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The scar is sitting high on Macklin’s cheekbone.
It’s not always visible. Some days, depending on the lighting, on how little Mack has slept, on how pale and drawn he looks, it nearly disappears into the rest of his face. Will is convinced it will be barely visible in the summer, once Mack has had a few full nights of sleep and enough sun to bring some color back to his face. Will is also painfully aware of how much Mack hates the scar. How much deeper it goes than some simple broken skin. How it sometimes eats him up alive in the middle of the night, keeping him awake when he should be sleeping to recharge his very depleted batteries.
The scar is a stark reminder of what happened in Milano. How Mack departed from California with the hunger for gold, eyes sparkling and excited to play with people he had looked up to his whole life, and how he came home, eyes hollow and his neck bowed under the metaphorical weight of the silver medal.
But the scar also reminds Will of the first time he found the courage to pull Mack close and press a kiss to his lips. The cut had barely scabbed over then, still pink and tender to the touch. Mack still smelled faintly of airplane, mind exhausted and far away, and he was so, so sad that Will was almost shocked when the kiss managed to bring even the faintest smile to his beautiful lips.
Will desperately, almost selfishly, hopes that it reminds Mack of that time too, and not only the misery that followed immediately after he got the gash during warm-ups before the Olympic final. There’s some cruel poetry there; the worst time of Mack’s life forever interwoven with the happiest day of Will’s life.
When Will pulled back, a tear was rolling down Mack’s cheek. Mack was finally letting himself break down the way he’d needed to ever since the goal horn had gone off, and it took Will all of two seconds to press a gentle kiss against the reddened skin. A reminder that no matter what, he would be there, trying with all his might to kiss it better.
It becomes a ritual after that. Whenever Mack needs comfort, needs to know that Will is there for him, there with him, Will gently cradles Mack’s face between his hands, presses a kiss to the scar, and murmurs quiet encouragement against the soft skin.
It’s a lingering kiss when the playoff push suddenly becomes a six-game losing streak that comes with glazed-over eyes and hands fisted so tightly that it takes Will hours to get them to properly loosen up again. He doesn’t mind any of it. He doesn’t mind taking his time, kissing every single tight muscle until the empty stare becomes watery eyes that eventually spill into a steady stream of tears. He doesn’t mind the salty taste when he presses kiss after kiss to Mack’s cheekbone until, eventually, Mack is able to drift off in his arms.
It’s harder after the Nashville game. The high from the win is still lingering when they get the news that the Kings have won, eliminating the Sharks from the playoff race. The low that follows feels all the deeper because the crash comes from such a height. Will spares a single thought to be grateful they are already in the hotel by then before he opens the door to the bathroom, where the water has been running for half an hour.
He finds Mack curled up on the shower tiles, arms wrapped around his shins, head buried in his knees. Will is quick to shed his clothes and kneel down beside him, heart twisting at the trembling shape his boyfriend has folded himself into. At least the water that is pouring down on them is still warm, though it does little to ease the shivers racking through Mack’s body.
Will wraps his arms around Mack, who lets out a heartbreaking sob the moment he realizes Will is there. Mack goes easily when Will helps him into his lap, arms locking around Will’s waist like he’s afraid he might disappear. Will rocks them back and forth, ignoring the discomfort of the hard shower tiles. The rush of the water is broken only by the occasional sob and Will’s quiet murmurs: “It’s not your fault,” “You can’t carry a whole franchise on your shoulders,” or “We’ve only made it this far into the playoff race because of you, baby.” Each one comes with a kiss pressed to Mack’s cheek. The scar stands out particularly stark against his pale skin and the dark circles beneath his eyes today.
Will vows to get Mack at least eight hours of sleep tonight, whatever it takes. Convincing him to skip morning skate will probably be even harder, but Will will tie him to the bed if he has to. Normally, the ropes are reserved for more fun stuff. Then again, desperate times call for desperate measures.
Considering how well Will knows Mack after almost two years of spending basically every single second together, he should see the breakdown coming. But one minute they are cheering, toasting, celebrating a season that has gone much better than anybody expected and a record nobody thought possible, broken already in Mack’s second season, and the next, Mack is excusing himself to the bathroom with a shaky voice and even shakier hands.
“I got him,” Will says to Eky, who had been joking around with Mack just seconds before.
Will finds Mack on his knees in front of the toilet, door unlocked as if he expected Will to follow him. He probably did.
“Hey,” Will murmurs, rubbing comforting circles on Mack’s back. “You alright there, bud?”
Mack shakes his head desperately, and only then does Will notice the tears spilling down his cheeks.
“Fuck, c’mere, baby.”
Mack goes willingly, collapsing into Will’s arms, almost as if it had taken the last of his strength.
For a moment, Mack just shakes against him, face pressed into the hollow of Will’s throat, breath coming too fast, too shallow. Will keeps one hand pressed between his shoulder blades, the other carding soothingly through Mack’s hair, holding him together as best he can.
“I don’t know how to do this again,” Mack gets out eventually, voice breaking away on the last word.
Will’s hand stills in his hair. “Do what?”
Mack makes a helpless, wet sound against Will’s neck. “All of it. Everyone’s going to expect more next year. Playoffs, records, points, whatever. They’re going to look at this season and think it means we’re almost there, and what if we’re not? What if this was it? What if I can’t—” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale, like the words hurt on the way out.
Will presses his lips to Mack’s temple.
“Baby.”
Mack shakes his head harder. “No, because this year was supposed to be good. And it was, I know it was, but it still felt like losing all the time. That fucked up beginning of the season and the Olympics and then trying to drag us into the playoffs, and now everyone’s happy because we got close, but all I can think is that close isn’t enough.”
His voice goes small.
“What if I fail them again?”
Mack pulls back, eyes downturned and so sad it makes Will want to die a little bit. The desperation on his face and the downright exhaustion highlight the pink scar on his cheek. It reminds Will how much this season has changed them. How Will will never again skate along the boards without at least a little fear for that sickening crunch. How Mack will never again leave for a tournament with only excitement in his chest, all wide grin and sparkly eyes, joy radiating out through every pore. Some of their innocence is gone forever. They are more scarred now.
Will will never forget this season, but the reason isn’t a record or an unexpected playoff push. He’ll remember it because it’s the season that gave him all of Mack—Mack, who is looking at him now with sad green eyes, asking him for every bit of comfort Will is willing to offer here on this bathroom floor in a hockey stadium 3’700 miles from home.
Anything, Will wants to scream. Anything you ever want from me, it’s yours.
“Then let them be disappointed,” he says instead. “Not because you failed them. Because no one should have put that much of themselves on your shoulders in the first place. And for what it’s worth, you could never disappoint me, Mack.”
Mack lets out a broken little sound, like he wants to believe him so badly, but even trying hurts.
“You say that now.”
“I’ll say it next year too,” Will says. “And the year after that.”
Mack shakes his head, but there’s less force behind it now. Less fight. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.” Will brings one hand up carefully, thumb brushing beneath Mack’s eye. “I know you. I know how hard you try. I know how much you care. And I know you made everyone believe again this year, but that doesn’t mean you owe them every piece of yourself for the rest of your life. ”
Mack’s face crumples again.
“I’m so tired,” he whispers.
Will’s chest aches with it. “I know, baby.”
He leans in and presses his mouth to the scar on Mack’s cheek, soft and lingering. Mack goes completely still under the touch, breath catching in a way that makes Will want to gather every ugly thing that has ever happened to him and lock it somewhere far away. But he knows Mack would probably die if somebody took hockey from him, so Will settles for the only thing he can do: staying close enough to soften the scars it leaves behind.
He knows he can’t undo Milano. He sure as hell can’t turn silver into gold, but he can’t help but ask himself if the price of Midas’ touch would be worth paying, if it were for Mack. He can’t mend the gash split open under arena lights, and he can’t take away the impossible weight of a franchise mistaking a nineteen-year-old-boy for an unbreakable force.
But he can do this.
He can kiss the spot where it hurts. He can hold Mack close. He can keep one hand steady at the back of Mack’s neck and the other over his racing heart and remind him, again and again and again, that being loved doesn’t depend on results on a scoreboard.
“Let me carry some of it,” Will murmurs against his skin.
Mack’s fingers tighten weakly where they are tangled in Will’s shirt. “You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
It gets a laugh out of Mack. Barely. It’s more breath and snot, wet with tears. Will feels it against his cheek and kisses the scar again, because he loves the feel of Mack’s skin underneath his mouth.
Mack folds forward, forehead dropping against Will’s shoulder, and for the first time since Will found him on the bathroom floor, the breath that leaves Mack sounds more like relief than panic.
Maybe the scar will fade in the summer. Maybe it won’t.
Visible or not, Will knows the hurt will linger around the corner. Maybe until Mack gets to try again in four years. Maybe forever. Maybe there will always be a faint reminder of Milano and not good enough.
Said fear—the fear of not being enough—won’t disappear, not fully, and Will knows better than to think it will.
It will still be there tomorrow, wedged somewhere beneath Mack’s ribs when he wakes up and remembers their season is over. It will be there in the summer, in the quiet weeks when his body finally starts to rebuild, but his mind tries to fill the silence with all the expectations waiting for him. It will be there next season, every time the Sharks get close enough to success that hope gets tangled with such overwhelming expectations that it feels more like a burden.
And Will will be there too.
With his hands caressing Mack’s face and his mouth pressed to the scar. With the same promise, made over and over again, until Mack believes that he will not be left alone, even if the world crumbles around him.
So, the scar might be carved high into Mack’s cheek forever, but it won’t just be a faint remnant of pain. It will be the place Will kisses when Mack forgets how to breathe, to remind Mack that he doesn’t have to carry it all alone. That he can lean on Will when he’s too tired of putting on a brave face. Mack’s skin might remain scarred, and it will serve them both as a memory of how all the worst parts of this season gave them the best ones, too.
Maybe that’s life, Will thinks, when he holds Mack in bed later. And Mack, warm and exhausted and soft in his arms, presses a kiss to Will’s sternum and lets himself be held.