by a fraction. His hands weren’t smooth with his stick like they usually were. The puck bounced when it shouldn’t have. His passes were a split-second too slow.

And every time he thought he might settle, might find his rhythm again, Mitch was there. Not even doing anything sometimes. Just there . On the forecheck. On the backcheck. Buzzing past in Vegas gold and black, chirping someone or tapping his stick or adjusting his helmet with that same gloved tug Auston had seen a thousand times. The one he had felt .

Every time he saw it, it yanked him off balance. 

He wasn’t supposed to care this much. He wasn’t supposed to feel like every single second Mitch was on the ice, it was a second Auston lost something he didn’t even know how to name. He tried to tell himself it was fine. First periods were shaky sometimes. Nerves. Routine. 

But when he got to the bench and sat down, jaw tight and breathing hard, Berube walked by behind him and said something under his breath that sounded a hell of a lot like “Matthews looks off tonight.”

He knew. He knew, and that made it worse. 

Auston looked up across the ice, past the linesmen and the glare of the boards, and of course Mitch was on the ice again. Cutting through neutral zone traffic. Spinning. Sliding a no-look pass back to Eichel like he’d been playing with him for years, and he hated to admit how badly it irked him. 

The crowd cheered. Vegas scored. Auston didn’t blink, he couldn’t even dare to react. Someone had clapped him on the back, told him to “shake it off” and he nodded. Still didn’t say anything. His hands stayed wrapped around the stick, so tightly that his knuckles ached. 

He sat in silence, the noise of the crowd faded into a dull roar behind his heartbeat. He knew the period was far from over. But he wasn’t sure he could do this. Not like this anyway. Not when it felt like the ghost of everything he and Mitch used to be was chasing him down every shift. And yet, the next time he stood, the next time the whistle blew, the next time his skates hit the ice, Mitch was out there again. He always was. 

But this time, Mitch turned. Just for a second, half a heartbeat even, a flash of gold and black curling around the edge of the zone. His head angled over his shoulder, and his gaze found Auston through the chaos. Their eyes locked, and then Mitch winked with an upturn of his lips. It was tiny and quick, so subtle that no one else would’ve noticed. But Auston did, of course he did.

He noticed it instantly because Mitch used to do it all the time. After goals, after stupid bets in practice, after Auston flunked a joke and tried to save it with a look. That wink had always been just for him. And now he was doing it again, but this time in a different jersey, on enemy ice, after putting Vegas up by one. 

It wasn’t a celebration, it was a reminder. I still see you. And fuck, did Auston feel it. Right in the chest. Right in the place he’d been pretending didn't still belong to someone else.

Auston didn’t smile back. He couldn’t. His lips were pressed too tight. But the way he skated the next shift, the way he moved, something had changed in him. He felt it snap back into place, like a puck setting on the sweet spot of a stick. He was in it now. And he wasn’t going down without showing Mitch who he still was. 

As the first period came to an end, the locker room buzzed with low chatter. A few sticks thudded against the floor, water bottles cracked open, towels snapping as they were tossed towards benches. The usual noise. The usual chaos.

But Auston sat at his stall, elbows on his knees, helmet cradled between his gloves like something delicate. Something precious. Something breakable. 

His lungs still burned from the last shift he played, not from skating, not entirely anyway. It was more due to the split-second glance across the ice that had knocked the wind out of him harder than any hit ever could. 

That look. That stupid, small flick of Mitch’s eyes as he passed. Nothing dramatic. No words, just… something. A glance full of knowing. And it was ruining him. 

He hadn’t heard a single word the coach said when they filed in. He barely registered John tapping his shin pad, murmuring, “You good?” He must’ve nodded, must’ve mumbled some sort of response like “Yeah. All good” , because no one was staring anymore. But he was anything but good.

His gloves creaked under the grip of his fingers closing in on his helmet. It wasn’t just seeing Mitch again. That had been bad enough. It was seeing him play. Knowing every twitch of his wrist before it even happened, knowing the tilt of his hips meant he was about to shift lanes, knowing the stupid way his tongue poked out when he was calculating a move that made Auston’s whole body go still for a second too long. It was like trying to outskate a memory, when you clearly couldn’t. 

Auston dropped his helmet into his lap and reached for his water bottle. He didn’t drink, just stared at it. The scent of the locker room was sweat, detergent, half-melted tape, but somewhere, faint and taunting, he swore he could smell Mitch . Cologne and static and something like vanilla that had always lingered too long after a hug. His throat tightened. 

He blinked down at the floor, at the white scuffs in the blue rubber beneath his skates, then at his phone that was tucked in the mesh pocket beside his gear. He didn’t know why he reached for it, they weren’t even allowed to check them during periods, but he did anyway. The screen lit up, and no notifications once more, of course not. 

His thumb hovered, then he opened his messages, and his eyes singled in on the way his name was still near the top. Unchanged and untouched, like the unsent message that lingered in the text box. “It’s not going to be the same.”  

He stared at it for a long time, then hit the back button before locking his phone. He set it down once more, like it might burn through his skin if he held it any longer. Auston swallowed hard and wiped a hand down his face. 

There were still two more periods to go. Two more periods of trying not to look for him. Of pretending he didn’t feel like he was skating against a ghost. But that look Mitch gave him? That small flicker of something he couldn’t ever put into words? It was more than enough to haunt the next forty minutes, and maybe, just maybe, that was both the problem and the solution all in one.

As the players rolled out of the tunnels once more, Auston felt himself hit the ice with purpose this time. Not the kind the coach would write up on a whiteboard. Not the kind teammates would slap him on the back for. This was quieter. Hungrier. The kind of purpose that lived right in his ribs and whispered in his mind. He’s still out there.

The puck dropped. And everything blurred. Vegas played like they had something to win, yet Toronto played like they had something to prove. Auston skated as if he had nothing to lose, because he didn’t. Not anymore. 

And Mitch? He glided across the neutral zone like he owned it. He was a ghost and a weapon all at once, the way he slipped through traffic, calling for passes with the signature lift of his stick and twist of his torso. The one Auston would recognize in his sleep.

But it wasn’t the skill that got him. It was the glow. That infuriating, bright-eyed presence that coated him in a kind of shine no one could replicate in his eyes. It wasn’t after a goal, nor a win. It was just Mitch being… Mitch. Electric. Effortless. Looking like the love of the game being knocked out of him hadn’t even crossed his mind. Not even once. 

He smiled mid-play after poking a puck loose, and Auston nearly lost his line change trying to watch him. It stung. He could still feel that smile like it was aimed straight at him. Like Mitch knew exactly how sharp it landed. He probably didn’t. Probably didn’t even see Auston’s eyes flick up from center ice and catch him there, mid-glow, flying on the ice and glowing like he was home. 

But that was the thing, he wasn’t home. He was in gold and black, and skating for someone else. And Auston couldn’t breathe around it.

By the midpoint of the period, Auston had four shots on goal, an assist, and a likely bruised rib from where he crashed the net too hard after trying to force something, anything, to matter. The arena roared around them. But when he glanced across the ice after the whistle, past the blur of sticks, sweat, and noise, Mitch was already looking at him. Just for a second. Just enough to make Auston freeze on his skates. Mitch gave him a tiny nod. Barely there, almost imperceptible. But Auston saw it. Felt it like a hand on his heart. And when the puck dropped again, he didn’t miss a beat. He skated like he had a message to send. Like if he couldn’t say it out loud, he’d carve it into the ice behind him.

I see you, I still do. And Fuck, I wish you still saw me too.

The ice was littered with echoing cheers, but none was for him. 

It wasn’t like Auston had expected it to be anyway, not really. But the sting still hit, sharp and familiar, as gold and silver jerseys littered the stands, yet his eyes fell to his skates. It was theatrical in a way, dramatic even, like the colours were mocking them in their own home rink. Bright lights flashed above, the crowd roared for Vegas, and Auston could do nothing but stand there. Rooted to the slippery ice, helmet half-off, jaw tight, his eyes finding their way somewhere in the distance.

They lost. Again. And the worst part was, he wasn’t even surprised anymore.

As he turned towards their bench, pushing slowly on the ice with the little energy he had left, he could hear the team celebrating behind him. The victorious cheers, the slap of gloves against helmets, the low rumble of congratulatory hollers echoing through the arena like thunder. He didn’t turn around to look. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. 

The crowd was still buzzing, but it felt like white noise pressing against his skull. He should go. Get off the ice. Peel out of his gear. Say nothing in media. Smile through it anyway. Shower, leave, go home, sleep, wake up, and move on. The familiar yet sickening routine of losing. 

But then, something changed in the air. A shift, subtle, but immediate. Auston’s shoulders tensed before he even saw him. Mitch. There he was, skating towards him. Why him of all people? He was still in full gear, the gold across his chest glowing in the lights, sweat matting his curls to his forehead. The only player on a Vegas jersey who wasn’t currently mid-celebration. 

Instead, he was coming to him .

Auston blinked, lips parting slightly as his mind scrambled for some logical explanation. Maybe he’d forgotten something. Maybe he just got turned around. But no, Mitch’s eyes were locked on him. Unwavering. Intentional. 

“Mitch…?” Auston asked as he reached him, low and uncertain, his voice lost beneath the roar of the rink.

Mitch didn’t answer right away. He skated right up to him, a little breathless, chest still heaving slightly from his last shift, always pushing himself till the last second. There was a smile tugging at his mouth, not wide, not smug, just soft. It was quiet, and it was Mitch.

“That was one of the best games I’ve ever seen you play, Tones.” Mitch said softly, and the words landed like a hit to the chest, the nickname hitting the hardest of it all.

Auston blinked, slow and heavy, before his voice came back to him. “What?”

“You were… just really fucking good tonight. Nothing more to it.” Mitch’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through everything else. “I just needed to tell you.”

Auston let out a disbelieving laugh, small and sharp, not being able to bring himself to believe the words coming from the Canadian. “Mitch, we lost.”

“So?” Mitch shrugged, his voice immediate and sharp, like it didn’t even matter. Like the scoreboard hadn’t just slammed another weight onto Auston’s shoulders to deal with. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true.”

Auston searched his face, confused, defensive, nearly desperate to understand what the hell Mitch was doing out here, talking to him about his apparently good game instead of celebrating a win with his team. 

Mitch looked relaxed. Not cocky, not self-satisfied. Just… present. Like this was where he wanted to be, because it was for him. And that only made it worse.

“Shouldn’t you be…” Auston gestured vaguely behind Mitch, towards the explosion of a celebration that was happening at center ice. “Y’know, cheering with your buddies or something?”

Mitch’s eyes followed the motion, but his body didn’t turn, only glancing back for a second. Then his eyes returned to Auston, softer than before. “I will.” he said simply. “Just wanted to see you first.”

He used to be the first person Mitch skated to. Now he was just a memory Mitch had paused on. Auston’s chest instantly tightened. They hadn’t talked like this in months. Not really anyway. Not since everything changed. Not since the trade. Not since the airport. Not since Mitch left.

It wasn’t supposed to still feel like this. It should’ve gotten easier. But here they were, on opposite sides of the ice, wearing opposite jerseys, and holding opposite stories. Yet Mitch was still the first one to skate to Auston after the final buzzer before anyone on the ice.

“What are you doing, Mitch?” Auston asked, too quietly for anyone else to hear, as if he felt he was being tricked in some way. 

Mitch smiled, just a little, but it was there. “Being where I want to be.”

It wasn’t fair, the way he said it. Like it was obvious. Like Auston should already know why he was there. The Vegas coach called his name from the bench, but Mitch didn’t flinch. He didn’t even move a muscle. He just stood there, still facing Auston, his eyes searching, waiting, and lingering.

“You doing anything tonight?” Mitch asked suddenly, nearly too casual for the current situation.

Auston stared at him, then felt his head tilt as he raised a brow, the disbelief audible in his tone. “Seriously?”

Mitch shrugged, sheepish as he never let his eyes once leave Auston’s. “You free?”

“I thought you’d be-” Then Auston cut himself off with a scoff, unsure what emotion provoked it to escape his lips. I thought you’d be celebrating. Drinking champagne or something. Being interviewed. Being cheered for. Being happy.

Mitch nodded before Auston could even finish, as if he still could read him like an open book in an instant. “Yeah. I should be.” He looked down for the first time, biting the inside of his cheek. “But I don’t really feel like it.”

Something in Auston’s chest tightened, and when Mitch looked up again, it didn’t help with the way his gaze bored into him, firm and steady. “I don’t know. Kinda feels wrong celebrating anywhere else.”

Auston didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come, stuck somewhere behind his teeth, knotted up in everything he hadn’t had the chance to say in months. Because this wasn’t just about tonight. Not for Auston.

It was about every time he’d look for Mitch in a sea of visiting jerseys. About every highlight reel he watched twice over when it really shouldn’t have mattered to him anymore. About the way Mitch still knew him, skated right past the noise and found him instantly, standing still on familiar ice that grew to feel emptier each time he stepped foot on it without him. 

And Mitch was just looking at him like he’d never even left. 

The Vegas bench called again, sharper this time, Mitch clearly taking too much time with unfinished goodbyes, if it was even called that. Yet he still didn’t move.

Auston swallowed thickly. Then, his voice spoke without his mind processing, the words so quiet he barely heard himself say it: “You still remember the corner store with those awful slushies?” 

That’s all he said. But Mitch’s smile returned, small and crooked, but unmistakably Mitch. Like it had been waiting and itching to come out all night. 

“Still your favourite, huh?” he said, his words as smooth as that small smile on his lips, but Auston didn’t nod. Didn’t smile back. He just turned slowly, wordlessly, and started towards the tunnel. Because Mitch’s words rang louder than the crowd ever could.

Without even a moment of hesitation, the noise fading to the back of their minds, Mitch followed. Because, maybe he was in Vegas now, but Auston, and the ice, and the city, and the silence between them that still meant something. This was still home.

Once the gear was all taken off, goodbyes to players were barely said, neither of the two spoke as they left the rink. Mitch didn’t try to explain why he’d followed, and Auston didn’t ask. They just walked, close yet quiet footsteps echoing down the long concrete tunnel. The noise of the arena dimmed behind them, replaced by the low hum of the lights overhead and the muffled scrape of skate guards against the floor.

Auston didn’t look at him, not fully. Just quick glances from the corner of his eye, like he was checking if Mitch was still there, still real. And this time, he was. The same presence. The same weird, subtly bouncing rhythm to his walk whenever he got a little tired. Still fidgeting with the end of his sleeve even if his gloves were off. Still chewing lightly at the inside of his cheek, like he always did when he was nervous and trying not to point it out. But Auston knew anyway. He always did, and always would.

“You still remember how to get there?” Mitch asked suddenly, breaking the silence like it startled even himself. 

Auston's fingers flexed around his own fist, not answering right away. He just let the corner of his mouth twitch, something between a smirk and a sigh. “Course I do.”

Mitch smiled. Not wide, but just enough to say okay. Good. They didn’t say anything else as they pushed through the doors to the parking lot. 

It was cold enough that their breath fogged the air in front of them. Auston’s car was parked near the far edge, half-dusted with frost. He hit the key once, then the lights blinked. 

Mitch hesitated at the passenger side door, his hand lingering on the handle like it was too familiar. Auston watched him for a moment as he got in the car, already reaching to put the keys halfway in the ignition. Mitch caught the glance, tugged awkwardly, then got in.

The silence followed them inside. The heat had clicked on with a low whir, and Auston turned the radio down until it was just a faint background murmur, something acoustic and sad playing too softly to place. They hadn’t spoken much since leaving the rink, but it didn’t feel like a fight or any hard feelings. It just felt… thick. Like if either of them said one wrong thing, it all might burst. 

The engine idled, then Auston tapped his thumb once, twice, three times on the steering wheel.

“I thought they shut it down.” Mitch said eventually, voice soft as he leaned his head against the window, his eyes not confident to glance Auston’s way. “The slushy place, I mean.”

Auston shook his head, his own eyes doing the same as he stared at his fingers on the wheel. “They renovated the Burger place next door, the slushy place stayed the same though. Still looks like it’s falling apart.”

Mitch’s smile returned, faint, but present as he spoke. “That’s how you know it’s good.”

They sat like that for a while, letting the quiet settle between them. Not empty silence, not tense either. Just known .

Auston reached for the aux cord, yet so did Mitch. Their hands brushed, and both of them froze. Mitch quickly chuckled under his breath, pulling back as his eyes flickered at their hands, inches apart now as he pulled back. “Still trying to control the music, huh?”

Auston didn’t answer, he couldn’t find the words to, so he silently handed it over. Mitch didn’t plug it in, he just held it, twisting the cord between his fingers like he wasn’t ready to break the quiet just yet. 

Auston pulled out of the lot without another word, tires crunching over salted pavement. The roads were half-empty, streetlights painting lines across the windshield. The city looked the same as it always had, but somehow more tired. Or maybe that was just them.

They didn’t speak the whole way there, but the silence between them was no longer heavy. It was something else now. Something warm. Something aching. Something that felt dangerously close to home. 

They pulled up just before midnight, the parking lot nearly empty with nothing but a single flickering bulb above the side entrance. It cast a dull halo over the cracked pavement, and the windows of the run down corner store were fogged around the corners. They always were, like the heat inside could never quite fight off the cold clinging to the glass. The sign was half-lit, buzzing faintly. Frosteez. Still ugly, still stupid, and still perfect.

Auston parked two spots over from where they always used to. No reason really, just instinct. Neither of them moved to get out right away. For a second, all they did was sit there. The engine was ticking as it cooled. Mitch’s face was half-lit by the dull glow of the streetlamp outside, the other half cast in the blue of the dashboard, the colour acting like a silent taunt. 

Then Mitch murmured, barely audible. “Still smells like winter here.”

Auston didn’t respond, but he knew exactly what he meant. After a long pause, Mitch unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out, then Auston followed. 

The inside of the shop was a time capsule. The same cheap and cracked up tiles, same buzzing freezer units, same faded menu board that hadn’t been updated for longer than they could remember. The lady behind the counter barely glanced up when the bell above the door rang. She looked like she’d rather be anywhere else, and honestly, that just made it feel more authentic. 

Mitch walked up to the counter like muscle memory carried him there, his eyes scanning the menu even though he’d always ordered the same thing.

“One cherry, small, please.” he said as he pulled out his wallet.

Auston stepped up beside him, his voice cutting through the gentle hums of the slushy machines as he put himself subtly in front of Mitch, his hand pulling out a bill from his pocket and placing it on the cold counter before Mitch could even protest. “Add a blue raspberry on there too.” 

The girl nodded, made no comment, didn't even recognize them. At least she didn’t say anything if she did anyway. That felt better somehow. Safer.

Once the machines somehow still filled up cups with the sugar filled slush, they took their drinks and went to sit in the booth at the very back. The one by the broken air vent. The one that had always been theirs. 

Mitch curled one leg under the other as he slid into the booth, holding his slushy with both hands. The straw bent slightly where his thumb toyed with it. He didn’t drink yet. Just looked around.

“It looks like shit.” he finally said, his voice not holding an ounce of bite behind the harsh words, as if he was saying it as a reassurance.

Auston smirked, subtle, but visible in the dim lights. “Comforting, isn’t it?”

Mitch nodded, gaze drifting up toward the vent. “Still leaking too.”

Auston followed Mitch’s gaze up towards the rusted vent, where condensation dripped slowly and steady onto the cracked seat beside their table. He let out a soft laugh through his nose. “I guess some things never change.”

Mitch looked down at his drink, thumb still pressing the straw. “Some things do.” He said it almost too quietly, too fast, like he hoped Auston wouldn’t catch it. 

But Auston always did.

For a moment, the booth felt like it had suddenly become smaller than the last times they sat there. The previous comforting silences that once lingered in the back of the booth had now been overtaken by a heavy wave of something worse than silence. 

Auston reached for his drink, took a long sip, then nudged Mitch gently under the table with his shoe. “Come on.”

Mitch looked across at Auston, one brow raised. “What?”

The silence only grew thicker as they stared at each other for a moment, neither of the two wanting to look away, but also not knowing what to say to fill the space.

“Let’s go sit by the underpass,” Auston said, standing up and tossing his empty straw wrapper into the overflowing bin near the door. “Like we used to.”

Mitch blinked, then let out the smallest yet fondest sigh as he followed him once again. “You remember that?”

“Course I do.” Auston looked back at him, his eyes soft. “You used to swear that the acoustics there made your voice sound better.”

“That was a fact , actually.” Mitch muttered, following close behind with a half-hearted huff. “It echoed perfectly.”

Auston grinned, then silently led the way out.

The underpass wasn’t far. It was just a couple streets over from the store, beneath where the road curved over the creek. It wasn’t pretty, not in the usual sense. It was littered with graffiti, had weeds growing up through the sidewalk cracks, a crushed can or random garbage that had been there longer than either of the two even wanted to guess. But as messy as it was, it was theirs. Always had been.

They sat down on the little ledge by the wall, their legs dangling over the edge with their backs pressed against the cool concrete. A quiet place tucked away from everything else. From the people who’d recognize them in an instant. From the lives they didn’t know how to talk about anymore.

The only sounds were the buzz of cicadas and the distant whir of a car passing overhead, and the silence they still couldn't seem to shake.

Mitch finally sipped his slushy, then muttered, barely loud enough to welcome a conversation. “Still the best flavour.” 

Auston glanced over, a corner of his mouth tugging up. “I still don’t get the cherry thing.”

“It’s red.” Mitch said simply, as if that somehow explained everything.

The silence grew again, but only for a beat before Mitch cut it short once more. “I missed this.” He said gently, his eyes still on his cup. “Not just the slushies. Not just the place. I missed-”

He paused. The words were too much. They felt too heavy on his tongue, as if they tasted like confession. But Auston didn’t press on it, he just leaned back further against the wall, shoulder brushing Mitch’s.

“I know.” He said quietly. “Me too.”

And in that moment, under peeling concrete, with overpriced sugar on their tongues, shoulder to shoulder like there hadn’t been months of silence between them, it almost felt like nothing had even changed. Almost .

After more silence had taken its place, a buzz broke through the momentary stillness. Auston phone, a dull light shining up at him as he glanced at the screen. He didn’t want to look at first, but after the third buzz, he felt it wasn’t going to stop until he did. He sighed, squinting subtly as he read the screen:

WILLY [11:37 PM]:

u good? jt said you ghosted after the game

media’s looking for you btw

we all are too

Auston flickered his eyes to a notification that popped through, stealing his train of thought as he instantly clicked it without letting his mind catch up to think of the act.

“He was the first one off the ice. Word is he went straight to Matthews, not even his team. No media, no interviews, right after a win? Cause that’s normal.”

As soon as his eyes scanned the words from the random tweet, he glanced down at the replies, knowing he shouldn’t. If the tweet wasn’t bad in itself, it seemed it wasn’t much better with how other people seemed to all focus on the duo more than the win itself that night.

“For them? Yeah, more than normal.”

“Matthews not even hiding it anymore LMAFO”

Auston let the screen dim for a moment, exhaling slowly as he backed out of the app. His thumb hovered in his texts with Willy, itching to respond, but losing the courage as soon as he felt another buzz ring through.

WILLY [11:39 PM]:

tell mitch i say hey. 

take your time, yeah?

you clearly need it lol

Auston couldn’t help the small curve of his lips as he read the texts, feeling a wave of calmness for a moment. It was like Willy always knew what Auston was up to without even needing to ask, as if watching him spiral over a certain someone one too many times gave Willy a sixth sense. He slid his phone face down onto the space beside him silently, his gaze falling back to a random spot ahead of them.

Mitch glanced at where Auston had looked, then furrowed his brow as he spoke. “Everything okay?”

Auston gave a half-shrug. “Just the internet being the internet.”

A heavy pause lingered in the air at Auston’s words, but he quickly cut it short as his voice fell out quietly. “Did you..?”

Mitch looked at Auston instead this time, falling silent as he watched him continue.

“Did you come straight to me?” Auston voice fell gently, but it was still followed by a pause. A longer one, until Mitch spoke up without an ounce of hesitation. 

“Yeah,” he said, his eyes locked onto Auston as if he was trying to convince him of his words. “I didn’t want to be anywhere else, but it’s nothing.”

Auston swallowed hard, his throat tight, as if Mitch’s words had stuck there on the way down. He looked away again, and Mitch watched the movement closely. He watched the way his chest rose like he was holding something in, like speaking it would make it real.

“That’s not-” Auston started, but he cut himself off, his jaw tensing. “That’s not nothing.”

Mitch sat silently for a moment, as if he felt Auston catch him in his own lie instantly, then he agreed softly. “No, it’s not.”

Auston laughed at his words, quiet and dry, nearly bitter. “So why does it feel like it is?”

The air stilled again, but this time the silence wasn’t the slightest bit comforting. It pressed in, thick and heavy, a weight on both of their chests. Mitch didn’t answer right away, and Auston didn’t fill the space. He just stared ahead again, but Mitch could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his hands were clenched in his lap, like he was fighting to hold himself back, or to hold himself together. 

“I waited.” Auston said finally, his voice low as if he was hesitating. “For anything. A call. A text. A sign that I didn’t just make all of this up in my head.”

“You didn’t.” Mitch answered almost instantly, his eyes staring him down as if he was using them to plead with the rush of words spilling from his mouth.

“You say that,” Auston said, turning to look at him once again, his eyes darker now, and noticeably glassier. “but then you disappeared. You shut me out. You left, Mitch.”

Mitch was the one to look down this time, his mouth parting like he was going to explain, to defend himself, but no words came. 

“I watched every interview,” Auston continued, his voice cracking just enough for Mitch to hear it. “I saw how you wouldn’t even say my name. Like I was some phase you had to get over. Like we were some bad headline you didn’t want to be attached to.”

Mitch hesitated, taking every single word to heart as he tried to rush a response back. “That’s not fair-”

“No?” Auston’s voice raised as he cut him off, but only slightly. He wasn’t yelling, it was worse. He sounded like he was slowly breaking. “You didn’t even look at me the last time we were in the same building.” 

Mitch exhaled sharply, dragging his hand down his face like it might hide how wrecked he felt in that moment. “I was scared, okay?”

“Of what?” Auston asked, more desperate now. “Of me?” 

“Of losing you.” Mitch said, and it was like the air got punched out of the space between them. Auston blinked a few times, his words finally falling silent as he sat there, his eyes not faltering away this time.

“I thought that if I was the one who stayed away, it’d hurt less. That if I pulled back first, it wouldn’t kill me if you changed your mind.” Mitch laughed, but it was hollow in comparison to his usual bubbly laugh that rang through a room. “But turns out it still hurts like hell either way.”

Auston stared at him like he was trying to memorize every feature of his face, every twitch of expression as they sat in the dim lighting. “You think I would’ve changed my mind?”

Mitch hesitated, then nodded faintly, like he hated admitting it. “Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes I thought… that you didn’t feel it the way I did. That maybe I was just- just someone convenient. Someone familiar.”

“You’ve never been convenient,” Auston said, barely above a whisper. “You’ve always been the worst kind of necessary.”

That did it. Those few words. Mitch’s lips parted again, and this time the breath he let out trembled. He blinked, hard, like he was trying to blink the tears away before they could even form.

“You think I’d throw all this away?” Auston continued, his voice catching clearly now. “You think I’d let everyone on the damn planet speculate about us and rip me apart online if it wasn’t- if you weren’t-”

He stopped. He looked down, his chest rising too fast, like it was starting to hurt to breathe.

“If you weren’t it for me.”

Mitch reached for him without thinking. A hand on Auston’s knee, grounding. “I never stopped, Auston. I never fucking stopped. I thought about you every day that I was driving myself crazy.”

“Then why’d you leave?” Auston whispered, and the way he said it, it didn’t sound angry. It sounded wounded . Like that question had been keeping him up every night since it first popped up in his head. 

Mitch leaned in, his space now invading Auston’s closed-off demeanor, cracking the surface as he felt the warmth from his body in contrast to the cold breeze of the night. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

They stayed still, just breathing in the same space, unsaid thoughts floating between them like embers in a crackling flame. Then Auston moved first. It wasn’t anything startling, it was a lean, a shift, a gentle hand brushing against Mitch’s. A form of permission in a way, and Mitch took it. 

The wordless confession that followed didn’t need words. It was the way Auston was finally the one who caved this time, curling into him as his body shifted. The way Mitch gripped the back of his hoodie like it might keep him from falling apart. The way their breaths trembled as they exhaled when Mitch’s forehead fell onto Auston’s shoulder, gently whispering out I’m sorry as if it was the only thing left he had left to give.

But Auston wasn’t waiting for an apology. He was waiting for Mitch to stay. And so he did.

For a long, suspended moment, they didn’t speak. The silence between them wasn’t tense anymore, it was now full. Full of everything unsaid, and maybe that was for the better.

Auston’s fingers found the edge of Mitch’s sleeve and held it like a lifeline, like he’d only just now allowed himself to accept this was real. That Mitch was truly here. That this wasn’t going to vanish the second he blinked. 

Mitch stayed pressed close, forehead still resting against Auston’s shoulder. His fingers twitched on the back of his hoodie as if they wanted to say something before his mouth did. Then, he finally spoke again, his voice so soft it almost didn’t reach him.

“I want to come home.”

Auston didn’t ask what he meant, he didn’t have to. And maybe it should’ve been enough. That one sentence, the weight of it, the truth hanging between them like something sacred. But it cracked something open instead. Something raw. Something that had waited too long, and should’ve been opened much sooner.

Mitch’s head was still tucked against Auston’s shoulder, his breath warm against his collarbone, fingers curled lightly in the fabric of his hoodie like he was afraid to let go. Auston didn’t move. He couldn’t. The space felt too small, yet the moment too big.

“I miss this,” Mitch said, voice muffled. “I miss you.”

Auston’s throat tightened. He forced his breath through his nose. “You can’t just say that like it’s meant to be easy.” He said, his voice firmer than the shakes in his breaths between words. “Like you didn’t walk away.”

Mitch felt himself stiffen at that moment, and he let himself shift, just enough to now look up at him, his eyes glassy but so stupidly hopeful that it hurt.

“I didn’t stop caring,” he said gently, his eyes never once faltering. “I still-”

He didn’t finish. Maybe because he didn’t know what he still felt, or what it was in the first place. Or maybe it was because he didn’t want to acknowledge that it was still there either.

Auston’s heart kicked hard in his chest, like it wanted to believe him. Like it was desperate to. Like it always had been. Their faces felt closer now, closer than they should’ve been. Their breaths felt as if they were mixing in the stillness.

Mitch leaned in, not quite as a bold move, maybe more desperate. More pathetic than anything. But it wasn’t a move that was asking for something, just lingering on the edge of want. It felt like a silent question, hanging in the inch of the space that was left between them.

“Tell me to stop.” Mitch whispered, his words not holding an ounce of bite, but more of a plea as to do anything but what he was asking of him.

With those words, Auston could’ve shut it down if he wanted, but he didn’t. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t tell him to stop, but he didn’t close the gap either. Mitch’s lips trembled, eyes flicking down for a fleeting moment, then back up. He waited. Hope still hanging on, but barely. 

Auston felt his hand move from his side down to Mitch’s hip, the one he had grabbed millions of times on the ice, cheering and smiling after a play. But this time it was different, not cheers, not smiling, but silence. A heavy and pressuring silence that felt more nerve wracking than any amount of eyes from a crowd watching them on the ice. 

He let his eyes wander for a moment, catching those blue eyes that were always shielded by the visor of a helmet every other time they were this close. And maybe now was why his stomach felt sick with nerves, not from the rush of a game winning goal, but the rush of being close to something that feels like no other. Something that feels like it’s meant to be. Like it’s home.

Auston felt his breath shudder as it slipped in a rush past his parted lips, then, he pulled back. Just enough. Just enough to shatter what was there for mere seconds. Mitch froze, his hand twitching in question, or maybe in embarrassment, the fabric slipping from the tight grip he once swore he’d never loosen on him.

“You don’t get to say those things.” Auston said, softly, steadily. “Not if we both know you’re gonna leave again.”

Mitch swallowed hard, the moment cracking around him like thin ice. “I thought I was doing the right thing.” he murmured, the hope that lingered in his eyes now evidently shattered by the shake in his voice. “For both of us.”

Auston’s jaw tensed, his own eyes darting to those annoyingly captivating blue eyes, the ones he’d be able to point out in a room of people in an instant. “Then why does it still hurt like hell?”

Mitch didn’t answer, he just sat there, so close, yet somehow already miles away.

“I wanted you to fight for me.” Auston whispered, his voice sounding less and less like the steady tone that he was known for. “But you didn’t.”

Mitch blinked fast, his mind speaking before he could think as he let his hand fall from the grip on Auston’s hoodie for the first time since they sat down. “I didn’t know how to, Auston.”

“Then don’t act like you’re here to stay now.” Auston’s words instantly shut Mitch down, closing his words off with a silence that now buzzed between them. One that was heavy and brutal.

Mitch stood up slowly, like it physically hurt him to do so. “I’m sorry.” he said, and it came out barely more audible than the gentle wind that night. 

Auston didn’t say anything, didn’t even look up. Mitch waited for a second, as if he was hoping, begging for something. Anything. And not like it was a shock, but nothing came. It never did. So he left, and Auston let him go. Again. 

Practice was loud, the way it always was when the Leafs were trying to shake off a loss and fake their way into feeling okay about it. But Auston wasn’t really in it. His skates felt heavier than usual, his passes a little too sharp or not too sharp enough, never right, always half a second behind.

“Jeez man, did you miss your morning espresso or are you just naturally grumpy?” Willy muttered after another flunk of a line rush.

Auston barely looked at him, his eyes locked on his skates, as if he was telling them to straighten up with his mind. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Yeah,” Willy huffed, hopping on his skates and looping around for another drill. “Tell that to yourself.”

The comment should’ve made him roll his eyes, but instead it landed with a quiet thud in his chest. He tried to shake it off, bury the feeling with motion and blades clashing against the ice. But it lingered, like the ghost of a hug, like a voice still echoing in his skin.

He didn’t even realize he was zoning out in the quiet locker room as the end of practice had slowly rolled around. Halfway through unlacing his skates, his eyes seemed lost on a random spot on the ground in front of him, until a towel was tossed at his face.

“You all good?” Knies asked with a small upturn of his lips, not unkindly, but in the way someone asks when they already know the answer.

Auston gave a slow nod, his eyes never meeting Knies. “Fine. Just tired.” Then without another word, he eventually left before anyone could ask anything else.

Once Auston returned back to his place, the silence settled heavily again. He sat down on the edge of the couch with a huff, letting himself slip over it and onto the cushion as he opened up Instagram out of habit more than anything.

The post was already an hour old, thousands of likes deep, but it was the first thing on his screen. It shouldn’t have made his breath catch the way it did, but it happened anyway.

Mitch had posted a photo dump of his time back in Toronto, it felt kind of obligatory for him in a way, or maybe that's just how it felt to Auston. The caption was simple and harmless, but somehow the words still brought a weight to his gut: nice to be home :)  

The dump was littered with random pictures, one of Zeus, a blurry skyline that definitely was not intentional, the cliché CN Tower angle, then the fourth photo was what caused Auston to pause.

Two slushies, one red and the other blue, resting on the ledge of a street rail. Mitch’s fingers were barely in the frame, but they were noticeable as they reached for the cup. If you looked closer though, you’d notice a second hand lingering on the rail, and two pairs of shoes that touched at the toes, the two legs angled closely. It was stupid. It was subtle. Most fans would scroll past it without a second thought. But Auston knew, and he knew Mitch did too. Why else would it be there.

They used to do that after games, almost every time. Whether it was a win or a loss, one of them would drive and the other would run in, always arguing about which flavour was better. Auston never won the red vs. blue debate, but Mitch always made sure he got the one he liked anyway.

As his eyes stared at the single picture, he could feel his own hand in that moment. The cold cup, the warm thigh, Mitch’s leg bouncing next to his, brushing his like it always did. Like it meant something. 

He felt his lips turn into a soft yet aching smile, his thumbs moving on their own as he commented:

@austonmatthews: blue one is still better btw

Auston stared at his comment, then swiped away his post as he forced his thumb to scroll. As soon as he glanced at a few more posts, it was like Mitch had known he was still there, and almost as if he didn't want him to leave. The notification of him liking his comment came through on the top of his screen, his eyes instantly losing interest on whatever was on his screen as they stayed glued to the notification. He opened the post once more, probably quicker than he’d like to admit, then read the reply under his comment with that same stupidly soft smile.

@marner_93: you’re so wrong it’s actually sad

Auston felt a gentle laugh slip his lips, as if one simple interaction with him had instantly flipped his mood again. He felt his mind drift back to the way they parted. The way the last time he saw Mitch was a fleeting memory of regret and unspoken words, like it always was. 

His thoughts got cut short from a buzz, a text coming through as his fingers moved quicker than his mind could process, his eyes already reading the words on his screen:

MITCHY [1:46 PM]:

blue is forever the wrong choice and you know it.

He barely hesitated, his smile only growing as a conversation seemed to naturally spark with the simple tease.

AUSTON [1:46 PM]:

You just love to be wrong, don’t you.

Shocked you’re so openly lying to all your fans.

MITCH [1:47 PM]:

not sorry for posting it

AUSTON [1:49 PM]:

Not sorry for looking at it fifty times.

And with that final text, he closed his phone. It felt right to end it that way, a simple joke, open ended with a choice of taking it in a you’re ridiculous kind of way, or the way they both knew it was meant to be. The way of saying I still feel like I belong next to you when I’m not there without needing to type it out.

Mitch simply reacted with a blue heart to his message, and it made Auston’s lips curl as he laughed under his breath, a real one this time. The ache in his chest eased, just enough, as Mitch still stuck with blue, even if he was in Vegas. Neither of them said more, they didn’t need to. They both knew that was enough, for now, because they knew what it meant.

And somehow, when Auston got up from the couch a few moments later, he didn’t feel so stiff, and his chest wasn't quite so heavy anymore after each breath. He knew that tomorrow would be easier, and he would skate like he had something to prove. Like had something waiting for him. Because now he did. 

Auston knew Mitch would wait, he always did, but maybe this time Auston would let him stay.