Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He's never travelled well on the road, and rooming with Mack doesn't really change that. He's understanding though, when Will tells him he doesn't sleep easy without another person there. Eighteen and full of sprightly naivete, Macklin takes it in stride, so long as Will can deal with the sound of a white noise machine at night. That's fine, Will says, because it beats the alternative of being alone.

And so, a certain routine starts.

They become more attuned to each other, more than when they were holed up in that hotel room during development camp. Mack lowers his hackles; to be more precise, Will does it for him, and Mack in turn. At the end of the day, they try to leave everything on the ice as they wind down for bed, milk and cookies ordered regardless of performance.

Will hasn't felt a connection like this before, a connection bound not by blood though it still sings in his pulse. He itches to be near Mack, to place his thumb on the inside of his wrist until they're in sync.

"Mack," Will whines, "go back to your own bed."

"You don't mean that," Mack says, starfished on the hotel king single. "If you were nice to me, you would let me sleep here."

Will tries to push him off — gently, of course — but Mack digs his heels into the mattress like Will's pulling at nails in his feet. Eventually Will sighs and pushes him over so he can crawl up behind him. "Fine."

"Good." Mack sounds smug. He rolls onto his side, facing Will with a shy smile and pulls put his phone. This is a frequently occurring pastime— one or both of them on their phones, showing each other whatever Instagram posts or Tiktoks they think are funny.

"Oh," Mack squeaks. "Guess who got married?"

"Who?" Will asks, but peers over Mack's screen anyway.

"MP Poulin," Mack responds, somewhat absent-mindedly. He scrolls through the photos and angles the phone so Will can see slightly better. "To Stacey."

"Huh," Will says. Huh.

Mack is looking at the photos with starry eyes, isn't that curious? Will knows he's kind of a sucker for love though, he's watched his eyes well up too many times during harmless romcoms for it to be deniable.

"It would be cool, I think. To play on the same team as your partner," Mack mumbles.

"Wow, am I not enough for you?" Will says dryly.

Mack rolls his eyes. "Shut up, you know it's not the same."

"Mm," Will responds, then— wait. "You'd have to marry a man for that to work."

"I don't discriminate," Mack protests, which makes no sense, but anyway.

"You'd marry a man?"

"If I had a reason to, maybe."

"What reason could you possibly have?" Will asks incredulously.

"I don't know, like. Tax."

"Do you even do your own taxes?"

Mack shrugs, then keeps scrolling through his phone. "Hey, actually," he starts, though quickly cuts himself off.

"Oh no," Will groans. "What is it now?"

"Hear me out," Mack immediately says, which already isn't a good sign. "You and me. We get married, we blow up the NHL, it'll be fucking awesome. Let's do it."

Will's eyebrows shoot up. "Dude, are you crazy? You know we'd get crucified for that."

Nothing about this sounds fucking awesome. In fact, it teeters more on the edge of terrifying. But Will finds himself a bit of a liar, too.

"Okay, so we don't blow up the NHL. We get married, we reap the benefits, then we get divorced when we want to get real married." The look in Mack's eyes are fierce. Will thinks he's backed himself into a corner.

"What benefits, exactly?" Will asks, trying to catch him out.

"People keep saying there are marriage benefits. Tax, like I said. Insurance? Also we get to live together."

"We're rich, I don't think we need tax or insurance benefits. Also, we can live together anyway, isn't that the plan?"

"Yeah, but it's different," Mack says, making a frustrated face. Will doesn't quite get what's so different than how they are now, but it's winding Mack up, which is the opposite of what he wants right now.

"Okay," Will says gently, "explain how it's different, then."

"It just is," Mack mutters, head drooping. "Maybe I thought it'd be fun."

"Fun," Will repeats, like he's testing how the word feels on his tongue. And well, Will likes fun, even if he thinks this idea is stupid. Will likes Mack enough, too, to enable him just a bit. "Okay, if you wanna do it so badly, we can," he concedes.

"Seriously? You know I was like, joking, right?"

"You were not. Let's go do it, we can always get divorced later if we hate it."

Mack immediately brightens, but then tries to lower himself to a small glow. "Okay. We play Vegas next week," Mack says, unable to keep the light out of his voice.

"Don't want a nice, big wedding? Invite all our families? Wear a pretty dress?"

Mack scowls. "Fuck off. We'll just get hitched in Vegas and then move on."

"Move on. Right. From our marriage."

"Well, it's not like it changes much," Mack contradicts himself. But they both know by now, it'll change everything. Will isn't sure he's ready for the fallout.

Chapter Text

On Sunday, Will attends Mass in a city he's unfamiliar with just to say he can stick to routine. He goes to confession; the guilt clogging his throat enough to bring him there but lets the shame permeate too long to tell the truth. He confesses to nothing and says he hasn't sinned — and depending on who you ask, it's true.

The team plays Vegas in two days. In one day, they will touch down at their hotel. At night, Mack will lead him to the cheapest, most inconspicuous chapel to get married, which is sacrilegious in so many ways but not in any that actually matter.

Will always assumed he'd marry young. It was practically expected of him, as a then-aspiring NHL hockey player, eager to please his family and situate himself on the grain. As he got older, he realised he could probably live without it — with no girlfriend and no prospects, there just wasn't anything to care about.

So other than how badly this idea of Mack's could fuck them up the ass, he agreed for the love of the game, literally and figuratively. It makes no difference to him. Their contract has them raking in more cash than they ever needed to care about, so splitting finances isn't an issue, and they were already in talks to live together in the next season, so maybe this would just… speed it up. Hell, this could probably also speed up the US citizenship process should Mack ever apply, not that either of them know anything about how that works. Will tells himself this over and over again until he convinces himself his intentions are noble.

Mack's in his bed again — will Mack want to share beds back at home too after this? — mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Will nudges him to the left and places his cold hands on the sliver of Mack's exposed waist. "Hey!" he yelps.

Will proceeds to run his hands up Mack's shirt, warming them up. Despite his initial complaint, he relaxes into the hold. Will thinks about looking over his shoulder by leaning his chin on it, but that would be too close. "Have you picked out a place yet?"

"For what? Dinner? The game? Because I think that's already booked—" Mack jibes.

"No, asshole, a chapel."

"Ohh," Mack says, as if he didn't know what Will was talking about in the first place. "Yeah, there's one near the hotel so we can just— just go, I guess? Whenever we're ready?"

"I wanna nap first," Will complains.

"We're not going now," Mack emphasises, which should be obvious considering they haven't even left for Vegas yet. "We're going after dinner, just sleep when we get back."

Will ends up leaning forward anyway; his hair tickles Mack's cheek, causing him to shiver slightly. "Okay, well 'm gonna sleep now," he announces.

"No you're not, get off me."

"This is my bed."

Mack sighs, then wiggles around to make more room. He lays all the way down, causing Will to slide off his shoulder and hit the pillow. Will makes some incomprehensible grunting sound and finally succumbs to sleep with one thought on his mind: what the fuck are they doing, exactly?

"I should be getting married in a church," Will mutters, looking at their surroundings in disdain.

Mack rolls his eyes. "This is a church. Don't tell me you're getting picky now."

"Barely. There's a fake Santa here. It's not even November!"

"Okay, well they signed NDAs already so it's not like we can go somewhere else. We'd be inconveniencing them." Mack tugs lightly on Will's sleeve. They did not sign NDAs, because that would require talking to the team lawyers. Mack's just being annoying on purpose.

He's wearing his draft suit, which feels a bit on the nose but he thought it was thematically appropriate. His family can't be here for obvious reasons, and no one else from the team knows, so it almost feels like he's carrying a part of them. There's a Jeff Buckley song playing softly from the wall speakers, one that he remembers his dad used to play when he was little. He pretends that all these small things don't culminate into something painful.

But there's Mack, and Mack's fingers — rough and calloused from handling the stick — curl around his wrist, over Will's pulse, like the rosary bracelet his mom gave him when he entered high school. And he may not have the church, or the priest (and no, the Conclave cosplayer doesn't count), or the girl or the family approval, but he has his best friend. It's at least somewhat socially acceptable to hold friends in the same regard as romantic partners, nowadays. Even though he can't say people usually marry them if they weren't also lovers.

Mack looks him curiously. "You okay?" He asks softly. Because for all his prods and jabs, he's still the one to know Will best. To know when to turn the dial up from teasing prick to caring companion.

Will slides Mack's hand into his. "Yeah, I'm fine. Let's go get married?"

Mack grins widely, the one that makes him look all gummy and boyish. "So, do you want Fake Santa? I also saw knock-off Darth Vader somewhere, if you wanna go geek—"

Will sighs deeply. "Is there anyone more, like, normal?"

"Well, this is Vegas, so not really," Mack says cheekily.

"You could've picked somewhere normal."

"Nah man, at least no one here will ask questions. Everyone is hammered."

That's true, at least. The last happy couple to stumble out of the doors could barely watch where they were going, let alone the volume at which they were yelling about unholy matrimony. The workers had stood in long-suffering silence, looking a bit relieved when he and Mack came in and didn't immediately bust out their outside voices. Although, he did see Fake Santa pull a flask out of his beard, which seems a bit unprofessional.

Mack bounds up to the nearest worker with a shy smile. "Hi, is this place available? My boyfriend and I were hoping to get married while we were here."

Boyfriend, Will mouths, the word not feeling as stifling as he thought it would. They're not boyfriends. They are friends who are boys, but he supposes the distinction isn't important when they're about to become husbands, an even more loaded word that sinks to the base of his throat. Boyfriend makes the most sense to tell other people. It begs the least amount of questions.

The clerk smiles, with (hopefully) no recognition in her eyes. "Well, we can make that happen! Do you already have a marriage license, or do you need to use the computers?"

"Nope, got it right here." Mack pulls a piece of paper out of his suit pocket. Will doesn't even know when he had time to print that, considering how much they were living out of each other's pockets for the last week.

"Okay, do you want to pick an officiant? We have Santa Claus, the Pope and me currently available."

Mack looks over at Will with a shit-eating expression. "Babe, why don't you pick?"

Babe. Dear God.

The Pope impersonator might be the safest option, but he'd feel stupid with it. He looks at the clerk — she's pretty, and in a nurse uniform that probably wouldn't pass dress code regulations, and is definitely the most normal looking one here. Also, she's pretty. Will puts on his most charming smile. "We'll go with you, if you don't mind."

She giggles. Cute. "Right this way, gentlemen." She leads them down the hallway into a quaint room adorned with candles and a large arrangement of flowers. While they're walking, Mack checks him and gives him a dirty look. Will wiggles his eyebrows. Mack mouths something that starts with 'wh,' then grabs his hand firmly enough it bleeds into numbness.

The wedding itself doesn't take very long. They didn't write vows, because why would they do that for a sham wedding, so the clerk just speedran their obligatory repetitions until they reached the bottom of the slippery slope that is the leadup to the expected kiss. She looks at them with interest in her eyes as she says, "You may now kiss each other."

They didn't talk about this beforehand. Maybe they should have. He can't speak for Mack but somehow, in Will's mind, it just wasn't real. Real enough for him to have a religious crisis, but not real enough for it to be something tangible. It wasn't something he could hold his hands; it wasn't something he could see with his eyes.

Maybe for Mack it was. Mack printed the marriage license. Mack searched up the chapels. It was Mack's idea after all, Will was just along for the ride. But that's not really fair, is it? He chose this too. He grabbed the shovel and dug too.

So Will's the one who leans in first, almost missing the way Mack's eyes widen as his hair brushed Will's forehead. Will plants one on his lips, soft and still feeling like it could bruise if he wasn't careful. He wants to be careful with Mack. If they're going to do this all the way, then it has to matter.

Mack kisses him back before Will can move away. It's a little bit clumsy; just lip-on-lip action, no tongue, but Mack misses the middle and ends up closer to the corner of his mouth. When he pulls back, his face is stained in red and pink splotches, deeper than the cold flush he gets from being on the ice for too long.

"I now declare you husbands!" The clerk interrupts, and claps. They say their thanks and wrap up any post-wedding business, then hightails it out of there.

"So that was a thing," Mack says as they round the bend, on their way back to their hotel. If it weren't a Friday night in Vegas, they'd stick out like long weeds in their suits.

"Yeah. Regretting it yet?" Will teases, trying to keep the clog safely in his throat.

"No," Mack says quickly. "It… it was nice."

"What, you kissing me? Gross dude, by the way."

"Hah, yeah, I kinda forgot about that, sorry." Mack pauses, looking pensive. "It wasn't that bad though, right?"

Alarm bells ring. "What? No, no it was. It was fine, don't worry about it. Just part of the act."

"Right, yeah. The act."

Mack remains oddly silent during the rest of the trip, which strikes Will as off. He isn't sure if it's about what he said, or just the whole situation in general that's getting to him, but it's not too unusual for Mack to go silent when he's overwhelmed. That's okay, though. Will knows what it means.

When they enter the room, Will lets Mack take the bathroom first and changes into pyjamas. Afterwards, he corrals Mack into the bed with him and chucks on a movie they can ignore while Will pretends he isn't thinking about what it would be like to wrap his arms around him properly. Mack bundles himself up in the blankets he stole from the other bed, turning into a human-sized pillbug.

"Y'sleepy?" Will slurs. The day has been getting to him too.

"Yeah. Can I stay here?"

"'Course." Will manages to stay awake just long enough to feel Mack relax, then goes out like a light.

Chapter Text

A Vegas hotel room is a Vegas hotel room. Much like on the ice, they leave everything there when they go back to San Jose, marriage notwithstanding. They don't talk about it, and now it hangs over them like a poorly executed joke.

That isn't to say anything has changed — visibly, at least. Mack still chirps him like the cheeky asshole he is, and Will still bends to his whim. Nothing's changed in that regard, but sometimes when the quiet gets too loud and there's no one around, Mack will touch his arm, or bump his shoulder and it lights him up from inside, blood first. Self-immolation would be preferable at this point.

Will can't get a read on Mack. If the tides have shifted for him too, if Will is the only one treading water here. He doesn't dare ask, because putting it to words means acknowledging there is something wrong. And there's nothing wrong, of course. Will still goes to Mass and still reports nothing in confession despite his repeated attendance.

Mack's always been the braver, or perhaps more reckless, of the two of them. They're both known to plan meticulously, to dot everything down to the final detail, but where Will is cautious, Mack is the wind. Maybe that's why Will let him take the reigns on their wedding, if he can even call it that. The less Will thinks about it, the more he can ignore it happened.

As true to his assessment, Mack is the first to break a week later. "You're being weird, Smitty," he says while setting up a 'Chel team on the Thorntons' Playstation.

"Dude, I'm just sitting here. What could I possibly be doing?"

Mack rolls his eyes, but doesn't look away from the screen. "Being weird, obviously. You've been weird all week."

"There's nothing," Will dismisses. "Also, you missed Hughes on defense."

"Fuck!" Mack scrambles to scroll back through his cards. "Don't change the subject. You know you can talk to me, yeah?"

"Yeah, 'Course. But there's nothing wrong, so don't worry about it."

"If you say so," Mack mutters before returning full attention to his game.

Will doesn't… ignore him, per se. He just makes several tactical retreats whenever they're near each other.

At first, he starts pulling out of plans to hang out between games. Puts in the hours with the Thorntons instead, hanging out with their son, helping Jumbo around the yard. He asks, sometimes, where Mack is — because where there's a Will there's a Mack — and he just says he's busy.

His messages become sporadic, too. Mack is known to never shut up, which doesn't change depending on how they communicate. A TikTok link here, a seven text rant there; they're always talking except when they're not. Will lowers contact to three times daily, then once, then it's lucky if he even replies at all within the same day.

He knows it's unfair. He knows. It isn't Mack's fault that his head has a million thoughts running in the background of their every interaction— is there something he missed? Signs he oversaw? Or maybe he's losing his mind. Maybe marriage is a sick joke invented by capitalism to produce more useless wedding memorabilia. That's probably how Mack sees it— something funny to do in the meantime with your best buddy just to say you did it. It isn't his fault Will takes things too seriously. That he was raised on the fantasy that a healthy marriage is between God and two God-fearing children.

He doesn't even know what he's freaking out about anymore. It's not like he's morally opposed to same-sex marriage — go gay rights and all that — just that it now involves him and Mack. But mostly Mack. He thinks it says something about Mack that he suggested it. Or maybe it doesn't, he doesn't know.

Amidst his admittedly embarrassing spiral, there's a knock on the door. "Will!" A voice calls out. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. Perhaps that phrase isn't so appropriate at the moment. "I know you're in there!"

Will sighs before raising himself from the bed to let him in. "What?"

Mack looks unimpressed. In fact, he looks downright pissed; hands shoved in his jeans pockets and eyes glaring through slits. "Dude. You've been ignoring me for, like, days. What gives?"

Will widens the door, allowing Mack to walk past him. "Just been busy," he lies.

"Bullshit. You have like, two other friends here. Unless you've been jacking off all week, I don't wanna hear—" he makes a strangled sound, face filling up with red red red. "I-I meant that the other way 'round. I wanna know what you've been doing. What else you've been doing. Not. Not that."

Will quirks an eyebrow.

"Leave me alone," Mack grumbles.

"I didn't even say anything."

"Still, it's like I can hear you through your face."

"Fairly sure that's not how that works, buddy."

"Can you just tell me what's going on!" He exclaims, though with the speed the words rushed out of his mouth, it took a hot second for Will to comprehend.

Will takes one look at Mack — his sweet, if not overly emotional best-friend-turned-husband-kinda-sorta — and sighs. He really does wear his feelings on his face; his cheeks puffed up and red, eyes watering around the edges like a tired toddler. To be fair, Will should've expected this. They don't spend that much time apart.

Will sighs. "It's nothing, dude. Don't sweat it."

Mack's face droops. "It's clearly not nothing if you're ignoring me about it. Was it— was it something I did? Or…" The rest of his sentence, whatever it is, hangs in the air.

Will finally, finally takes pity on him. "C'mere."

Mack collapses into his shoulder.

They've hugged before. They're friends. Will isn't the type of guy to think skin-to-skin contact with another dude makes you gay. He cellies with hugs all around on the ice. This is normal.

He doesn't think Mack's ever thought about it that way, though. His nose seeks out Will's collarbone, like he's trying to merge with his skin. This, this isn't normal. Maybe. Will doesn't know who's the authority on defining normal, but it isn't him, so he'll sit this one out.

"Missed you," Mack whispers. Will can feel the perspiration from his breath on his neck.

"I'm sorry, kid," Will says. He brings a hand up to Mack's hair; slowly, then all at once. "Didn't mean to ghost you like that."

"You better be sorry," Mack says, not sounding like he means it.

They stay like that for a few more moments before Will pushes him back by the shoulders. Mack sniffles like he's been crying — he wasn't thankfully, Will would've felt it, but it just means he was holding himself back, which isn't helpful either.

"I was, uh, going through some stuff," Will says, shifting on his feet. "Needed some time."

"Can I— can I ask? Or, or is that too much?" Will hates how hesitant Mack sounds. Hates that he's the reason for it.

"Maybe another time," Will offers up. "Still haven't gotten my head wrapped around it yet."

"Okay. Okay." But because Mack can't leave well enough alone, he keeps going. "Is it the marriage thing? It wasn't supposed to be like, that serious, but if it freaked you out then—"

Will holds up a hand to stop him. "It was always going to be serious. To me, at least. It's marriage, Celly, it's legally binding." He doesn't mention anything else that might make it serious.

"But it's just like, a friend thing. A friend marriage." He's digging himself a hole. His next words are quieter. "I just wanted to be closer to you."

Will… doesn't know what that entails. To him, they may as well be attached to the hip, 24/7/365. He's never been closer to any of his friends, but he supposes this isn't a traditional friendship. At least, not anymore. Maybe it's the security marriage brings that Mack wants most. Maybe if he treats this like a real marriage then they'll go back to normal.

Will brings his hands up to Mack's face, cupping his cheeks. He looks like a chipmunk, or a capybara. "Stay over tonight," he murmurs, lightly stroking a thumb over Mack's cheekbone.

Mack's breath hitches. "Okay."

Sharing beds isn't new to them. Sometimes, when they've had sleepovers with the guys, they've bunked up together — the team just passes it off as them being the way they are, and everyone ignores it. Will doesn't. He doesn't think Mack does either, but he doesn't know a lot of what Mack thinks these days.

They lay together in Will's bed, side by side like they did in Vegas, like they did in the city before that and the city before that. This is normal, even when it probably shouldn't be. Will loops the chain on his neck around his finger, brushing Mack's hand where it sits just below his sternum.

The sun hasn't even set yet.

Mack presses his forehead between Will's shoulders, inhaling deeply as if stabilising himself. He probably is. Their legs are tangled under the covers; Mack's knees pressed into the back of Will's, one hand up Will's shirt. He's making slow circles on his skin— it tickles, but if he says so, then Mack might stop. This isn't friend behaviour, but it might be husband behaviour.

"Should we…" Will pauses. "Do you want a ring?"

"A ring? For what?" Mack asks, muffled by his mouth against Will's neck.

"Like, a wedding ring. We didn't buy any."

Mack raises his head. "Do you… do you want one?"

"I don't know. Shouldn't we have some? Because we're married?"

"I guess? Not like we could really wear them though. People would ask too many questions."

"Yeah. I guess."

"You could put it on your chain, with your other stuff." Other stuff. Will tried to explain once, what the rosary ring was, what the Saint's medallion meant. He scrunched up his face in confusion, and possibly mild discomfort, so Will never brought it up again.

"I could get you a chain as well. If you wanted. So you could wear yours too."

"Yeah. Yeah, that might be nice."

"Are you going to sleep?"

"'S still early. Just want to lay down." With you, goes unspoken.

"Alright."

Mack reaches up and pries the chain out of Will's hand. Instead, he feels out the St. Christopher coin, smoothing the ridges between two fingers. "Will you tell me about it?" Mack asks.

"Maybe another time."

"Mmkay." He lets go. It brands hot against Will's skin.

Chapter Text

When he's alone, in the dark, and there's definitely no one around, Will tests the word out.

Husband. Husband.

Wife? No, that's not how that works, they're both men. Husband. Husband and husband. I may now pronounce you husbands.

It doesn't quite roll off the tongue, but it sticks to the roof of his mouth like tar. Or like caramel. Or whatever the middle ground between those two sticky substances is.

He doesn't… hate it. He'd say that's new, but if he's honest — and honestly, he's rarely honest with himself — he never did. Some freaky possessive part of him even likes the way that Macklin, who could have anything he wanted, had chosen him. Even if it scares him. Even if it isn't right.

He's been making a lot of compromises with himself, lately.

Will sidles up to Mack in the locker room after practice. "I bought us rings," he says. Mack's shoulders shoot up.

He cranes his head back to face Will. "Dude, you scared me. Approach me normally, would you?"

"Sorry, sorry," Will says sheepishly, holding his hands up in surrender. "Anyway, do you want yours?"

"What, now? We're at practice, give it to me in the car." He turns around to face Will.

"There's no one here, it's fine." Will scoops the ring and chain out of his pocket. His ring is already hanging off his own chain, clinking against the St. Christopher's coin and rosary ring every time he walks. It makes its presence known.

The ring is a simple design; just a gold band, no jewels. To be corny — because if this were a real marriage, he could get away with it — he engraved his jersey number on the inside. His own ring holds Mack's in return.

He slings the ring into the chain, gold as well, and holds it out to Mack to take. He doesn't take it. Instead he just stands there like a statue, like an NPC with no further instructions.

Will rattles his hand. Mack shakes his head and says "no."

"No?"

His voice comes out like a petulant child's. "No. Put it on me."

Will rolls his eyes. "You're so dramatic, fine."

Mack's wearing a plain black collared shirt with the top two buttons undone. Will comes up behind him and loops the chain around his neck, his fingers brushing bare skin as he fiddles with the clasp. His fingertips leave a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

"There," Will murmurs beside Mack's ear. "What do you think?"

"It's nice," Mack says as he turns the ring over in front of him. If he notices the engraving, he doesn't mention it.

Will claps his shoulder, then starts heading for the entrance. "Okay, let's go. I need to stop by the grocery store real quick, I have no food."

"But you always take too long," Mack whines, trailing behind him until he catches up. "Drop me home first, at least."

"Nope," Will says, popping the 'p'. "I wanna cook for you."

Mack side-eyes him heavily. "Smitty. You can't even cook."

"What, so I can't try? That's what a good husband would do, right?"

After a few moments, Will realises he's walking alone, Mack having stopped several steps behind him. He's stock still, and if Will squints, he can see the skin peeking out above his collar, travelling up to his neck and ears turning pink. "You're—" He stops. "Um. Okay."

Will gives him a look. "Cool."

They continue walking. When they're approaching the bend in the hallway that leads outside, Mack does something… unexpected. He grabs Will's hand.

They don't hold hands, or moreso, they haven't held hands before. Maybe for a second or two, when dragging each other somewhere, in which Will makes sure to grab Mack by the wrist and not the palm, or when helping each off the floor, or something. They don't hold hands, but Mack looks nervous, bashful even, so Will curls his fingers between his and squeezes lightly.

Mack is shuffling instead of walking properly, barely making the action to lift his feet. They hold hands all the way until the car, only letting go to sit on seperate sides.

(Will held his hand at their wedding, something he resolutely ignores.)

Cooking was a disaster — the events leading up to it only slightly less so.

Will's been grocery shopping with Mack before; this isn't a new or revelatory experience. He's usually somewhat constrained, picking up only what he needs and limiting himself to longing glances at what he really wants. Will likes to surprise him sometimes — a chocolate bar here, a piece of candy there, what his dad or their coach or dieticians don't know won't hurt them — so he wasn't too worried about being able to get what he needs and leaving without fuss.

Unfortunately, it goes a bit more like this:

Mack's acting like a shaken up soda bottle, ready to pop. He's fidgeting, jerking his head every few minutes or drumming his hands on the shopping cart handle. That's fine, Will's familiar with all of his tics. He's yapping incessantly about everything and nothing; mostly cute instead of annoying, albeit distracting. Very distracting, Will realises, when he dazedly approaches the self-checkout without half of his intended shopping.

So, maybe not disastrous at all and Will's just good at catastrophising. He wonders if the pain in his chest that makes itself known every time Mack pokes him is a sign of a heart attack, but he read somewhere that he's also supposed to smell burnt toast, or something.

The cooking was bad though. Will ended up having to order takeout after he couldn't salvage a blackened omelette from the bottom of the pans. It was still worth it, if not just for the way Mack wrapped his arms around Will's waist from behind like a barnacle to express thanks. He'll just have to do better next time.

Will wakes up in Mack's bed. This isn't unusual. In fact, it's happening more often at a rapid pace, he wonders when it became more common than not.

Their alarm hasn't gone off yet — judging by the time, it shouldn't for another ten minutes. Mack's laying on his chest, drooling onto his shirt, which should be more gross than Will actually finds it to be. His face is slack in sleep, one of the only times of day he's truly relaxed. Will tentatively lifts a hand and rests it in his hair. He makes a sound and buries his face a bit further into whatever part of Will he can reach.

Will thinks he's taking this husband thing pretty well, all things considered. He doesn't know how Mack's taking his change in behaviour — he thinks he's noticed, at least, but he adapts quickly with no room to really analyse his behaviour. He thinks Mack likes it, at least. He hasn't implied otherwise.

Will cards his fingers through Mack's hair. It's soft, which is surprising since he's fairly sure conditioner is supposed to make hair soft and Mack definitely doesn't use that. Mack makes a happy sound as his eyes start to blink open, corners crusted with sleep and still looking pretty first thing in the morning.

"Hi," Mack says, voice coming out scratchy from overnight disuse.

Mack brings his arms up to wrap around Will's neck, not moving his head from where it rests. He's still visibly sleepy, yawning wide, morning breath hitting under Will's neck. They're both still sleepy, Will tells himself, when he leans down to press a kiss against Mack's cheek. It gives under the weight, the skin there making space for dry lips.

"Good morning," Will replies next to Mack's ear, and oh God, forgive him, why does he sound so fond?

Mack has a very gooey expression on his face. Will is equal parts pleased and afraid that he put it there; he tries very hard to push away the part of him whose skin crawls, whose stomach empties itself to create a pit where his guts should be. He swallows once, twice, then hauls Mack up to face him, noses brushing lightly.

"Wh't's that for?" Mack slurs.

"I can't kiss my husband after he wakes up?" Will jokes, throat tightening.

Mack fiddles with the chain sitting at the base of Will's neck. "You're taking this seriously," he says like it's just dawned on him. How could he think Will could be anything but serious?

"Yeah. Told you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but— I— Okay. That's… That's nice," Mack stutters, then lowers his head back to Will's chest, somehow closer than they were before. He presses his own light kiss against a small patch of stubble on Will's jaw. "Good morning, husband," he whispers. Then, as if testing his luck, he leans up again to kiss the corner of Will's mouth.

"You're cute, aren't you," Will says before angling slightly to kiss Mack properly.

Well, properly is generous. Much like their wedding kiss, it's chaste and innocent — no tongue, just the pressing of two mouths together. He lightly presses his thumbs into the ridges where Mack's head meets his neck, which prompts a whine that Will does not want to dwell on. He can't do more than this. Not yet. If this goes for any longer, Will will actually die of a heart attack, and then Mack will have to explain to the team that not only have they lost their forward but he's also a widower at only 19 years old, and Will can't be there to help him through that because he's the one that died.

They part. Mack's lips look bruised despite such minimal contact, but maybe that's just how he looks after getting kissed. He stares stunned, before catching himself and immediately hiding his face in the crook of Will's neck. Cute. Cute cute cute.

They stay like that until the alarm rings, bursting the bubble surrounding their bed. He'd thought maybe Mack fell asleep again, but every so often he'd kiss the part of Will that's beneath his face. He wonders if Mack's a romantic, seeing as he's never seen him in a relationship before.

He wonders, also, if Mack's still going to hook up with girls. For some reason, this has Will feeling a little bit green around the gills.

"C'mon, time to get up. Practice," Will says, lightly pushing Mack's shoulder and all straying thoughts aside.

"D'n't wanna," he complains.

"Aren't you supposed to be disciplined?"

"I am disciplined," Mack protests, pushing himself up on his elbows. "I'm plenty disciplined. That's why I'm getting up."

Will rolls his eyes.

Luckily, they make it to practice on time with minimal issue, only interrupting their trip briefly to pick up breakfast. On the drive to the rink, Mack rests his hand over Will's on the console. Like a real married couple; Will's fairly sure he's seen his parents do this before.

It's when they're changing into their gear that things kinda go to shit.

They weren't careful, but to be fair, they didn't think they had to be. They're just rings, Will had rationalised, and if they're just rings then it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks about it. But of course that isn't the case, because they're not just rings, and this is hockey.

Eky makes an off-hand comment to Mack. "That's new. You matching Smitty? It looks kinda like a wedding ring, though?"

Will stills. Mack instinctively reaches up to clasp it in his fingers, then shrugs.

"Matching rings, guys? That's cute, but kinda weird, isn't it?" someone says. Will can't tell who over the ringing in his ears.

"Let them do what they want, you know they're not like anyone else."

Someone else laughs. "Good luck to them getting girlfriends, they may as well be third-wheeling those two."

They're lucky the Sharks are pretty tolerant, in retrospect. It could be worse; he remembers the state of the BC locker room. He's never really thought about it before. But they're unthinking too. Perhaps a little uncaring. Will just swallows it down and laughs unconvincingly, letting the conversation drift to something else over time. Mack doesn't say anything, he just dutifully gets set up and waits for Will to gather his bearings.

When they step onto the ice, he can see Toff look at them from a few feet away, wearing an indecipherable look on his face.